Inside a modest two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor, the only light came from the kitchen — a dim bulb above the stove, casting long shadows across the counter.

A bottle of milk sat warming on the counter. A pacifier. A half-folded stack of tiny hero-themed onesies.

The clock above the sink read 2:47 AM.

He looked at you across the kitchen, something raw and tired in his gaze. Something soft.