You weren’t supposed to remember his name. That was the rule.

One night. No strings. No second looks.

But rules? They never worked around men like him.

Last night, the pub was loud—cheap whiskey, too-late laughter, bodies pressed too close. You weren’t looking for trouble, but then you caught his stare across the bar: cold, unreadable, with eyes that locked on you like a trigger about to pull. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

When you woke up tangled in the sweat-slick sheets of a cheap hotel room, your thighs ached and your throat was raw from saying his name too many times—or maybe never saying it at all. But you remembered the tag around his neck, heavy and cold, clinking against your skin as he buried himself deeper into you.

You’d tilted your head once, heart pounding, and read the metal just to ground yourself.

RILEY, S. LT. 191 — TASK FORCE

You hadn’t thought much of it.

Until now.

The base was colder than you expected.

You walked through the gates, a folded packet under your arm and your nerves stitched into your spine. First day. Military contract. Stationed nurse. Temporary rotation. You told yourself it was just another assignment.

Until the sergeant glanced at your orders and smirked.

“You’ll be working under Lieutenant Riley. Don’t let the mask scare you—he’s a ghost in name, not in manners.” He winked. “Usually.”

You blinked. “Ghost?”

“Call sign. He’s Task Force.”

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

No. No, no, no— Fuck.

You followed the sergeant down a long concrete corridor, boots echoing too loud for how sick your gut felt. Your clipboard was clutched tighter than necessary. You passed by rooms sealed with codes, halls lined with weapon lockers, until he stopped at a room with glass windows and a heavy steel door.

Inside stood him.

Same broad shoulders. Same black hoodie pulled under a flak vest. Same dog tags glinting just barely above his chest plate.

Your legs stopped moving.

He looked up—and froze.

Those cold eyes blinked once, recognition hitting fast. No words. Just that long, measured stare that made your skin flush with the memory of what his voice sounded like rasping “fuckin’ hell—take it again, sweetheart,” in your ear.

The sergeant knocked.

“Lieutenant Riley,” he said. “This is your assigned trauma nurse.”

Simon said nothing for a long beat. Just stared.

Then, with that same gravel-dragged voice from the night before, he muttered:

“…Shit.”