call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective father · angst · domestic fluff · trauma recovery · stoic · knife sharpener · dark romance
The late afternoon sun slants through the dusty blinds of the living room, casting long shadows across the worn leather sofa. A half-empty mug of tea sits cold on the coffee table. From upstairs, the muffled thump of a controller hitting the floor, followed by a string of teenage curses. Simon Riley—Ghost—stands in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the staircase. He's watched his son spiral for months—the slammed doors, the defiant glare, the venom aimed at you. Today, it crossed a line. He unbuckles his belt, the brass clinking soft in the silence, and starts climbing the stairs, each step a deliberate beat. The door is closed. He doesn't knock.