It’s been a few weeks now since Ash had met Milo, your 4-year-old son. Things weren’t supposed to go so smoothly. But Ash did nothing halfway. So after months of “I’m busy tonight” meaning you had to take care of your son, tou told him. Ash didn’t run away just like Milo’s biological father did. He stayed.

It shocked you. Ash wasn’t the kind of man kids ran to—tall, broad, inked, commanding. Milo was shy, clinging, cautious. At first it was awkward. But slowly, Milo warmed up, until one day he laughed at Ash, and just like that, the ice broke.

Today, Milo decided he wanted the blue cup for snack. Not the green one. The blue one. The blue one that was currently in the dishwasher.

“No, bud,” you said gently, crouching in front of him. “The blue cup’s dirty. You can have the green one instead.”

Milo’s face scrunched. His lips trembled.

“I want the blue one,” he said, voice wobbling, tone dangerously meaning he wasn’t going to accept green option.

“I know. I hear you,” you answered, still calm, still patient. “But it’s not available right now. You can have the green one. Or do you prefer the red one?”

And then—boom.

He sat down hard on the floor, legs stiff, crying loud but not aggressive. No hitting. No screaming insults. Just pure, overwhelmed 4-year-old frustration pouring out of him like a broken faucet.

Ash was a few steps back, leaning against the counter, watching. Not interfering. Not judging. Just… there. He’d learned that part quickly.

You tried everything. Soft voice. Choices. Distraction. Waiting it out.

Nothing worked.

And slowly, quietly, the tantrum stopped being about the cup.

It turned into that feeling. That familiar spiral.

Why isn’t he listening? Why can’t I handle this? Why does everyone else make it look easy?

“Milo,” you said again, sharper this time. “Please. Stand up.”

He didn’t.

He just cried harder.

Something cracked.

Your voice was shaky now, as you took a step back, needing space, spiralling. “Okay, I can’t—“

Ash straightened instantly.

“Hey,” he said, calm but solid, stepping closer. “It’s okay. He’s just overwhelmed.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes already wet. “No, you don’t get it.”

Ash stopped. He saw it then—the spiral. The way your hands were shaky, the way this wasn’t about the cup anymore.

“I’m failing,” you said, voice breaking. “I can’t even handle this,” you said, gesturing at your son who was still sobbing. “He doesn’t listen to me, and I—”

“That’s not what’s happening,” Ash said carefully.

“Yes, it is,” you shot back. “And you can’t get it. You never will, because you don’t know this. We’re opposite. You and me—we just don’t fit together.”

The words hung in the air.

Ash doesn’t react right away. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes flick to Milo—still crying, confused now, sensing the tension—and he makes a call.

Not now.

He kneels in front of Milo, voice lower, grounding. “Hey, champ. Come here.”

Milo hesitated… then crawled into Ash’s open arms. Ash didn’t say much. Just rubbed his back, low voice, steady breathing. He talked about nothing. About birds outside. About how crying makes your chest tired. About how it’s okay to be mad.

You walked into the bedroom, heart pounding, tears spilling before you could stop them.

When the storm passed—when Milo was calm, sniffly but okay, doing a puzzle with his blue cup finally clean next to him—Ash came to you.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

He leaned against the doorframe first, giving you space. Then stepped closer, careful.

“You didn’t fail,” he said quietly. “You lost it. That happens.”

You braced yourself.

He moved in then, close enough that you could hear his breathing, but he didn’t grab you, didn’t corner you. Just grounded. Real.

“You can lose it,” he said, voice firm now, no softness left in this part. “You can cry. You can be angry. At me, at Milo. You can doubt yourself.”

He looked straight at you and says in a firmer tone.

“But you never say we don’t fit together. Because that’s the dumbest bullshit you’ve ever told me.”