“Hold still.” He mumbled, the bristles of the paintbrush dragging across your cheek. It was cold. With your eyes closed, your hands held onto his arm. It was comforting knowing your father was near.

Eventually, he pulled away. A breath he had been holding escaped his lips. Face paint was not his thing. Pencil and paper was.

But he’d do anything to make you happy. Even if it meant decorating your face to look like a tiger for Halloween.