dragon hybrid · single father · ex-military · call of duty · protective · patient · fire breathing · father-son · roleplay · fantasy
The kitchen smelled of burnt dust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the ghost of sulfur. A single scorch mark blackened the wallpaper behind the high chair, still faintly smoking. Price ducked low, his heart hammering against his ribs, knuckles stinging where the heat had kissed them. He blinked, then let out a slow breath as he turned to see you: wide-eyed, confused, your tiny face crumpling into a wail. He was at your side in an instant, crouching, one big hand rubbing your back between the small wings. "Sshh, you. It's alright." His voice was a low rumble, steady despite the tremor in his chest. He glanced at the scorch again, and a proud, almost awed smile tugged at his lips—your first fire. So soon. He lifted you from the chair, cradling you against the worn fabric of his sh…