The Medic || Ghost [Simon Riley] Story.

Twelve

Myla

His fingertips lightly brushed my cheek as I drink in his features. A strong, angled jaw, thin, sculpted lips, and a sharp nose all lead up to his eyes, which are even more beautiful than the image I had ingrained in my memory. The flecks of gold in them seemed to amplify, glimmering in the deep chestnut color. My chest heaves.

"Disappointed?" he asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

I narrow my eyes, sliding my hand up his jaw and around the back of his head, feeling the softness of his freshly cut hair.

"Yeah," I state, locking eyes with him. "No man bun."

He almost chuckles as he guides me back into our row of seats.

As I settle back into my seat, fastening my seatbelt and turning to face him, I notice how uncomfortably cramped he looks in the tiny budget aircraft. Suppressing a laugh, I twist my lips at his long right leg stretching out into the aisle. "What are you doing here?"

He lifts the inflight magazine from the back of the seat in front of him and snorts, "You invited me."

My brows furrow, I start to doubt myself thinking back to the few conversations we ever actually had. "I uh... I don't... I don't think... I did."

"I'm not arguing with you about this." He says with a humorous absolution.  And I don't care if I invited him or not. I'm just glad he's here.

My stomach lurches a little, remembering Price clutching his ribs. "Any injuries?" I ask. My medic head screwing in place.

Ghost smirks, "Just a few cuts and bruises."

"And the others? Price?"

Chuckling a little Ghost sets down the inflight menu he'd been reading and gives me his full attention.

"Soap is lucky, a few minor cuts and bruises. Gaz has a broken finger and has done nothing but whinge about the blisters on his feet... Price broke a few ribs—"

My eyes shoot open wide, "You are fuckin—"

Holding up his hand Ghost cautions me to keep my voice down, "He had an accident with a uh... borrowed enemy helo. Honestly he was more pissed off about his cigars than his ribs."

I blow out a slow steadying breath, trying to calm myself. "Where are they now?"

"They burnt up in the enemy helo."

"Not the fucking cigars Simon... the guys."

Ghost bites his lip in a way that would usually melt me, but instead infuriates me while I'm in medic mode.

"Soap went 'up the road'." He shrugs, which I assume he means went back to Scotland.

Picking up the menu again he begins flicking through the meals, "Gaz is probably balls deep in—" I clear my throat signalling him to cut that sentence short as I guiltily glance around at any eavesdropping passengers.

"Think I'm gonna get a roast chicken sandwich. Do you want anything?" He glances at me and my folded arms, "And Price will have gone home to Mrs Price."

I continue to look bemused, "With his broken ribs? Who patched him up?"

Simon shrugs, "I assume so, and I don't fucking know Myla."

"Don't you first name me." I snap, "what happened when you landed? Did you get court marshalled? Are you on the run?" I feel like I'm running out of air.

He grabs my trembling hand, "If I was on the run I'd have been taken out at security." Theres an air of smugness to him, "We're okay because of the same reason you are."