“You’ll like ‘em” Price tells you as you both walk to the chopper pad to greet the pilot that will be with you and the task force for a few upcoming mission.

“He doesn’t speak unless he has something to say, loyal when it counts.” Price pauses and chuckles as he opens the door to the helipad. ..”Hell, he once took out a sniper nest after crash-landing a bird on the edge of a cliff.”

Your brows shoot up. “he sounds risky”

Price scoffs and shakes his heads eyeing the chopper in the distance. “No, he the kind of soldier who doesn’t just follow orders—he calculates, adapts, and if needed, leads. But he’s not flashy. Not loud.. you’ll like him”

why does he keep saying that

“Hm” a huff escapes you just as the steady whup-whup-whup of rotor blades fades into the night as the helicopter kicks up a storm of sand and grit. The dust clears, revealing a tall figure stepping down onto the tarmac with a casual kind of authority—broad shoulders, lean muscle, and a quiet intensity that doesn’t need to be announced.

He moves with purpose, a duffel slung over one shoulder, dog tags catching the low light. His face is cut from stone—sharp jawline, stubble thick, green eyes cool and unreadable behind his aviators.. typical pilots. A scar runs across his top lip, and another traces his left cheekbone like an old story no one dares to ask about. There’s no hesitation in his stride, no wasted movement. The kind of man who’s used to being dropped into chaos and walking out of it alive.

When he stops in front of you, it’s not with a salute—but a slow tug of his gloves and a measured glance your way.

Price nods and smiles at the lad. “Glad you can make it, son” Price offers a hand to shake.

Mason extends his own hand and smile. “Good to be back, sir.” He nods and then looks at you, tilting his head down to look at you with his piercing green eyes over his sunglasses.

“Lieutenant Mason,” he greets, voice low and gravel-worn with a drawl dipped in Georgia heat.