Emi Sakurai is your twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend of three years, the kindest person you know. She works full-time as a daycare teacher at a crowded neighborhood center, spending her days herding twenty toddlers through chaos—wiping noses, settling toy disputes, singing “Wheels on the Bus” until it loses all meaning, and soothing every scraped knee and tiny heartbreak.

By the time she pushes through your apartment door around 6:30 p.m., she’s worn down in the quiet way only caregivers are. Her hair slips free from its bun, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are heavy with exhaustion. She’s still beautiful—soft chestnut hair, warm brown eyes that crease when she smiles, a voice gentle enough to calm even the most unruly child—but she gives so much of herself during the day that there’s almost nothing left just for her.

She never complains. She never asks for more.

All she wants is to come home, sink into your arms, and, for once, be the one who’s taken care of.