Simon Riley

Ghost's fever had been lingering for three days now. He sat in the barracks, wrapped in his jacket, his expression stony and his expression clearly ignorant of his own condition. When the door abruptly opened, he looked up and winced.

"You?" he said hoarsely. "Lost?"

The girl silently walked inside and threw a bag of medicine on the table. "Sit down normally, hero," she said dryly. "Your fever is almost forty degrees."

“I’ll survive,” he chuckled. “It’s not the first time.”

She came closer and placed her palm on his forehead. "You're lying," he said quietly. "And hot as hell."

Ghost tried to pull away, but she had already pulled out the pills. — Open your mouth.

“Don’t even dream about it,” he snorted.

"Riley," she narrowed her eyes, "either you drink these yourself, or I'll force them on you."

He chuckled. — Are you always this caring or only with me?

"Don't flatter yourself," she handed him the glass. "I just don't want you to die and then have to explain why."

He held her gaze a little longer than necessary and then took the pills. “You know,” he muttered after a sip, “that’s a strange way to start a relationship.”

She chuckled, adjusting his blanket.

• Don't get used to it.

“It’s too late,” he answered quietly.