The Medic

Chapter seventeen 

Lilly Rose 

It started with a note.

No radio message. No whispered hallway rendezvous. Just a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the edge of my pillow when I returned to my cot.

Tonight. 1900 hours. My tent. No uniforms.

– S

Simple. Direct. Him.

I didn't need anything else.

⸻

When I arrive, the sun is just beginning to dip, casting everything in that soft golden hour glow that makes the base almost look beautiful. Like a world outside war exists here, even if only for a few minutes.

I hesitate for just a second before pulling back the flap.

And what I see inside stops me cold.

The cot has been moved, pushed to the side to make room for a makeshift table—two stacked supply crates with a clean black t-shirt thrown over the top like a tablecloth. A couple of old mess tin cups sit in the center, and there's a lantern lit beside it, casting a flickering golden light across the tent walls. The scent of something warm and savory lingers in the air—something that definitely didn't come from the usual rations.

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless, cooking over a tiny portable burner with a focused frown on his face—

Simon Riley.

He looks up as I walk in, and for a moment, that intense, guarded expression drops. His eyes soften the way they always do when he looks at me. Like I'm the only person who's ever made him feel safe.

"You came," he says quietly.

I nod, stunned, smiling. "You made dinner?"

"It's edible." He shrugs like it's nothing, turning off the heat. "You like pasta?"

"You're kidding."

He walks over and hands me a metal bowl filled with actual pasta, tossed with olive oil and canned herbs and maybe something else he scavenged from the officer's pantry. It smells like heaven. I take the first bite and close my eyes.

"Oh my god," I murmur. "You could've been a chef."

His lips twitch. "Don't go spreading that around."

⸻

We sit cross-legged on a folded blanket in the middle of the tent, knees brushing as we eat in silence for a while. There's no music, no clatter of boots or barked orders outside. Just the soft hum of the lantern, the clink of metal utensils, and our quiet breath.

It's… perfect.

And impossibly normal.

"So what's the occasion?" I ask eventually, glancing at him.

He looks down at his bowl for a long moment, then sets it aside. "Wanted to give you something."

"Dinner?"

"No." He shifts closer, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "A night. Just one. Where it's not about the war. Where it's just us."

I exhale, heart thudding softly. "That's the best thing anyone's ever given me."

He leans forward and kisses me. Gently. Sweetly.

Not desperate like our stolen moments in the shadows. Not rushed like we're counting down the seconds before someone finds us.

Just soft.

Warm.

Real.

⸻

We talk for hours.

He tells me about his childhood—snippets, guarded at first, then more freely as I curl into his side and rest my head on his chest. He tells me about his brother. About the time he almost got kicked out of training for mouthing off to a superior. About the scar on his hand and the way it still aches when it rains.

I tell him about home. My mom's garden. The way I used to read romance novels under the table at family dinners and dreamed of a love that felt like fire but held like steel.

"I never thought I'd get that," I admit. "Not out here. Not with someone like… you."

He tilts my chin up so I have to look at him. "Someone like me?"

"Hard. Closed-off. Dangerous."

He nods once, seriously. "I am all of those things."

"But with me…" I whisper, tracing a finger down his chest, over the faded tattoo ink and scars. "You're something else."

He leans in, forehead pressed to mine. "You're the only thing that brings me peace."

⸻

The night deepens around us.

We end up lying side by side on the blanket, hands entwined between us, watching the lantern flicker low. Neither of us speaks for a long time.

Then he turns to me, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Stay with me tonight. Not because we're hiding. Not because we're sneaking. Just… stay."

I smile, heart aching in the most beautiful way.

"I wasn't planning on leaving."

⸻

He undresses me like he's learning me all over again.

Not rushed. Not ravenous.

But reverent.

Every kiss, every touch, is slow and intentional. His hands brush over my skin with the kind of care I never imagined a man like him capable of. Like I'm made of starlight. Like I'm fragile and powerful all at once.

When he lowers himself over me, he moves slow, eyes locked to mine.

"This is me," he murmurs. "No mask. No Ghost."

"Just Simon," I whisper back, breath hitching as our bodies join.

He makes love to me that night. Not just sex. Not just heat and pressure. But love.

The kind that says I see you.

The kind that says I'm yours.

The kind that says we're not alone anymore.

⸻

And when I fall asleep in his arms hours later, the storm far outside and the world temporarily forgotten, I realize something I hadn't dared admit until now—

I'm not afraid of what happens next.

Because whatever it is…

We'll face it together.