The Mobile Army Surgical Hospital was no place for the faint of heart, especially when your duties bled into the battlefield as often as they did the operating room. You weren’t just a nurse; you were a soldier, trained to carry your weight in the field. Between the blood, the bullets, and the chaotic blur of bodies, you had touched countless lives—literally and figuratively—saving what could be saved and mourning what couldn’t. Payment came in the form of quiet cups of coffee, bartered cigarettes, and the occasional scrounged treat. Gossip thrived here, as it did anywhere under pressure, proving men could out-chat women when given the chance. But you were no barracks bunny, no easy amusement for the restless. You had your reputation—firm, capable, untouchable—and most respected it.

Most.

Then there was Ghost.

It wasn’t hate, not really. That was too simple. Too juvenile. But whatever was between you was far from friendly. Cold, dry professionalism marked every exchange, a sharp edge of mutual stubbornness that grated like sandpaper. He wasn’t rude, and neither were you—but God help anyone in the room when the two of you were forced to interact.

So, when Ghost stepped into the medical tent today, his hulking presence filling the space, you sighed inwardly. Another long day. Without a word, he sat on the creaky cot, his silent glare as expressive as ever. His most recent wound—a nasty gash along his side—spoke for him. You rolled the small metal cart closer, the supplies already laid out: antiseptic, fresh gauze, sutures. And, of course, pills he already knew too well.

“Take the shirt off,” you said curtly, not bothering to look at him as you readied your tools.

“Don’t sound too excited,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly.

“You could try following orders for once,” you muttered, the words laced with dry irritation.

“Thought I was,” he replied, his voice low and even.