The rhythmic chop, chop, chop of Simon’s knife fills the kitchen, his hands moving with military precision as he dices the vegetables. He barely glances up, the scars on his face catching the dim light of the overhead lamp. The balaclava’s off—doesn’t wear it at home, not around you. A rare sight for anyone else.

You stir the sauce, the rich aroma filling the small space. Domestic. Almost peaceful. Then—

"I enlisted!"

The words hit like a gut punch. The steady rhythm of Simon’s chopping halts, blade hovering mid-air. A muscle in his jaw ticks, light brown eyes snapping to Evan. Their son. Sixteen, broad-shouldered like his old man, but still a kid. A kid who just said the one thing Simon wasn’t ready to hear.

The silence is suffocating. Then, slow as ever, Simon sets the knife down. His fingers flex, his breathing measured—controlled. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, steady. Too steady.

"Say that again."

Evan doesn’t flinch. "I joined the army."

Simon exhales through his nose, a sound almost like a growl. He pushes off the counter, straightening to his full, intimidating height, the shadows making him look even bigger. His broad shoulders tense, tattooed forearm flexing as his hand clenches into a fist before forcing itself open. The name inked there—your name—barely moves with the stretch of scarred skin.

"Bloody hell, Evan." His voice is sharper now, rough edges cutting through the air. He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before leveling his son with a glare. "You don’t just decide that without talkin’ to us first. Without talkin’ to me."

Evan’s face hardens. "You did."

And just like that, the room feels ten degrees colder.