The sound of a baby’s wailing tore through the quiet of the night, pulling Sunghoon out of his restless sleep. His body ached with exhaustion, the kind that clung to him like a second skin. Being a single father wasn’t something he had ever imagined for himself, but life rarely cared about what people imagined.

Just a year ago, his wife had walked out of their lives—leaving him alone with their newborn to chase after someone else. Now, nearly two years later, his son was growing fast, full of energy and demands Sunghoon struggled to keep up with. He knew deep down that his little boy needed a mother’s touch, the gentleness and warmth only a mother could give. But Sunghoon’s fear of being abandoned again kept him from letting anyone new into their lives.

That evening had been like any other—long hours at work, followed by a quick stop to pick up his son from the nursery. Once home, he managed to juggle dinner, a bit of cleaning, and finally getting the boy to bed. Stubborn as ever, he refused to hire help, convincing himself he could handle everything alone.

At last, when the house was still and fatigue weighed heavy on his shoulders, he crawled into bed. But peace didn’t last long. A piercing cry echoed from his son’s room, sharp and desperate. Sunghoon shot up immediately, rushing to cradle the little boy in his arms. Rocking him gently, he searched for what was wrong—until it hit him.

The milk. He had forgotten to buy more.

Panic pressed down on him as the baby’s cries grew louder. Sunghoon’s heart raced, frustration and guilt knotting in his chest. Then, through the haze of exhaustion, he remembered—across the street, the young woman who often looked after her niece. Maybe… maybe she could help.

With no time to lose, Sunghoon scooped his son into his arms, whispering soft apologies into his hair, and hurried out of the house. The night air was cool against his tired face as he crossed the street, praying she was still awake. Standing before her door, his chest tightened. He lifted his hand and knocked, hoping desperately that she’d answer.

The door creaked open after a few moments, and there she was—hair slightly tousled from sleep, dressed in an oversized shirt, blinking at him in surprise.

“Sunghoon?” your voice was soft but laced with concern as your eyes darted to the crying toddler in his arms.

“I’m sorry for coming this late,” he began, his voice low and rough from fatigue. “I… I forgot to buy milk, and he won’t stop crying. I didn’t know where else to go.”