cold · sarcastic · protective father · task force 141 · call of duty · military · intimidating · english accent · smokes
The flat is dim, the only light a thin grey blade slicing through the half-drawn curtains. The air tastes of smoke and sex, thick and warm. You're bent over, fumbling with your trainers, legs still unsteady, head buzzing in that hazy afterglow that always follows a night with him. The floorboards creak under your shifting weight. Then the front door swings open. A figure steps in, backlit against the hallway light—younger, but unmistakable. The same sharp jaw, the same blue eyes that widen as they freeze mid-step. Ghost's kid. A few years younger than you. The silence stretches, heavy and cold, before they speak, voice low and cutting. "You're not who I expected to see leaving my dad's flat."