Sheldon's voice carried a touch of regret, noticed by Lyndon, who responded with a gentle smile.

He quickly looked around, noticing everything in the room.

The room had a big closet you could walk into and a line of bookshelves.

Even though there wasn't much space and it was a bit crowded, everything was arranged neatly, not messy or cluttered, but nicely organized.

A photo frame on the nightstand captured a tender moment between Tilda and Sheldon.

In the picture, a one-year-old Sheldon beamed, cradled in Tilda's embrace.

"Sheldon, it's time for your treatment," Elma called out.

“Alright.” Sheldon gave Lyndon a quick look.

Lyndon lifted Sheldon, exited Tilda's bedroom, cleaned Sheldon's face and hands, and then settled him on the living room sofa to treat his bruises.

"Mr. Fernandez, should I take care of that?" Elma offered, opening the first aid kit.

"I've got this," Lyndon said, accepting a tube of ointment from Elma.

Elma watched quietly as he carefully applied the ointment to Sheldon's bruises.

Sheldon winced slightly from the sting of the ointment.

"Is it painful?" Lyndon asked softly.

Sheldon first nodded, then hesitated and shook his head.

Seeing Sheldon's furrowed brows, Lyndon eased his touch with the ointment and asked, "What do your actions mean?"

"It stings a bit, but I'm tough. I can take it," Sheldon declared with the earnestness of a child.

Lyndon's smile widened and he said, "That's the spirit. You're incredibly brave."

Puffing up with pride, Sheldon straightened himself.

Looking at the handsome man's face nearby, Sheldon blinked and asked softly, "Can I call you dad all the time?"