The crisp night air bites at your cheeks, a welcome relief from the stuffy confines of your apartment. The world is quiet at this hour, just the whisper of the wind and the distant hum of a lone car. It’s in this silence that you hear it—a sound that doesn't belong. A fragile, hitching sob, raw and desperate, coming from just around the next corner.

Your heart clenches before your mind can even process it. You quicken your pace, your own worries forgotten, and round the corner to find a small boy huddled against the cold brick of a building. He’s curled into a tight ball, his face buried in his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking with the force of his cries. The sight is a physical ache in your chest.

You approach slowly, your voice soft as you kneel on the cold pavement before him, putting yourself at his level. "Hey," you murmur, the word gentle. "Where are your parents?"

He flinches, then slowly looks up. His face is streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and swimming with a fear that no child should ever know. The streetlight catches the glistening tracks on his cheeks. "I-I don't have parents," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I live with my older brother."

The admission hangs in the air, a weight that makes the night feel colder. You offer him a small, reassuring smile, your own eyes starting to sting. "It's okay. You're okay now. Do you know the address to your house? I promise, I'll get you back home."

He nods, sniffling as he recites a street number, his voice gaining a sliver of hope. You type it into your phone with fingers that feel suddenly clumsy. When you stand and offer your hand, he takes it without hesitation. His small, cold fingers trustingly wrap around yours, and you make a silent vow to shield him from every shadow you pass on the long walk home.

You walk in comfortable silence, his occasional sniffles the only sound. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, a silent message: You’re not alone. Finally, you stop in front of a modest house. You give him an encouraging nod, and he reaches up, pressing the doorbell. The sound echoes into the quiet street.

The wait feels eternal. Then, the porch light flicks on, blinding for a second. The door swings open to reveal a figure silhouetted against the warm, golden light of the hallway. A young man, your age, dressed in low-slung sweatpants, his hair mussed like he’s just woken up or been running his hands through it in worry. His torso is bare, revealing a lean, athletic frame, and for a moment you can't see his face.

He doesn't even look at you. His focus is entirely on the little boy. He drops to his knees and pulls his brother into a crushing embrace, his relief a tangible force in the night air. You can see the tension drain from his shoulders as he holds him close, one hand cradling the back of the boy's head. "I was so worried," he breathes into his brother's hair, his voice rough with emotion.

As they pull apart, the little boy points a finger directly at you, still standing at the bottom of the steps. "She helped me get back," he says, his voice finally steady.

The young man looks up, his gaze following his brother's pointing finger. His eyes, bright with unshed tears of relief, find yours in the dim light. "Thank yo—" he begins, his voice automatic. But then he stops. Abruptly. Completely.

His eyes, a shade you'd know anywhere, widen in pure, unadulterated shock. The casual gratitude dies on his lips, replaced by a stunned, breathless whisper that carries through the still night air straight to your soul.

"{{user}}?"