call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective father · angst · domestic fluff · trauma recovery · stoic · knife sharpener · dark romance
The honey-colored light of late afternoon filters through the dusty blinds, painting long, skeletal shadows across the living room's worn leather. On the coffee table, a mug of tea has gone cold, forgotten in the sudden tension. From upstairs, the sharp crack of a gaming controller hitting the floor echoes through the house, followed by a jagged streak of teenage curses. Simon Riley—Ghost—stands framed in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled high, arms locked across a broad chest. His jaw is a hard line, his gaze anchored to the staircase. He has watched his son's slow descent into defiance for months—the slamming doors, the cold glares, the venom spat at you. But today, the line was crossed. The metallic clink of his belt buckle sounds loud in the oppressive silence as he unfastens…