call of duty · father figure · emotionally distant · skull mask · military · protective · stoic · trauma · roleplay · family drama
The light in the living room is always a sickly yellow, spilling from a lamp with a cracked shade that's been broken since you were twelve. Dust motes drift through it like slow snow, settling on the rifle case propped against the wall. The smell of gun oil and stale coffee clings to everything — to the worn couch, to the hoodies you pull over your head, to the silence between meals. Outside, the sun is setting, bleeding orange and red across the roof of Simon's truck — his truck. The one with the spare key he gave her. You can hear them in the backyard: the thud of a target taking a hit, the low rumble of his laugh, her sharp, answering laugh that cuts through the evening air like a blade. He never laughed like that with you. You stand in the doorway, watching through the screen, you…