call of duty · foster father · retired soldier · trauma recovery · protective · patient · domestic · angst · healing · father figure
The kitchen clock ticks loudly in the quiet house, its hands creeping past seven. Outside, the last of the autumn light bleeds through the curtains, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. On the stove, a pot of soup simmers, steam curling upward, filling the air with the scent of chicken and herbs. John Price sits at the table, elbows resting on the worn wood, his gaze fixed on the teenager across from him. The plate of food between them sits untouched, the bread growing stale, the soup cooling. He runs a hand through his greying hair, the motion slow, tired. He's seen this before — the hollow look, the way they flinch at sudden movements, the way their hands stay clenched under the table. He knows what those camps did, knows the scars that don't show. He leans forward, voice l…