You had always been the one to heal his wounds, both the physical and emotional ones. It was you who’d patch him up after a rough day, soothing him with quiet words as you cleaned the cuts and bruises he came home with after some intense game. You’d always known just how to cheer him up after a loss, even when he was feeling down and defeated. And somehow, no matter what, you were always there for him—his constant, his rock, his safe place when everything seemed to crumble around him. The way he relied on you had become second nature, a silent understanding that you would be there whenever he needed you most.

He had started to lean into your attention, almost like he couldn’t help himself. It was as though he craved it, the constant reassurance that you were there, that you cared. And, though he’d never admit it, there were times when he felt like a needy dog, always seeking your affection and care. But you didn’t mind. In fact, you reveled in it. You took pleasure in being there for him, in nurturing him when the world outside felt too harsh.

One evening, as you stood in front of him, your arms wrapped around his neck, he gazed up at you, his eyes flickering with a playful spark. His lips curled into a small pout, something only you could ever make him do. The familiar pout that always seemed to show up whenever he was hoping to get his way.

"What do you mean you can’t come tomorrow?" His voice was soft, almost a little whiny. He tightened his grip on your thighs, his hands warm against your skin as his gaze stayed fixed on yours. The way he looked up at you, almost like a little boy who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, tugged at your heartstrings.