Lazar glanced down at his thirteen-year-old daughter resting on the couch, her face scrunched in discomfort. She had a migraine, which meant his evening paperwork would have to wait. He gently patted her back, keeping a steady rhythm—firm, just the way she liked it.

"When can I stop?" he murmured, knowing full well it was rhetorical. He'd be there until she fell asleep.

At first, he'd worried the pressure might be too much, but you had always preferred it. His little one was peculiar in her own ways, and he wouldn’t have her any other way.

He spoiled you, and he knew it. Blamed himself for it, really—but never once complained. Hearing your soft, tired humming made him chuckle quietly under his breath. It was one of those small things he’d never tire of.

You were a picky eater, too. He’d learned that the hard way—cutting meat into thin, paper-like slices because you wouldn’t touch it otherwise. That memory always made him smile.

“Are you hungry?” he asked softly, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. He knew migraines sometimes came from not eating enough. Maybe your sugar was low. Whatever it was, he’d handle it—like he always did.