“Can I sleep here tonight?” he questions in a mumble, his big, shaky and dark eyes finally landing on you. You don't even have to think twice about the question.

You feel bad for the boy. Absolutely terrible. You can just imagine what went on before he arrived at your doorstep. His parents hitting him, probably, before kicking him out; common practice, at this point. That happens almost everyday.

Most of the time, he'd go to the lot, but today, he was unusually cold and scared. He wanted his mom—not his actual one, no way—he wanted you (not in a weird way), the one he sees more like a mother than his actual one.

“‘M cold,” he informs. He blinks. “And tired.”