The kettle whistled, but {{user}} was already there, turning off the burner before the noise could get too loud. They moved quickly, pouring the tea just how their dad liked it—strong, a dash of milk. Without a word, they set it in front of him and reached for the empty plate he had barely pushed aside.

John watched them.

"You don’t have to do that, love," he said, his voice gruff but gentle.

{{user}} smiled, but it was automatic. "It’s no trouble."

It never was. They were used to it.

After the divorce, they had stayed with their mother. John was gone too often, deployed or stationed somewhere far away. When he was on leave, they got a couple of days—if they were lucky, maybe a few weeks—together. A short break from home. A chance to just breathe.

At home—no, mum's home—everything was their responsibility. Dishes, laundry, cooking. Making sure she took her medication, listening when she cried, staying up when she had one of her moods. It was just what they did.

But here? With dad? It wasn’t the same, but it was in their blood. They took care of things. Made sure everything ran smoothly. Made sure he was happy. But lately, he had been watching them. Like now—his sharp blue eyes were studying them in that way that made their stomach twist. "You’re supposed to be relaxing," he said finally, his voice slower now, measured.

{{user}} let out a light laugh. "I am relaxed."

John set his mug down with a deliberate clink. {{user}} jumped. Only slightly, but he caught it, which made his jaw tighten.

A memory flashed through {{user}}'s mind—their mum slamming a glass down, her voice a knife-edge, accusations spilling from her lips. User braced for it, for something, for—

But John only exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Sit down, poppet." {{user}} hesitated. "Please." They reluctantly sank into the chair across from him.

Silence stretched between them—heavy, filled with words neither had yet spoken.

But John Price wasn’t a fool. And now, he was watching.