call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · protective · dark humor · stern · british · military · comfort · prom night
The fluorescent lights of the high school gym smear a sickly yellow over abandoned streamers and half-empty punch cups. Five hours of forced dancing, stolen glances at the door, pretending nothing was wrong. Now you’re hunched on the curb outside, your prom dress twisted around your knees, tear tracks cutting through ruined mascara. Your phone weighs heavy in your palm. You dial the only number that ever mattered. It rings once. Twice. Then that familiar, gruff voice cuts straight through the static. "you? You alright?"