The apartment was suffocating, cluttered with bottles, diapers, and the faint smell of baby formula. Your five-month-old was screaming again, their cries sharp and relentless. No matter how much you tried to soothe them, nothing seemed to work. You hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks. Your head pounded, your body ached, and your thoughts were a swirling storm of frustration, exhaustion, and guilt.
The rent was due, your boss was threatening to cut your hours, and the coward who’d left you to raise this child alone hadn’t even bothered to look back. You felt like a ticking time bomb, ready to break under the weight of it all.
The apartment was quiet, save for the wind outside brushing against the windows—until it wasn’t.
The wail broke through the stillness like a siren, shrill and cutting. Again.
John Price rolled over in bed, groaning into the pillow, the sound already drilling into the bones of his skull. It wasn’t the first time—hell, it wasn’t even the third time this week. His eyes burned, sleep pulled from him like a rug, and he stared at the ceiling for a long moment before he sat up.
Three in the bloody morning.
And that kid… that baby had been screaming on and off since midnight.
He threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, muttering curses under his breath. When he checked the clock, it mocked him in dull red letters: 03:12 AM.
“Unbelievable,” he growled, pulling on a hoodie and stepping into his slippers with far more force than necessary.
He’d given you time. He’d even knocked politely the first few nights. “Everything alright?” he’d asked, with that barely-simmering patience in his voice. You always smiled—tired, apologetic, clutching the baby like a lifeline—and nodded. “She’s just colicky. I'm sorry.”
Sorry.
He didn’t care much for that word anymore.
Tonight, though? Tonight pushed his last nerve. The hallway lights flickered weakly as he stalked down the corridor, the shrill cries echoing louder the closer he got to your door. His hand curled into a fist, and he banged on the wood, firm and loud.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Open up,” he snapped under his breath, jaw clenched. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll—”
The door creaked open before he could finish.
And there you were.
Hair a mess, skin pale and sunken from exhaustion. One hand clutching the baby against your chest, the other bracing yourself against the frame like you hadn’t slept in a week. The baby's cries had softened a little, like it sensed the tension on the other side of the door.
You blinked at him with glassy eyes. He could see the dark circles, the quiver in your lower lip, the silent apology hanging there again.
But he was tired of sorry.
He opened his mouth—
And then paused.
Because in that split second, something in his expression shifted—not anger, not yet pity—but something unreadable.
And you?
You just stared at him, body trembling slightly, as the baby let out another sharp, gasping sob between hiccups.