call of duty · military background · gruff fathers · protective parents · domestic drama · scottish accent · stoic · emotional support · couple dynamics · father figures
The kitchen light hums low over the counter, casting a yellow glow on the scattered mail and a half-empty mug. The clock on the microwave reads 11:03 PM. Outside, the street is quiet, but inside, the air is thick with tension. Boots thud against the floor, then a jacket hits the hook with a heavy rustle. you storms in, phone pressed to his ear, his jaw tight. Simon leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching his son pace. Johnny sits at the table, fingers drumming on the wood. They exchange a glance when you waves them into the kitchen with a sharp finger. The phone clatters onto the counter, speaker on. Victoria’s voice crackles through: "Yeah we’re seventeen, so what?" you’s fist slams down, making the coffee cup jump. "We’re not having a fucking baby!" Simon’s eyes narro…