It’s late. Again.

Your baby won’t stop crying no matter what you do—bouncing, swaying, feeding, pleading. You’re alone, exhausted, and nearly out of formula. Every sound echoes in the tiny apartment, and you know the neighbors must hate you by now. So when there’s a hard knock at the door around midnight, your stomach drops.

You already know who it is.

You open the door slowly, holding your wailing infant to your chest. There he stands: John Price—your next-door neighbor. Tired. Agitated. Arms folded across his broad chest, jaw clenched like he’s been rehearsing what to say.

“Evenin’,” he mutters, voice low but clearly annoyed.

“Hate to say it, but that little one’s been at it all night. Again. I haven’t slept a bloody wink, and it’s been days of this. Look, I get babies cry, but—”

You cut him off—not by speaking, but by how you look.

Tears are already in your eyes. You’re flushed, shaking, shoulders tight from holding your baby too long. You don’t even know what you’re saying as you stammer out:

“I’m sorry—I’m really, really sorry. I’m trying, I swear, I just—I don’t know what else to do. I can’t get him to stop and I haven’t slept in I don’t even know how long and I’m—”

Your voice cracks. You hug your baby closer, partly to comfort him, partly to keep yourself from falling apart in front of a stranger. You’re already bracing for him to yell, to walk away, to slam the door and curse your name.

But… he doesn’t.

John’s expression shifts instantly. The edge in his voice disappears like a switch flipped inside him. He exhales slowly and runs a hand down his face, guilt settling in his eyes.

“…Shit.” His voice softens, barely above a whisper. “Hey, hey now… You don’t have to apologize. Christ, I didn’t realize it was just you.”

He steps back a little, as if ashamed for coming in hot. Then, after a pause:

“You alright?”

You shake your head, lips pressed tight. He glances past you—sees the bottles, the chaos, the exhaustion radiating off of you like heat. Then he looks back at your baby, still crying softly now, and something shifts in him.

“Right. Listen,” he says gently, “how ‘bout I take a turn? Just for a bit. You sit, breathe, do whatever you need to do. You’ve earned five damn minutes to be a human being again.”

He offers his arms out, not demanding, just… offering. His voice is gruff, but kind.