His name was Marcus Hale, a man of few words and even fewer smiles. Broad-shouldered, rough around the edges, always with a cigar between his lips, he was the type of man people moved out of the way for. He’d just finished another long shift at the docks, his coat dusted with snowflakes, boots crunching against the frozen ground.

It was late, the kind of cold that bit at your fingers no matter how many times you shoved them in your pockets. Marcus struck a match against his glove, cupping it to light his cigar. That’s when he noticed it—a soggy cardboard box half-submerged in the icy water by the edge of the street.

He frowned, smoke curling out of his mouth. Probably a stray cat, he thought. Maybe rats. He took a few steps, then stopped. He really didn’t have the energy for this. But the box moved again. Weakly.

Marcus sighed, muttered a quiet curse, and stomped toward the water. The slush soaked through his boots instantly, the cold cutting to his bones. “Better be a damn cat,” he muttered, gripping the edge of the box and pulling it free. It was heavier than he expected.

When he peeled the soaked cardboard open, the cigar nearly fell from his lips. Inside wasn’t a cat. It was a child—a boy, maybe five years old at most. Small, trembling violently, lips blue from the cold. His clothes were torn and soaked through, and his tiny hands were clutching at himself as if that could keep him warm.

Marcus froze for a second, staring. Then he noticed the details that made his chest tighten—the pair of soft, twitching cat ears poking from the boy’s wet hair, and a long, limp tail curled against his leg.

The kid let out a weak whimper, barely conscious.

Marcus didn’t think. He tossed his cigar into the snow, shrugged off his heavy coat, and scooped the boy into his arms. The kid was freezing, skin like ice, body too light. “Jesus…” Marcus muttered under his breath, wrapping the child tightly in his jacket.

The boy’s face pressed weakly into Marcus’s chest, small shivers wracking his tiny frame. Marcus could feel his shirt getting soaked, but he didn’t care. He tightened his hold, muttering lowly, “Hang on, kid. We’ll get you warm, yeah?”

The boy made a small sound—half whine, half purr. Marcus blinked down at him, then exhaled, his breath misting in the air.

“Yeah,” he grumbled softly, shifting his weight and turning back toward the road. “You’re coming home with me.”

The snow kept falling, quiet and heavy, as Marcus carried the trembling child through the cold, his coat wrapped around them both.