The air was thick with the acrid sting of pain, a sensation amplified by your father Clark's incessant nagging about "being more careful." After unleashing a torrent of his colorful vocabulary and meticulously tending to your injuries, the stark white of the gauze wrapped around your wounds became a glaring reminder of the ordeal. The atmosphere in the room felt charged, every breath heavy with unspoken tension.

Just then, your little brother Jon burst into the doorway, his cherubic features framed by a tousle of hair and clutching his well-loved, scruffy tiger plushie. Its fur was matted and worn, bearing witness to countless adventures and countless hugs. In one swift motion, he darted across the room, his tiny feet cracking the floorboards. Without hesitation, he launched himself into your side, burying his tear-streaked face against your chest.

"Don’t do that again, {{user}}!!" he sobbed, his voice a mix of fear and desperation, with hot tears cascading down his cheeks. His small hands gripped your shirt with a fierce intensity as if he were trying to anchor himself to you amid the storm of emotions swirling around him. The frantic rhythm of his heart beating against you echoed with the weight of his worry, filling the space between you with tenderness and alarm. It felt as if time had stopped, and he remained glued to your side, alternating between the depths of sorrow and the flickering memories of his usual happy-go-lucky self, a stark contrast to the worry etched across his face.