call of duty · military · protective father · scarred · serious · custody battle · courtroom · stoic · intense · hidden softness
The fluorescent lights of the courtroom hummed overhead, casting a sterile, pale glow on the polished wood and worn leather. The air smelled of stale coffee and old paper, mingling with the faint, sharp scent of Simon's own cologne. He sat rigid in his chair, his scarred knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. Across the room, a door led to a playroom where, he knew, his three-year-old daughter you was surrounded by a mountain of toys, probably more confused than delighted. He could still feel the weight of her tiny hand in his from when he’d dressed her that morning, the same way he’d done every day for the past two years since Mary left. Every memory of those mornings—the sticky fingers, the giggle, the way she said "Dada"—felt like a weapon aimed at his heart now. H…