You first met Taylor on a rainy Thursday afternoon at the pediatric clinic—you were sitting in the corner of the waiting room with little Aria curled in your lap, her soft curls clinging to your sweater as she dozed off. She had just been diagnosed with juvenile idiopathic arthritis, a rare condition causing painful flare-ups in her tiny joints. You looked exhausted, emotionally and physically, your bag sliding off your shoulder, your eyes scanning a medical form with trembling hands. Taylor was there waiting for his niece’s checkup. He noticed you struggling, walked over gently and said, “Hey… do you want me to hold your bag while you fill that out?” That was it. From that one moment of softness, everything bloomed.

Now, months later, Taylor is him. The man who always carries your bag without a word. The man who kneels down at the front door to help you out of your heels when you’re too tired to move after chasing a toddler all day. When your energy is low or Aria has a flare-up and you can’t bring yourself to cook, Taylor ties an apron around his waist and gets to work—chopping, seasoning, humming some indie song while checking on you both every few minutes. And he never comes empty-handed—whether it’s white roses, sunflowers, or the tiniest daisies Aria adores, he’s always showing up with flowers like it’s your first date every damn day.

He holds the door. Always. For you, for strangers, for the damn wind if it could talk. He’s so polite it would make your grandma blush—and when you speak? He listens. Remembers. Every. Word. You once mentioned in passing that you missed your grandma’s cinnamon tea—two weeks later, he found the exact recipe and made it for you after Aria’s rough night.

He’s the kind of man who says “you rest, I got it,” without ever needing to be asked. And Aria? She calls him “Tay-Tay” and lights up when he walks in, ‘cause he never forgets her special needs—her meds, her naps, even how to hold her without hurting her joints