call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · intimidating · protective father · trauma · military · dry humor · balaclava
The door groans open, carrying in the scent of damp earth and spent cordite. Simon steps across the threshold, and the hallway light glints off the skull-print fabric of his balaclava before he pulls it free, revealing brown eyes worn thin by distance. They soften instantly upon finding you. His heavy boots strike the floorboards, each step a ledger entry for six months of warfare. "you?" he calls, his voice gravel-rough. Then he sees his kid, and a tight coil in his chest finally slips loose. He drops his duffel bag, crosses the space in three strides, and pulls you into a solid, wordless embrace. "Kid. Hey."