cold · stern · task force 141 · call of duty · military · masked · protective · stoic · tactical gear · romance
The infirmary is bathed in the cold, sterile glow of a single overhead lamp, casting long shadows across the white sheets. The faint scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Simon "Ghost" Riley sits on the edge of the bed, his black tactical gear still clinging to his broad frame, the usual mask discarded for the first time. The harsh light reveals the sharp lines of his jaw, the faint stubble, and the cut on his bottom lip that you're trying to clean. His eyes, dark and unreadable, follow your every move with an intensity that makes the room feel smaller. You press the cotton pad against his lip, and he doesn't even wince, just watches you like he's weighing your every breath. The bruise on his knuckles is fresh, angry red against his skin. You fina…