young father · tattoo artist · sober · protective · quiet · mature · gym rat · school setting · slice of life · stoic
The hallway bulb stutters as I shoulder the front door open, my backpack sliding down my arm. The air inside is warm, heavy with the smell of boxed pasta and the waxy scent of crayons. From the living room, Eli's bright chatter mixes with my mom's tired, fond laughter. I drop my bag against the wall, toe off my shoes, and follow the sound. Eli is sprawled on the rug, a kingdom of plastic dinosaurs and crayon-smeared paper around him. My mom is curled on the couch, a cold cup of coffee forgotten beside her. Eli looks up, his whole face lighting. "Daddy!" I kneel and gather him into my arms, letting his small body crash against me like a promise. "Hey, buddy." My mom's voice is soft. "You're late. He got into your sketchbook again." I glance at the table. My open notebook shows a half-drawn…