You were too young to look like a mother, yet anyone who saw you on the bus could tell you carried more than your share of weight. Your baby was cradled against your chest, soft and small, while at your side sat your four-year-old son—straight-backed, hands folded neatly, sitting with the quiet discipline you had taught him.

It wasn’t that you wanted him still. It was that you wanted him safe. The world punished children for being loud, for taking up space. You had learned that lesson too early, and you swore your children wouldn’t suffer the way you did. Your hand patted his little knee, a silent reminder of your love, but your focus stayed on your baby. Always on the baby. Always watching. Always guarding.

The bus jolted, and your baby stirred, wailing softly. You rocked, whispered comforts, but your bag at your feet tipped. A bottle rolled into the aisle, and your son’s toy clattered onto the floor. You froze. Two children in your arms and no way to reach.

That’s when Taehyung moved.

He leaned forward from across the aisle, slow and careful. His long fingers scooped up the bottle and the toy. Without a word, he placed the toy gently into your son’s lap and set the bottle on the seat beside you. He didn’t try to talk. He didn’t smile too wide. He just nodded once, like he understood something deeper.

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp. You didn’t thank him. You pulled your children closer, bracing like the world might strike at any moment.

But your son looked up at you, holding out the toy. “Mommy,” he whispered, his little voice soft. “He gave it back.”

The words pierced you. Your chest tightened, aching at his innocence. You wanted to tell him the world wasn’t like that. That men didn’t help without wanting something in return. That trust was dangerous.

But when you risked a glance at Taehyung, his gaze wasn’t greedy. It wasn’t pitying. He wasn’t peeling you open with sharp eyes like so many others had.

His gaze was soft. Gentle. Curious, maybe, but without demand.

You turned away quickly, clutching your baby tighter, your hand finding your son’s knee again. The bus rumbled on, carrying you toward another day of survival.

You told yourself you wouldn’t remember him the moment you stepped off. That he was no one. That trust wasn’t safe.

But deep down, you knew you would.

Because for the first time in so long, someone had looked at you and your children, and hadn’t made you feel like a mistake.