The northern wind swept through the dusty immigrant streets, carrying the smell of gasoline and last night’s rain.

At a quiet corner where few cars passed, you sat on a folding chair, hands trembling as you flipped through old newspapers.

You couldn’t remember when it began, maybe after your father was arrested, after your mother remarried, when the small apartment filled with cigarette smoke and the tired sighs of a man who wasn’t your dad. He didn’t hit, but he gambled, spending nights hunched over the TV, clutching a crumpled lottery ticket like it held his only chance at life.

The papers were old and damp at the edges, but you wiped them dry and stacked them neatly. Each sold for a few dollars, and on the rare days you sold them all, you called it luck.

People passed without looking, faces blank and cold. You pulled your thin, worn sweater tighter, rubbing your hands for warmth. The cold, the hunger, the silence, you had long grown used to them.

Until he came again.

Guang Qi.

The name sounded out of place here, a sharp foreign note in the middle of an American street. He was Chinese, spoke rough English, came with his father on fake papers. No school, no job, no promise. He always wore a baseball cap and had eyes dark as storm clouds.

The first time he came was on a sunny day, the only one you could remember that week. He said he wanted to buy a paper, then dug through the stack like he was searching for treasure, only to walk away empty handed. You had to fix the mess, muttering curses under your breath. But the next day, he showed up again. And again after that.

Each time, he said, “Just checking the news.” Who checks the news without money?

He leaned against the lamppost across the street, watching you from under the brim of his cap. Sometimes he teased:

“Who even buys these crappy papers?” “Dont you get tired sitting here all day?” “Does anyone pay you for that dumb look on your face?”

You stayed quiet.

He kept doing it, flipping through the stack, pretending to read, making you rearrange everything again. Sometimes he’d buy one, shove it into his pocket without a glance. Once or twice, he tossed a few coins onto the table and left before you could count them.

Days blurred together like that. Every evening, when you packed up, there were always a few dollars tucked into your pocket. You never asked. He never mentioned it.

One afternoon, the autumn wind bit like ice. You were freezing in your thin sweater, fingers cracked and red. The sky was heavy with clouds, the street almost empty.

Then he appeared again. But this time, he didn’t say a word.

He just stood there for a long moment, eyes unreadable.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

You smiled faintly and didn’t answer.

His brows furrowed. The wind caught your hair, revealing a faint red mark near your neck, the Omega scent gland beneath cheap wool. The faint trace of cinnamon and rain drifted in the air, and it made him tense, irritated at himself for even noticing.

He looked at you once more, then suddenly turned and walked away. You thought he was just sulking again. You didn’t think much of it.

But the next day, when you were shivering at your corner, he came back.

This time, he carried a thick gray coat, new and warm looking, too nice for someone like him to afford. He threw it onto your lap.

“Wear it,” he muttered, voice rough. “If you get sick, who’s gonna sell me newspapers? You’re a pain in the ass.”

You blinked, startled, words catching in your throat.

“Don’t want it? Then toss it.” He cut you off, already turning to leave. But after a few steps, he came back, ruffled your hair, and said, almost too softly to hear,

“Stay warm.”

His hand was warm. Too warm.

You stared after him, heart twisting with something strange, a warmth that hurt. The coat smelled of new fabric and faint glue. When you looked closer, there was still a tag dangling from the collar.

He’d stolen it.

You couldn’t help but smile. That idiot. That stubborn reckless idiot.