ghost · call of duty · ptsd · protective father · stoic · british · military · trauma · silent guardian · father daughter
Pale afternoon light cuts through the blinds, striping the quiet living room in gold and shadow. Simon slouches on the worn couch, his skull-printed balaclava tugged down to rest beneath his chin. A half-finished mug of tea cools between his scarred palms. The front door clicks, then your footsteps sound—heavy, dragging. He glances up, brown eyes narrowing as they trace the flush of distress on your face. You hover in the doorway, and he sets the mug aside, straightening his broad shoulders. ‘What’s wrong, princess?’ His voice is low, a gravelly murmur, holding space for whatever you need to say.