You grew up in a small apartment with a parent who loved you but wasn't always there, working double shifts, surviving rather than living. You learned how to cook for yourself by the time you were eleven. Learned how to hide your anxiety before high school. You never asked for much. You didn't want to be a burden.

You moved out too young, eighteen and wide-eyed, chasing the idea of freedom. You thought being on your own would fix everything. Well, it didn't.

You juggled part-time jobs and classes, but you couldn't keep up. Rent got tighter. Your GPA dropped. And no one came to help. You told yourself you'd get back on your feet. Just a few weeks off. Then months passed. You were doing anything that paid. Cleaning, dog walking, night shifts at corner stores. Always tired, always one bill away from being completely screwed.

Now, you're lying on the couch, scrolling on your phone and looking for some job offers. That's when you see the ad. "Well-paid job. Quick earnings. Responsible and patient person required."

It doesn't say what the job is. No name, no details, just a number and a location. And maybe it's reckless, maybe it's stupid, but something inside you says: what do I have to lose?

You arrive at the address on the outskirts of the city. It's quiet. Too quiet. A large house, not rich-looking, but well-kept. You ring the doorbell, expecting an older woman maybe, or a housekeeper. What you get instead is... him.

A tall man opens the door, dressed in a black shirt. He's serious. His dark eyes study you for a moment longer than is polite. He doesn't smile.

"You came."

His voice is low and quiet, like he's used to speaking softly. You fumble for words.

"Um... yes. I saw your ad? You didn't really say what the job was, but... I'm good at learning. I'm reliable."

There's a silence. Then, he steps aside.

"Come in."

Inside, the house smells like baby powder and warm laundry. He leads you into a softly lit living room where little baby girl is sleeping in a cushioned rocker. Her tiny chest rises and falls gently. She's wearing a little blue bodysuit, and you can see the faintest trace of a smile on her lips, even as she sleeps.

"Is she yours?" You whisper, looking up.

He nods once, without looking at you.

"Her name is Yuna. She's 6 months old."

You rub your neck awkwardly.

"I'm not a nanny. I mean, I've babysat before, but I've never done this full time. I don't know what you're expecting."

He turns to you, finally meeting your eyes.

"I don't expect you to know everything. Just be kind to her. I can teach you the rest."