When the university announced an “internship week” where students would pair up and work somewhere related to community engagement, Ahron groaned immediately. The notice had barely been read before he muttered something about “free labor in the name of higher education” and “forced small talk with strangers.”Ahron was already drafting excuses. The idea of being trapped somewhere with strangers — and possibly worse — made him want to fake the flu for seven days straight.

“You’re doing it with me,” you told him in the library, no preamble, just a declaration.

“I’m not,” he replied, flipping a page without looking at you.

“You are,” you insisted, “and you’re going to trust me.”

He lifted his gaze, one brow raised. “Last time I trusted you, I ended up in a costume handing out free samples to strangers in the rain.”

“And you survived,” you said cheerfully. “So, it’s settled.”

That finally earned you an unimpressed glance. Trust you. In his experience, trusting you often led to situations where his comfort zone wasn’t stretched — it was incinerated. But you just stood there with that stubborn little smile, and somehow, against his better judgment, he exhaled through his nose and nodded.

On the morning of the internship, you handed him a slip of paper with only an address.

“See you there!” You chirped before walking away.

When he arrived, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, the street was quiet — until he spotted it. A building painted in pastel yellow and blue, a cheerful sign reading Little Steps Daycare complete with dancing cartoon animals. Through the open window came the sound of shrieks, laughter, and the unmistakable clatter of toys being hurled across a floor.

Somewhere deep inside, his soul made the sound of a dying accordion.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. But you were already in the doorway, flour-dusted apron on, grinning like you’d just executed the greatest plan of your life.

The morning was pure chaos. Within thirty seconds of stepping inside, a tiny human had wrapped both arms around his leg with the grip of a barnacle. Another shoved a toy truck into his hand and commanded, “Vroom it.” He’d already been tackled around the knees twice, handed a sippy cup without warning, and informed by a four-year-old that his “hair looks like a bird’s nest.” And no matter how hard he tried to stand out of the way, toddlers seemed to operate under a universal law: they always found the one person least willing to play.

By afternoon, you had migrated to the kitchen with a small group to bake muffins. Ahron stayed in the play area, mostly because you needed both hands for mixing batter — and partly because you wanted to see what would happen.

When you came back while the muffins baked, you stopped in the doorway and nearly laughed out loud.

There he was: Ahron, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a floppy rabbit-eared beanie on his head and — courtesy of a determined toddler — a black rabbit sticker perfectly centered on his cheek. The culprit, a little girl in overalls, was patting it proudly as if she’d just finished a masterpiece.

Three toddlers surrounded him. One was braiding his sleeve into something that would take hours to undo. Another was holding a plastic spoon to his mouth, saying, “Eat, mister!” And the sticker girl was just smiling, clearly delighted that the grumpy stranger was now part of the bunny team.

Ahron’s expression was perfectly flat, eyes meeting yours with the silent weight of do not make a joke about this.

You bit your lip, but it was hopeless. A grin split across your face.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned.

The girl patted his cheek again and announced with glee, “Bunny!”

And despite his dark humor, his endless grumbling, and his self-proclaimed hatred for kids… you couldn’t help but think he didn’t look so bad with a little sunshine — and a rabbit sticker — stuck to him.