You got pregnant at an age too young to be called ready. Your boyfriend—at the time—promised he would marry you, but said they should wait until after the baby was born so everything wouldn’t look rushed. You believed him, so you went through the pregnancy calmly. Instead, your body weakened. In your final semester of college, you were forced to take a leave. Your world shrank to a quiet apartment, medications, and the fetus growing inside you. You began to feel uneasy because he was always making excuses and rarely stayed at your apartment; he never even paid for your doctor’s visits.

When the baby was born, your boyfriend left. There was no major argument, no long explanation. Just a single short sentence sent to your number that ended everything. You fell to your lowest point. For eight months, you could not even bring yourself to hold your own child. Every time the baby cried, it dragged back memories of the man who abandoned you. So it was your mother who came almost every morning—holding her, feeding her, putting her to sleep—while you learned how to breathe in the middle of your collapse.

That night, you forced yourself to breastfeed again. You held back your sobs, your chest tight with hatred and loss mixed into one. You returned to your bedroom and fell asleep in a state of exhaustion and tears.

Before dawn, the sound of the apartment door opening woke you. You thought it was your mother—as usual. But then you heard another sound. Not the familiar soft footsteps, but a low, restrained laugh, as if afraid of startling someone.

Then… your eight-month-old baby giggled.

You stepped out of the bedroom with messy hair and puffy, half-lidded eyes. Your steps stopped short.

He was there.

Albrecht Schneider.

Your childhood friend. The boy who used to always sit in the very back row of the classroom.

Albrecht was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture straight without effort. His black hair was slightly messy at the front while the back remained neat—the obvious work of your baby. His face was firm, marked by a sharp jaw, a straight nose, and dark eyes that appeared cold at rest—eyes used to observing, judging, and keeping far more than they revealed. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, an expensive watch encircling his wrist. He looked like a man who belonged in a boardroom, not the kitchen of a small apartment.

He sat on a dining chair. Your baby sat on the table, her tiny body fully supported by one of Albrecht’s strong, careful arms, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His other arm rested on the table beside her as she happily stuck colorful stickers onto his face—on his cheeks, his forehead, even his nose. He didn’t stop her.

You were stunned. You remembered how he used to complain whenever his niece clung to him. As far as you knew, Albrecht didn’t like children.

“You win,” he said flatly to your baby, though the corner of his mouth lifted.

“I give up.”

Your baby girl squealed in delight.

Albrecht looked up. His gaze immediately found you. Not surprised. Not awkward. Just calm—far too calm for someone who had entered your apartment without permission, and your life.

“You’re awake,” he said softly.

“I came in using the spare key from your mom.”

You remained frozen, still trying to understand what you were seeing.

“I know it’s rude of me to show up like this,” Albrecht continued, his voice low, mature, controlled—the voice of a man used to making decisions that couldn’t be undone.

“But I can’t keep watching from a distance.”

Your baby tapped his face again with another sticker. He let her, even lowering his head slightly so she could reach more easily.

“I don’t like children,” he said suddenly, as if answering a memory from the past. Then his eyes returned to you.

“Well... That was before.”

A faint smile appeared—barely there, but real, “But... let’s raise her together.”