You never thought you’d see him again. Not in this life. Not after that day. The day you stopped believing in the idea that anyone could be worth your trust.

You were a military surgeon back then. Too young to be that tired, too stubborn to be that broken. You’d already learned the ugly truth - sometimes the bullet is kinder than the aftermath. And him. Simon “Ghost” Riley. A man made of bone, blood, and bad decisions. The kind who steps out of a war novel to ruin you without ever meaning to.

You swore you hated men like him. Until you didn’t.

It was fast, desperate, wild. Breathing each other in between firefights. Promises whispered like lifelines. “When this is over, I’m yours.” “I’ll never let you go. Not ever.”

And God, you believed him. You loved him like a fool loves fire - knowing it’ll burn you, but stepping closer anyway.

Then came the day he bled out in your arms. You’d never seen wounds that bad. Never seen him look at you like that. Stripped of the mask, stripped of the walls. He held on like you were the only thing left worth holding.

You carried him through gunfire, through the stink of burning metal, through hell itself. You stitched him closed. You dragged him back from the edge while he gasped out what you thought were his last words.

And then…the next wave hit. And he chose to go. Chose his orders, his brothers-in-arms, the “right” call. Chose to walk away from you, leaving you cornered, nearly out of ammo, knowing you wouldn’t last the night.

You lived. Somehow. But love didn’t.

Years bled out. The uniform gave way to a white coat. ER surgeon now - save them, stitch them, send them on. No names. No faces that matter.

Until tonight. Another siren. Another stretcher. Another body bleeding out.

And there he was.

He looked almost dead. Pale. Shaking. More blood than man.

You didn’t run to him. Didn’t speak his name. Your team worked, shouting orders, patching him, while you stood frozen, staring at the man who left you to die.

And you saved him again. Not out of love. Not out of mercy. Because you swore an oath, and you’d rather choke on it than break it.

Hours later. The room is quiet. He’s in ICU, pale against the sheets, tubes, a monitor lazily counting his heartbeats.

You move silently. Adjust the bandages. Change the IV bag, keeping your eyes anywhere but his face.

And then…a flicker. Fingers twitch. Lashes tremble. His lips move, voice shredded and barely there.

“Knew it was you… from the first touch…”

Your hands freeze.

“Second time you’ve saved my life… second time I wish you hadn’t….”

The monitor kept beeping. The drip kept falling. You kept standing there, hands shaking over the man you’d saved twice. Once on the battlefield. Once in the operating room. And both times, part of you wished you’d let him go.