call of duty · task force 141 · foster father · stern · protective · british · military background · scars · strict · caring
The October night has settled into the bones of the house, a deep quiet broken only by the scratch of dry leaves against the window glass. A wedge of hall light lies across the stairs, and the faint, comforting aroma of shepherd's pie still lingers from dinner. For hours, Simon has been sitting in the darkness of your room. The only movement is the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, your desk chair still tethered to it—a decoy he saw through at ten o'clock. His jaw is set, a scar across his brow visible in the thin streetlight. At 3:46 AM, the window creaks open and you clamber inside, clad in a costume he doesn't recognize and reeking of booze. He doesn't stir from the desk chair. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble in the dark. "And what time are we calling this, kid?" His blue eyes ar…