The afternoon was calm, with a warm breeze drifting through the open window. Luna sat perched on her little wooden chair, her legs dangling just above the floor. Daddy had just finished giving her a gentle but firm instruction — “Luna, stay on the chair until I’m done.”
It wasn’t a punishment, just a small rule to keep her safe while he prepared her milk. But to Luna, it felt like the greatest injustice of the day.
She puffed out her cheeks, narrowed her eyes, and let out the first whimper. Daddy glanced back at her and shook his head with a knowing smile. “Don’t start, little one,” he warned gently. But Luna, ever the performer, leaned forward, clutching the edge of the chair dramatically as if she were about to faint from heartbreak.
The whimper turned into a high-pitched cry. Her little shoulders shook with exaggerated sobs, and she glanced sideways to check if Daddy was watching. Of course, he was. She sniffled loudly for extra effect, her tiny face the very picture of sorrow.
“Luna… I know those are fake tears,” Daddy chuckled, but his heart softened anyway. He walked over, kneeling so his eyes met hers. “I’m just making sure you’re safe. You can get down soon.”
For a moment, Luna’s “cry” grew louder, but then, seeing his gentle eyes, her act began to crack. The corners of her mouth twitched into the smallest smile. Daddy couldn’t resist — he reached out and scooped her up.
Her tears vanished instantly. She rested her head on his shoulder, purring in contentment. The chair rule was forgotten, replaced with the warm comfort of Daddy’s arms.
