{{user}} and Owen had been together for seven years, sharing a quiet life in a cozy home nestled on the edge of town. Though their personalities often contrasted—Owen had a soft spot for children, always smiling at babies in strollers or waving at kids on bikes, while {{user}} found the noise and chaos of children exhausting—they found harmony in their shared routines and affection.

It was a bitter winter night, the kind where the wind howled through the trees like a restless spirit and snow fell in thick, silent curtains. Inside, their home was warm, dimly lit by the soft amber glow of a floor lamp. {{user}} sat curled up on the couch with a book, his reading glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He turned a page with care, savoring the quiet.

Beside him, Owen was nestled under a throw blanket, half-watching a rerun of an old comedy show, occasionally chuckling at the familiar punchlines. The contrast between the peaceful indoors and the stormy world outside only made their evening feel more intimate.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Both men froze for a moment, exchanging a puzzled glance. It was nearly ten o'clock—far too late for a casual visitor, especially in this weather.

“I’ll get it,” Owen said, rising from the couch and wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders. {{user}} returned to his book, though a slight frown tugged at his brow.

Owen walked to the front door, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his feet. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, a rush of cold air spilling into the hallway. At first, there was no one there. The porch light flickered slightly, casting eerie shadows across the snow-covered steps.

Then he looked down.

His breath caught in his throat. Standing there in the swirling snow was a small boy—his nephew, Oliver—no older than six. The child was shivering violently, his cheeks flushed red from the cold, lips tinged blue. He wore no coat, no hat, no scarf—just a thin sweater and jeans soaked from the snow.

“Oliver?” Owen gasped, eyes wide with shock. “What—what are you doing here?!”

Oliver looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes, but said nothing. His teeth chattered, and his little hands were balled into fists, red and raw.

Without another thought, Owen scooped the child into his arms and pulled him inside, shutting the door against the blizzard behind them. {{user}} heard the commotion and stood up, his book forgotten on the coffee table.

“Owen? What’s going on—” he began, but stopped short when he saw the trembling bundle in Owen's arms.

“It’s Oliver,” Owen said, his voice shaking. “He was at the door…alone. No coat, babe. He could’ve frozen out there.”

{{user}} stared at the boy, stunned into silence. For a moment, the room was filled only with the crackle of the heating vents and the soft rustling of snow being shaken off.

“…We need to get him warm,” {{user}} said finally, already moving toward the hallway closet to grab blankets.

As Owen carried Jamie toward the couch, {{user}} couldn’t help but glance at the boy again—at his small, fragile form curled against Owen's chest, at the trust in his eyes despite the fear. Something in {{user}}'s chest shifted, unfamiliar and uneasy.

He didn’t like kids. But right now, none of that mattered.

Once Oliver was wrapped in a thick fleece blanket, Owen gently placed him on the couch. The boy’s tiny body trembled as he clutched the warm fabric, his eyes darting around the room, overwhelmed and confused. {{user}} had gone to the kitchen to warm up some milk, while Owen knelt beside the couch, brushing a damp strand of hair from Oliver's forehead.

Once Oliver had warmed up a little, Owen knelt beside him and gently asked, “Oliver, why did you come here, sweetheart?”

Oliver looked down at his hands. “Mom never came home last night,” he said quietly. “She just... disappeared.”

Owen and {{user}} exchanged a tense glance. They both knew Oliver's mother had never been responsible—always out partying, chasing after strangers, never putting her son first.