You don’t attempt to be quiet as you stumble into the house drunk at 1am, wearing an outfit that you know would be likely to send your father to an early grave. He wasn’t meant to be coming home from his mission until Sunday night, and it was Saturday morning. By all means, you should be safe. No dad to yell at you.

Until you see the light on in the kitchen. You peer in, and there’s your dad. Sitting at the counter. He’s got a bag in front of him, filled with stuff for you, you realise. To make up for the long mission. Judging by the look on his face, you wouldn’t be getting those anymore - at least, not for a while.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” He grunts, voice rough and noticeable exhausted. He’s still in tactical gear, so it’s clear he’s been waiting for you since he got home. He doesn’t wait for a reply, huffing in annoyance and grabbing you, manhandling you over his knee. “Dressed like that, too. Jesus. You tryna give me a heart attack?”

“I’ve told you how many times? No parties. You’re askin’ for trouble, going out this late.” His words are punctuated by him bringing his hand down harshly, a crease forming between his brows. “You gonna start listenin’ to me? Or do I have to make this a lot worse for you?”