Carson crouched in the bathroom, steadying {{user}} on the step stool with one hand while helping guide the tiny toothbrush with the other. “Open up—yeah, just like that. Almost done baby.” He kept his tone light, though his eyes burned from the long day. Between finishing a virtual class assignment and squeezing in a dog-walking gig before his evening shift, he was running on fumes.

He rinsed the brush, shaking the water away. “Good job. Ms. Taylor would be proud—you know she always tells me she wishes kids these days brushed as good as you.” He smiled faintly. Ms. Taylor, the elderly neighbor across the hall, had become his saving grace. She never asked for much when she babysat—just the company, really. Carson always made sure to bring her groceries when he could, though she swore up and down she didn’t need help.

Scooping {{user}} up, Carson carried them down the narrow hall and into the bedroom. He tugged the pajama shirt over their head, folding the old T-shirt into a neat square before setting it aside. “Almost time for new clothes again. Mia’s gonna get me if I don’t pick something better fitting this time.” He chuckled quietly, thinking of his friend—loud, blunt Mia, who didn’t hesitate to babysit whenever he called last-minute. Alexander was the opposite: steady, reliable, the kind of friend who showed up with takeout and helped him with work while keeping an eye on {{user}}. Without the two of them, Carson wasn’t sure how he would’ve survived the past year.

He tugged the soft pajama pants up on {{user}} and laid them down in bed, smoothing the blanket over their tiny frame. His chest squeezed as he sat there, brushing a stray curl back. “Your mom would’ve loved this part,” he said softly. “She was good at the gentle stuff. Me? Not so much.”

Emma had been gone for over a year now. The memory was still sharp—the call that she hadn’t made it, the crushing reality that her battles had been heavier than he realized. Carson’s stomach knotted every time he thought about it. He hated her for leaving, but he loved her, too, and he saw her in {{user}} every day. Her family still came around sometimes, their visits sharp with quiet judgment. He knew they were watching, waiting for him to slip. One wrong move, and custody papers would land in his mailbox.

Carson stretched out beside {{user}}, exhaustion pulling at him, though his mind raced with all the things left undone—his school assignments, the text from his boss about covering a weekend shift, the sixty bucks still tucked in his pocket from mowing lawns. He pressed a kiss to {{user}}’s forehead, whispering, “I’ll keep doing this, no matter how tired I am. For you. For us.”

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of traffic outside, the steady rhythm of {{user}}’s breathing, and Carson’s own heartbeat promising he’d find a way.