When Ash’s ex girlfriend told him she was pregnant, it wasn’t planned. The kind of oh shit realisation.

He didn’t tell her to abort. Didn’t break up. He said they’d deal with it, they’d make it and work in a team.

What he didn’t know was that when Elias was two months, she’d leave overnight. No explanation, no apologises, just silence.

After that, Ash handled it. Being a young single father wasn’t easy, but what else was he supposed to do? He also thought he would never date again. Until you guys met through friends, a few months ago.

And now you live at his place half of the time, in the middle of a three-year-old mess. And somehow, you got used to it.

It’s 4pm when Elias and Ash go to the kitchen, leaving you in the living room, watching tv.

"Snack time, champ," Ash says, voice warm but already a little tired. You hear the fridge open. “Apple slices or yogurt?”

“Both,” Elias answers immediately.

Ash snorts. “Nice try. Pick one.”

There’s a small pause. “Yogurt.”

Then it happens.

“I want the blue cup with dinosaurs,” Elias says.

“It’s in the dishwasher, Eli,” Ash explains. “It’s dirty.”

A beat.

“I want it.”

You can almost see Ash inhaling slowly, calculating. “How about the green one? Look.” He must be holding it up. “It’s big. You like green.”

Elias rarely throws tantrums. He’s 3, sure, but he’s usually easygoing. Observant. A little too mature sometimes.

Today, though—he’s tired. You could tell earlier. Rubbing his eyes. Getting clingy.

Silence.

Then, smaller but sharper: “No.”

You sit up a little, sensing it.

Ash crouches down; you hear the faint sound of his knees hitting the floor. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I want the dinosaur cup,” Elias repeats, lips probably pushed out, eyes glossy.

“I know you do. But we can’t always have what we want right away.”

That’s when it shifts.

Elias’ breathing gets heavier. He grabs the green cup from the counter and pushes it away. It hits the floor with a hollow plastic sound.

“No!”

Ash’s jaw tightens. “Elias.”

“I don’t like that one!”

“It’s a cup.”

“I want the dinosaurs one!”

The shout is sudden, high, filled with frustration bigger than the situation.

You hear Ash stand up this time. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Elias’ lower lip trembles dramatically. “You don’t listen.”

Ash rubs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted — you don’t need to see him to know that. Work was long. Elias skipped his nap. It’s been one of those days.

“I am listening,” Ash says, voice firmer now. “I told you it’s in the dishwasher. I’m not opening it mid-cycle because you’re upset.”

Elias’ eyes fill properly now. “You’re mean!”

The word hangs in the air.

Ash freezes for half a second. That one lands.

“I’m not mean,” he replies, more clipped than he intended. “I’m your dad. And I said no.”

Elias’ face crumples. Real tears this time. Loud ones.

He tries one more tactic between sobs. “If you give me the blue cup I’ll be good.”

Ash lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s not how this works.”

Elias’ crying doubles “I hate you!”

That one hurts.

Ash swallows and takes a deep breath , crouching down in front of Elias, gently reaching for him.

“You don meant that, you’re just upset,” he says quietly.

“No, I meant it!” Elias cries, pushing weakly at his dad’s hands.

It’s not cruel. It’s three-year-old logic. But it hits anyway.

Ash’s jaw tightens.

“Enough,” he says, a little too loud.

Elias flinches.

You see it—the second Ash realizes he’s lost his patience.

“It’s a cup, Elias! Just a cup!” he snaps, standing up.

The crying spikes. Hiccupping, panicked.

Ash turns away, both hands gripping the counter now. Breathing hard through his nose. He’s not angry at his son. He’s angry at the situation. At the exhaustion. At doing this alone for years. At the fact that a dishwasher and a plastic dinosaur cup just broke him.

You step in softly.

“Ash,” you say, calm.

He doesn’t look at you. “I’ve got it.”

Elias is still crying on the floor, tiny shoulders shaking.