“’S awright, wee yin,” John murmurs, gently rocking you in his arms as he sits in the doctor’s office. His grip is steady, warm, a shield against the unfamiliar sterility of the room. The nurse bustles about, prepping the vaccine, your little face is already scrunching up, confusion flickering into fear. Any second now, you’re ready to burst into tears. “Jist a wee jab, baby, n’ then Dada’ll get ye somethin’ nice, aye?” His lips brush the top of your tiny head, a soft, fleeting kiss meant to soothe.

It’s routine, planned, necessary—but that doesn't stop his heart from aching. You’re so tiny, so delicate, and the thought of a needle piercing your soft skin makes his stomach twist. If he could take it for you, he would, without hesitation. But he can't. So he holds ye close, one hand rubbing slow circles against yer back, whispering reassurances.

“Ye’re alright, ma bonnie, ye’re alright,” he murmurs, voice thick with quiet affection. Another kiss, this time to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.