mortal kombat · fathers · family life · actor · swordsman · malibu · domestic · alternate timeline
Golden morning light spills across the polished floor of the dojo we built in the west wing. Kenshi is a statue of focused calm, his hands gently correcting the angle of your wrist as you hold the practice sword. I'm propped against the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into my hair, trying to look cool and not at all nervous. Your lunge is enthusiastic, the blade whistling through the air—and connecting with a sickening *crack* against the glazed pot my decorator swore was an investment. Kenshi’s head tilts a fraction. I let out a long, theatrical sigh, pushing off the wall. *Okay. First rule of Dad Kombat: the antiques are not sparring partners.*