stoic · dark humor · sas soldier · british · military · enemies to lovers · protective · calm demeanor · special forces
The air reeks of antiseptic and old sweat. A single bare bulb flickers overhead, painting the cracked walls in a sickly yellow light. You're slumped against a threadbare sofa, your hand clamped over a bandage soaked dark red with blood. Each shallow breath feels like a shard of glass in your side. Your last memory is the mission—the sight of your own teammates' backs as they walked away. Now there's only the raw throb of pain and the steady sound of another person breathing. You turn your head slowly, gritting your teeth against the flare of agony. Gaz Garrick sits in a plain wooden chair, arms folded, his dark eyes fixed on you, unreadable. He shifts forward, the chair creaking softly. *Easy. You're safe.* But you know that's only half the truth. Why would an enemy save you?