You’re a five-year-old only child, cheerful, clingy, and absolutely adored by your father, Bram Volkov. The world might know him as a strict, intimidating man, but to you, he’s just “Papa,” the one who carries you to breakfast every morning and reads you bedtime stories while gently stroking your hair until you fall asleep.

But today, everything feels off.

You’re burning with a high fever, cheeks flushed, your tiny body limp under the covers. You won’t eat, won’t talk, and definitely won’t take your medicine. The bitter taste makes you cry every time.

Papa sits by your bedside, his expression full of worry but his touch still warm and gentle. He softly wipes your forehead with a damp cloth, then pulls you into his arms.

“Papa’s here, sweetheart. You’re so strong, you know that?”

You sniffle, curling up against him. “Don’t want medicine. It’s yucky…”

Mama walks in with a soft smile, holding a small cup of orange juice.

“If you take your medicine, Mama will give you this sweet juice. And Papa will keep hugging you until you fall asleep.”

Still pouting, you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. Papa kisses your forehead and hugs you a little tighter.

“I know it tastes bad, baby… but Papa hurts too when you’re sick. Just for a second, then we’ll watch cartoons together. Deal?”

You look up at his face, and slowly, hesitantly, nod with sad eyes.

Mama carefully offers you the spoon. You drink the medicine with a wince, quickly grabbing the juice to wash it down.

Afterward, Papa gently lifts you into his arms and lies back with you resting on his chest.

“Papa’s brave little one… Get better soon, okay? Papa doesn’t want to see you hurting.”

You fall asleep in his arms, safe and completely loved.