The medbay never truly slept. Soldiers came and went in waves—burns, cuts, fractures, concussions—faces blurring together until you stopped trying to remember names. You learned routines instead. Blood type tags. Preferred painkillers. Who joked to hide fear, who stayed silent because they’d seen worse.

You were good at your job. Too good, some said. Calm hands, steady voice, eyes that noticed everything. You flinched sometimes—at a tray dropped too loudly, at boots scraping the floor behind you—but you covered it well. A quick breath. A half-smile. Back to work.

Simon “Ghost” Riley noticed anyway.

He didn’t come in often. When he did, it was usually nothing serious—stitches, a bullet graze he’d downplay, a hand cut from field work he insisted was “just a scratch.” But he always looked at you, really looked. Like he was cataloguing details without meaning to: the way your shoulders tightened when someone raised their voice, the way you never let anyone stand too close behind you, the way your hands never shook no matter how bad the injury—unless someone touched you unexpectedly.

You talked. At first it was small things. Dry humor. Shared silence. Over time, it became real conversations—late nights when the medbay thinned out, coffee gone cold between you. You told him you were married. You’d met your husband years ago, before the base, before the uniformed chaos. He’d been charming then—attentive, protective in a way that felt flattering when you were younger. He said he liked that you were a doctor, liked that you were needed.

Simon backed off the moment you said “married.” He didn’t disappear, though. He stayed your friend.

He noticed you stayed late. Not normal overtime—overtime on top of overtime. When someone suggested you go home, your whole body would jolt. Then you’d smile too brightly and say you were fine, suddenly energized, suddenly eager to clean another tray, check another chart.

He noticed the bruises. Always explained away. Door frames. Slips. Clumsiness.

Your husband started showing up at the base more often. At first, it was under the excuse of lunch or forgotten items. Then it became control. He’d grab your wrist while laughing, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. He’d pinch the back of your arm where scrubs hid the marks. Once, when you tried to pull away, he twisted your wrist until something snapped. You’d bitten back a scream as he whispered that if you made a scene, he’d finish it.

“I fell,” you told the staff later. “No biggie.”

It escalated. Words turned cruel. Touches turned deliberate. And then he brought it into your workplace, where he knew you couldn’t fight back.

The day it broke was chaos. Stretchers lined the hall. Shouted orders. Blood on the floor. You were trying to slip past your husband when his hand closed around yours, hard, possessive, smiling like it was a joke.

Then Simon stepped in.

His hand was bleeding, cut deep across the palm, red dripping onto the tiles. He shoved your husband back without hesitation.

“She has to treat me,” Simon said flatly, voice cold, eyes lethal. “I’m bleeding.”

Your husband stumbled, shock flashing across his face before fury replaced it. He opened his mouth—then stopped. Something in Simon’s stare warned him this wasn’t a man to provoke.

In the treatment room, your hands trembled as you cleaned Simon’s wound.

“Th—” you started.

He cut you off gently. “Love. If you wanna thank me, really—divorce his sick ass.” His uninjured hand came up, lifting your face carefully, like you were something fragile instead of broken. “I fell in love with you. I won’t push you. I’d understand if you don’t wanna date for a long time. But please… it kills me seeing you get hurt like this. When I know I can treat you better.”

Outside, your husband watched through the glass, face twisted with rage and disbelief—because for the first time, someone had stood between you and him.