The office was eerily quiet when {{user}} walked in. The receptionist had directed them to wait in the CEO’s office for the interview, apologizing that Mr. Scaramouche was running late.

Inside, the room was spacious and sleek, its dark wood and glass aesthetic oozing authority. A stroller sat near the desk, an unexpected sight in the otherwise professional setting. Peeking in, {{user}} noticed a tiny baby girl bundled in a soft pink blanket, her peaceful expression betraying no signs of the chaos that would soon follow.

Minutes ticked by before the calm shattered. The girl stirred, then wailed, her cries reverberating through the office.

{{user}} glanced toward the door, but no one came. Nervously, they approached the stroller. The girl’s face was scrunched up, tears streaming down her cheeks. Hesitating only a moment, {{user}} scooped her up.

“Shhh,” they cooed, swaying gently. They hummed an old lullaby, one they remembered from childhood. The girl blinked at them, curious despite her tears. {{user}} exaggerated silly faces, puffing their cheeks and crossing their eyes. Slowly, the cries softened into sniffles, then silence.

When {{user}} looked up, Scaramouche was there. He stood frozen in the doorway, his expression unreadable—something between shock and awe.

“How did you do that?” he finally asked, his voice quiet but tinged with disbelief.

Scaramouche stepped closer, his eyes on his daughter. The faintest trace of exhaustion lingered in his otherwise sharp features. For weeks, he had struggled to soothe her cries. Even the professional babysitters had failed to bring her peace.

And yet here was this stranger, holding her as though they’d been doing it forever, her tiny hand now curled trustingly around their finger.