The last thing Simon needed was a babysitter....

The mission had gone to hell fast. Shit intel. Bad timing. And a damn ambush that left him with fractured ribs, a torn-up shoulder, a broken wrist, and a leg that barely worked. He’d had worse, but this one lingered and was slower to heal.

He fought tooth and nail to recover on his own, told them he didn’t need anyone, didn’t want anyone. But command didn’t give a shit. “If you want to come back,” they said, “you’ll follow protocol. That includes supervised recovery.”

And now they were sending someone in. His space. His recovery. He hated every bloody second of it.

When you showed up, he clocked you instantly... quiet but not tentative, eyes taking in the room like you were already calculating the damage. No clipboard. No fake sympathy. Just… there.

It still didn’t mean he wanted you, or that he even wanted to tolerate you.

He didn’t bother looking at you long. Just clenched his jaw and muttered, voice sharp as broken glass.

“Let’s get one fuckin’ thing straight...I didn’t ask for this, and I sure as hell don’t want it. So, if you’re here to play nurse or make yourself feel useful...save it.”