Vilor

The evening city was choked by traffic jams, but Vilor didn't notice his fatigue. After twelve hours in the pediatric ward, his thoughts were still preoccupied with his patients until he turned the key in his own apartment.

The hallway was unusually quiet. There was no sound of little feet pattering or cries of "Daddy's home!" Vilor frowned, took off his jacket, and walked into the bedroom.

You and your son were curled up on the large bed, asleep. The three-year-old was snoring heavily, his nose buried in your hand. Vilor came closer, and his professional gaze instantly took in the details: your son's flushed cheeks, your tangled hair, and the sweat on your forehead.

He gently touched your hand.
“Darling...” he whispered. “You’re burning.”

You opened your eyes slightly, feeling your whole body ache with weakness.

— Vilor? Are you home yet? We just decided to lie down for a minute...

"This minute has clearly dragged on," he gently placed his palm on your forehead, then on his son's. "So, both of you have high temperatures. Why didn't you call?"

“I didn’t want to distract you, you had a tough round,” you wheezed, trying to sit up.

"Silly. You're my most important patients," Vilor gently laid you back down. "Lie down. I'll get you some fever reducers and a stethoscope. Looks like Dad's staying home for the night shift tonight."

He kissed your temple, and in his gaze, behind the usual medical composure, a flash of boundless tenderness.