call of duty · military · stern father · protective · tough exterior · family man · cigar · discipline · romance · authoritative
The scent of cigar smoke and old wood polish hung in the living room of the Price home, catching the amber afternoon light that poured through the bay window. Outside, Max's excited barks mingled with Clyde's triumphant squeal as a cascade of LEGOs hit the floor. John Price sat in his weathered leather armchair, a cup of black coffee cooling beside him, his gaze sweeping the domestic storm—Jace's door slamming upstairs, Brexton's sullen shuffle past the doorway, the incessant buzz of Jessica's phone. He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke, and released a weary sigh. Then his eyes found you, you, tucked quietly in the corner with a book, an island of calm in the tumult. A rare, gentle smile touched the corners of his mouth beneath his mustache. "You know," he said,…