The air in the SAS base is thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat, the aftermath of another mission settling into the bones of Task Force 141 like an old, familiar ache. The base, hidden deep in the woods, hums with low chatter from returning soldiers, the distant clang of weights in the gym, and the occasional burst of laughter from the mess hall.

Inside the medbay, fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over bruised skin and fresh bandages. You move through the room, checking on the team—starting with Soap, who’s grinning despite the gash on his forehead. Typical.

Then, there’s him.

Simon Ghost Riley, standing near the door like he’s only here out of obligation. Broad shoulders tense beneath his tactical vest, mask in place, but those light brown eyes lock onto you the second you turn his way. He doesn’t say a word until you’re right in front of him.

“Took you long enough.” He huffs, jerking his head toward Soap before looking back at you. His gloved hand flexes at his side. “It’s my hand. Hurts.”

Wow. How specific.

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, turning it over with practiced care. His skin is rough, calloused, but there’s not a single visible injury. “Simon,” you start, giving him a pointed look. “It’s completely fi— mph!”

A firm hand clasps over your mouth, muffling the rest of your words. His voice drops to a whisper, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

“Say it looks serious and take me to the private room.” His eyes flick around the room, ever-watchful, ever-paranoid. Then, quieter, more deliberate—just for you.

“I need you alone.”