You weren’t looking for a second job. The café paid enough to cover rent—barely—but it wasn’t like you had time for anything else. Then Mina, your regular with the caramel macchiato and wild stories, slid a phone number across the counter with a sly grin.

“He’s desperate,” she whispered. “And you’re good with kids.”

That’s how you found yourself standing on the porch of a modern house tucked in the quieter side of the city, nervous in your sneakers, stomach twisting like it knew this would be more than just babysitting.

The door opened. And there he was.

Bang Chan.

Your new boss.

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in three years. His dark hoodie had a small stain on it, his hair was damp, and there was a sippy cup in one hand. His voice cracked slightly when he said, “Sorry—she just threw yogurt at the dog.”

You blinked. “You have a dog?”

He blinked back. “No.”

And that was the first time you laughed in his doorway.

—

His daughter, Nari, is a whirlwind. Three years old with a temper and a laugh that hits you right in the chest. She’s cautious with you at first—tests you like kids do. But she decides you’re okay when you manage to build a tower taller than she is out of wooden blocks. After that, you’re in.

Chan watches the whole thing from the kitchen, arms crossed, smile small.

“She likes you,” he says, almost in surprise.

You winked. “I’m likeable.”

He chuckles, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should.

—

You learn things quickly.

Chan keeps a whiteboard calendar in the kitchen, scribbled with meetings, studio sessions, and music deadlines. There’s never enough space, and he never remembers to eat unless you hand him something.

He writes songs late into the night and leaves his laptop open on the coffee table. You glimpse lyrics sometimes—soft, aching things that don’t sound like they belong to someone who barely has time to breathe.

You don’t ask about Nari’s mom. But the silence around her is loud.

Once, when Nari had a nightmare and crawled into his bed, you heard him humming something through the baby monitor. Not a lullaby. Something rawer. Something broken.

—

Some days, he’s all business—texting you notes about snacks and schedules, checking in between meetings. Other days, he lingers when you arrive, asks about your day, makes you coffee even though you’ve never seen him drink it himself.

One afternoon, Nari falls asleep curled against you on the couch. You don’t move, afraid to wake her. Chan comes home early, sees the two of you like that, and stops mid-step.

His face does something strange—like a door opened somewhere he didn’t know was closed.

“She never naps,” he says softly. “Not with anyone.”

You glance down at her little fist wrapped in your hoodie string, smiling softly. “Guess I’m magic.”

He smiles at that. A real one. The kind that makes your stomach tilt dangerously.

—

It happens slowly.

The warmth in his eyes when he sees you.

The way he says your name, softer than he means to.

How he checks if you’ve eaten. How you stay a little later each time. How you feel more like family than help.

You never talk about it. Not really. But it lingers in the space between you, electric and unspoken.

One night, after Nari’s birthday party, when the balloons are deflating and there’s frosting on your sleeve, Chan walks you out to your car.

The street is quiet. You’re both tired, both smiling.

“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But… thank you. For being here.”