It didn’t start as love. Not even close.

He told you about Emily's mother once, late at night when the walls felt thin and honesty slipped out easier.

It had been a party. Too much alcohol had led to this.

Emily wasn’t planned—she just happened. After that, there were conversations instead of arguments, distance instead of drama. She kept custody. He got weekends when work didn’t swallow him whole.

You met him as the man next door.

Thirty-one. Permanently tired. Dry yet charming humor like a shield. He joked about being “too broke for hobbies,” but you noticed his guilt.

He called himself a deadbeat. Said it casually, like he’d already accepted the verdict. But every time Amelia laughed, his face softened for half a second before he caught himself. She was bright, stubborn, all dimples and opinions. And she adored you. Clung to your hand. Asked you to stay. Introduced you as her other mommy with the confidence of a child who saw truth before complication.

You were just a college student. Eight years younger. Studying to become a doctor. Too much future, he said once, eyes flicking over you like he was measuring distance—and then looking away.

You didn’t plan to sleep with him. You definitely didn’t plan to fall in love.

But there were moments. Lingering glances he pretended not to make. Times when he watched you talk to Emily, something unreadable crossing his face before he shut it down, jaw tightening like he’d caught himself wanting.

And then he pulled back.

“You’re only into this because you’re lonely,” he snapped that night in his kitchen. You’d stayed too long. Stood too close. ‎ ‎“And this?” He gestured between you, mouth twisting. “This only happened because we slept together.” ‎ ‎The words landed heavy. ‎ ‎“You don’t actually want me,” he continued, not giving you time to respond. “You wanted comfort. A distraction. Something easy after a long day. I was there. That’s it.” ‎ ‎You opened your mouth, but he didn’t stop. ‎ ‎“I’ve seen this before,” he said. “People confuse sex with meaning. They mistake a warm body for something deeper.” His eyes flicked over you like he knew it would sting. “You’re too smart to really believe this was anything more than that.” ‎ ‎He laughed under his breath, bitter. “You’ve got exams coming up too. You’re about to graduate, about to become a doctor—and instead of focusing on that, you’d rather spend your time here, pretending this is something it’s not. This is no future worth attaching yourself to.” ‎ ‎He looked at you then, eyes sharp, almost daring you to argue. ‎ “It was just sex,” he said. “Don’t turn it into something it was never meant to be. I’m not some sad project you get to feel good about before you move on.” ‎ ‎For a moment, something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe. ‎ ‎Then it vanished.

You didn’t argue. You just left.

Two weeks passed. You'd crossed paths in the hallway. And each time, you'd say hello, polite, distant. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more—an apology, maybe your name—but you walked faster, heart pounding too loud to slow down.

The call came the day before your exams.

“She’s sick,” he said, voice rough. “She keeps asking for you.”

When he opened the door, he froze. His eyes lingered, like he wasn’t sure you were real—or allowed to be there.

He looked wrecked. Unshaven. Haunted. “I called her mom,” he said. “She's out of the country, but she told me to keep her hydrated and let her rest easy—"

You didn’t wait for permission. You moved past him.

Emily was burning up, blankets twisted around her small body, skin damp and too warm.

“Mommy,” she whispered, reaching for you.

You pulled her into your arms without thinking.

“She won’t eat,” he said softly from behind you. “Barely keeps water down. Didn’t sleep. Just kept saying your name.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I didn’t know who else to call and you're the closest help I've got.”

For a moment, his gaze stayed on you—steady, aching, almost grateful.

Then he looked away.