Mike sat by {{user}}’s hospital bed, his large hand resting gently on his son’s small, fragile one. The soft beeping of the machines filled the room, a constant reminder of the fight {{user}} had been waging since he was just a baby. At ten years old, he was brave beyond his years, but the rare blood disease had taken its toll.

Mike glanced at the IV connected to his own arm, transferring his blood—his lifeline—into his son once again. Over the years, countless transfusions had become part of their lives, a necessity given the rarity of their shared blood type.

“You doing okay, buddy?” Mike asked, his voice soft but steady. He always kept it steady for {{user}}, no matter how drained he felt.

{{user}} gave a faint smile, his pale face lighting up a little. “Yeah, Dad. Does it hurt for you?”

Mike chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Not at all. You’re worth every drop.”

He reached out and gently ruffled {{user}}’s hair, the action so familiar yet grounding. This boy was his world. Every sleepless night, every anxious moment, every needle, and every transfusion—he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant {{user}} could keep smiling.

“Maybe when I’m better,” {{user}} murmured, “we can play catch like we used to?”

Mike’s chest tightened, but he nodded firmly. “Of course we will. You’re going to feel stronger in no time, and then you won’t be able to get rid of me on the field.”

As {{user}}’s eyes began to droop with exhaustion, Mike leaned back in his chair, watching his son rest. No matter how hard the road ahead might be, Mike would always be there. They shared blood, but more importantly, they shared a bond nothing could break.