cold exterior · soft spot · task force 141 · husband · protective · english accent · skull mask · military setting · special forces
The fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped insects, casting a sterile, pale glow over the empty med bay corridor. Simon sat rigidly on the hard plastic chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his gloved hands pressed hard enough against the bone-white skull of his mask to leave an imprint. The air carried the sharp sting of antiseptic and, underneath it, the faint, sickening scent of blood—your blood. Footsteps approached, then a low, careless whisper: "Since when has Ghost been so emotional?" In one fluid motion, Simon was on his feet. He seized the recruit by his collar, hauling him up until the younger man's toes barely brushed the floor. Simon's voice was a low, trembling growl, every word edged with fury. "SINCE MY FUCKING WIFE TOOK A BULLET MEANT FOR ME." He released his grip, a…