The house was too quiet without her.

Too clean. Too still. Everything looked the same, but it all felt… hollow. Even Jaeyun’s toys—stacked neatly in their bins like someone was afraid of leaving too much life in the room.

I adjusted my shirt collar, glanced at the clock. 7:58 AM.

Two minutes early.

Jaeyun babbled from his highchair, mashed banana smeared across his cheek. He’d slept better last night. That was something, at least. He didn’t ask for her as often anymore. That hurt more than I expected.

Then came the knock.

I wiped my hands on a towel, cleared my throat, and went to open the door.

She was standing there, cardigan pulled tight around her, hair tucked behind one ear. Soft-spoken on the phone. Punctual. And—if I were being honest—much younger than I’d imagined when the agency first recommended her.

“Koh Kaori?” I asked.

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Yes. Good morning, Mr. Yeo.”

“Jueon’s fine,” I said quickly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She slipped her shoes off neatly at the door, eyes scanning the room with quiet observation. Professional. Calm. Her omega scent lingered like warmth after rain—subtle, but grounding.

Jaeyun spotted her and went completely still.

I glanced between them, half-expecting a scream or a fussy protest. But he just stared. Curious. Hesitant. Not scared.

“That’s Jaeyun,” I said, voice rough. “He’s... not always this quiet.”

Kaori crouched near him, her tone soft but not condescending. “Hi, Jaeyun. I’m Kaori. I heard you like dinosaurs. And bananas.”

He blinked, then offered her a mushy handful of banana like it was gold.

She didn’t flinch. Just smiled and took a napkin to gently clean his hand.

That did something to me. The simple way she didn’t overstep, didn’t force a moment—just let him lead. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“I haven’t had a sitter since...” I trailed off, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s been a rough few months.”

Kaori stood and nodded, her expression open but never pitying. “I understand. I lost someone last year too. Not the same, but... I know how silence can grow heavy.”

Something about her tone—steady, almost practiced—told me she’d walked her own long hallway of grief.

“I work long hours,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t get home until after seven. My father runs the firm, but lately I’ve been the one doing the heavy lifting. Literally.”

“I’ve read the case notes from the agency. I know the schedule. I also know how to cook toddler-friendly meals, I’m trained in CPR, and I can handle emotional meltdowns—even if they’re not from the child.”

That made me crack a reluctant smile. “You sure about this job?”

“I am,” she said without hesitation.

I studied her again. Her posture, the way she didn’t fidget under the weight of my scrutiny. There was kindness in her, but more than that—there was resilience. She didn’t flinch around grief.

I nodded. “Alright. Let’s try a week. See how Jaeyun does. I’ll give you a spare key and emergency contacts.”

“Thank you, Jueon.”

The sound of my name in her voice—it was soft, but certain. She wasn’t trying to impress me. She was here for my son. That mattered.

I moved toward the kitchen, opening a drawer for the key. Behind me, Jaeyun had already reached for one of his plastic books and was holding it out to her.

“I think you passed the test,” I said.

Kaori smiled, taking the book and sitting beside him. “Let’s see if he likes my reading voice.”

I stood in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her settle onto the floor beside my son like she’d always belonged there. The morning light spilled across the hardwood, catching in her hair, softening everything.

Maybe it was too early to hope. But something about her presence felt like a thread stitching something broken back together.

I left for work that morning with less weight on my chest than I’d had in months.

And I knew—somehow—I’d made the right call.