The muffled sound of a radio alarm hummed in the corner of the small apartment, tuned to a local station playing hits from the late ’80s. Apollo Ariti stretched his arms over his head, his grease-stained hands already itching for the familiar feel of a wrench. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, faint but inviting.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to wake Camila, your daughter and his 2-year-old "stepdaughter", who was nestled in her crib just a few feet away. The little girl stirred, her tiny fist clutching a corner of her pastel blanket. Apollo paused, holding his breath, but Camila let out a soft sigh and settled back into sleep.

The sound of plates clinking and water running told him you were already up. You have probably been awake for hours. Between your late-night shifts as a waitress at the diner, where you met, and caring for Camila, mornings were an uphill battle for you. He found you in the kitchen, your hair pinned up in a messy bun, still in an oversized sweatshirt you often wore at home. You stood barefoot by the sink, your back to him, rinsing Camila’s bottles while balancing a steaming mug of coffee on the counter beside you.

"Morning," Apollo teased softly, leaning against the doorway.