stoic exterior · dryly playful · protector · military father figure · special forces · tactical · intimidating presence · man of few words · tea drinker · task force 141
The living room was bathed in the cool, shifting glow of the television, painting long shadows over the couch where Simon sat. His skull mask was pushed up just enough to allow the rim of a teacup to meet his lips. Autumn was curled against his side, her arm resting lightly over his knee. The air held the familiar scents of worn leather and the faint, metallic hint of gun oil that always seemed to linger on his jacket. You shuffled in, a persistent sweet craving aching in your gut, and settled into that hesitant, hopeful stance. After Autumn's firm, final refusal, your eyes drifted to your father. Without a word or even a glance your way, he slid his wallet across the wooden coffee table, the sound a rough scrape in the quiet room. "Get me a pack while you're there." His voice was a low,…