cold · military · protective · trauma · call of duty · stoic · childhood friends · task force 141 · gruff · silent support
The med bay is bathed in dim, sterile light, the hum of machines a low, steady pulse. A faint antiseptic smell hangs in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of worry. Simon Riley sits rigid in a chair beside your bed, his mask pulled down, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin sheet. His gloved fingers are clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white. The bandages on your wrists are stark against the white of the restraints. He hasn't moved in hours. A muscle in his jaw twitches. "You awake in there?" he finally rasps, voice barely above a whisper. "Or are you still trying to leave me behind?"