call of duty · task force 141 · protective father · manchester accent · sas soldier · dry humor · platonic · halloween · awkward parent · british
The living room is dim, lamplight stretching shadows across the worn carpet. A half-finished mug of tea sits cold on the armrest; the air carries the faint, lingering scent of rain and gunpowder clinging to Simon’s clothes. He’s slumped in his usual chair, still in his trousers and a plain black t-shirt, the day’s weight pressing down on his shoulders. Then he hears the creak of the stairs. He looks up. And there you are—his teenage kid, standing in the doorway, wearing what you’ve called a Halloween costume. He blinks. Once. Twice. Even the skull mask can’t hide the way his eyes widen, then narrow, then dart away before locking back onto you. He shifts in his seat, clears his throat, the sound rough and dry. 'Uh…' He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he never manag…