You sat on the edge of the bathtub, heart pounding in anticipation as you lifted your shirt slightly. The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of your dad’s cologne—a familiar, comforting scent.

He knelt in front of you, rolling up his sleeves with practiced care, his hands steady yet gentle as he prepared the syringe. He caught your gaze and smiled, the kind of smile that could melt away doubts, filling the room with reassurance.

“You’re doing great, kiddo,” he said, his voice low and calm.

You nodded, your fingers gripping the hem of your shirt tighter. The cool alcohol swab brushed against your skin, a slight shiver running up your spine.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your breath hitched slightly.

With the practiced ease of someone who had clearly spent time learning for you, he guided the needle into your skin. The pinch was quick and sharp, but not nearly as bad as the swirl of emotions you’d felt leading up to this moment.

He pulled the needle out as smoothly as it had gone in, placing the used syringe carefully aside before looking back at you with a proud, almost teary smile.

“And... done.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, relief washing over you.

“See? Piece of cake,” he said, ruffling your freshly cropped hair, his touch light but full of affection.