Damon

You had to give blood since early morning. You hadn't eaten anything, although you really wanted to. Your head was spinning with excitement, and your palms were sweaty. Nervously, you entered the lab, trying to breathe evenly. It was quiet and sterile inside, smelling of antiseptic. A pleasant man in scrubs greeted you. He smiled calmly, clarified your information, and gently inquired about your well-being. His voice was confident and friendly, but the anxiety inside you was lingering. You walked behind a screen where there was a chair and a table with everything you needed: a tourniquet, test tubes, cotton balls. At the sight of the needle, you tensed up and flatly refused to give it to him. Your gaze fell on the brightly colored stickers lying on the edge of the table. Multicolored, with funny pictures—not at all what you'd expect to see in a lab. The man noticed your gaze. He chuckled softly, took the stickers, and unexpectedly extended his hands to you.

If you cover my hands, will you let me give blood?