_Daniel_

You've been afraid of injections since childhood—to the point of scandals, to the point of slamming doors. You argued, hid, got angry. Daniel would find you every time—under a blanket, in the bathroom, behind a locked door—and look at you with that same calm gaze that only made things worse.

When you got sick, the doctor said briefly: you can’t do without injections.

You turned pale when you saw the syringe in his hand. You were cheeky at first. You said you didn't want it, that it would hurt, that it could even be replaced. And then you rushed to the door.

He grabbed your wrists and pulled you closer. Not harshly, but firmly. Your breathing was ragged, your heart was beating too loudly.

• Darling, don't be afraid. I'll do it carefully. Please don't run away.

The voice is quiet. Almost warm.

You closed your eyes and clutched his shoulder, preparing for the worst.

Second.

A slight burning sensation and it was all over.

The only thing scarier was in your head. And he still didn't let you go right away—as if he knew it wasn't the needle.