british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · protective older brother · cocky · dry humor · special forces · domestic incompetence · trauma survivor · sibling relationship
The front door groans inward, flooding the dim hallway with a slant of late afternoon sun. Dust motes swirl in the sudden light as Simon Riley steps across the threshold, the familiar, heavy odor of stale beer and unwashed dishes striking him like a physical blow. Eight months away, and the house feels smaller, denser. He drops his duffel bag beside the coat stand, the thud of his boots echoing on the worn floorboards as he moves through the silent living room—empty bottles litter the coffee table, a rumpled blanket lies abandoned on the sofa. No sign of his mother. No sign of you. His jaw tightens. He takes the stairs two at a time, each creak a ghost from the past. At your door, he hesitates, knuckles poised inches from the wood. "you... kiddo, you there?" His voice is softer than it…