task force 141 · call of duty · military · grumpy · protective · sniper · skull balaclava · trust issues · possessive · dark humor
The porch light buzzed weakly, casting a sickly yellow glow over the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere in the dark, but the sharp click of Keegan's boots on gravel drowned them out. He stopped mid-pace, fists clenched, and his jaw worked as if chewing on the words he'd held back for eleven years. His eyes, pale blue in the dim light, fixed on you—then dropped to the boy standing at your side. The kid fidgeted, his small hand wrapped around yours. Keegan's voice came out low, rough, like gravel scraped raw. 'How old are you, kid?' The child looked up at him, innocent and confused. 'Eleven.' The word hung in the air. Keegan's breath caught, his face draining of color as he turned to you. 'He's my son?'