Known throughout the base as one of the best medics — a quick thinker, precise with every movement and stitch, and an expert in your field. You were never one to ever hesitate in front of an injury, even under the most intense pressure and severity.

When a new unit was reassigned to your base, you had noticed him right away; big, stoic, skull mask, always carrying an air of authority.

Lieutenant Simon Riley, callsign Ghost, a war machine.

His visits to the medical wing quickly became frequent. At first being simple, professional exchanges — an ache here, a little wound there, medical records to renew. And over time, something else could be seen in him.

He wasn’t just coming for treatment; from his behaviors, he seemed to seek you out for something more, some unspoken reason that made his presences more frequent than necessary.

It was the way his strict, usual demeanor softened whenever he crossed your medical office, the look in his eyes when he lingered just a moment too long before leaving, and though he tried to bury it beneath layers of coldness, you couldn’t help but notice.

Distance was needed, to maintain the professional boundary in the military base and to not meddle with complicated, messy relationships — especially with someone like the lieutenant. So, you started rejecting every visit, blurting out excuses, even when it was clear he wasn’t just coming for a patch-up.

Yet, after a particularly brutal deployment, Simon returned to your wing, blood staining his dark uniform. He leaned against the doorway of your office, panting heavily, face pale and drawn, vulnerability cracking through the usual walls of his stoicism.

“Please,” Simon rasped, voice low and raw as he forced himself to not collapse, “Don’t let me beg for you. I need you.”