The pale light of dawn crept slowly across Riverbend, brushing the tops of the buildings in a muted lavender glow before spilling into the narrow alley where Kitt had curled himself through the night. The cold had seeped so deeply into his body that waking felt like dragging himself up from beneath a sheet of ice. His joints were stiff, fingers numb and swollen, the pads of his fingertips tinged with an alarming shade of red-blue that throbbed when he tried to flex them. For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. He simply lay there on the milk crate, spine aching, forehead resting on his knees, trying to convince himself that he was capable of standing.

His breath puffed in faint, uneven clouds. The alley smelled faintly of detergent from the laundromat dryer vent and motor oil from the shop beside it, scents that felt oddly comforting in their ordinariness. They reminded him that the world was continuing around him, that life in Riverbend had not halted for his heartbreak. Somewhere nearby, a store owner was lifting a metal grate, the harsh scrape slicing through the quiet. A pickup truck rattled down the street, its tires slushing over wet snow. A church bell chimed faintly in the distance.

Kitt finally forced his back to straighten, each movement a slow protest of frozen muscles. His clothes felt stiff, the fabric chilled through and damp from the melting snow that had drifted onto him during the night. When he stood—carefully, holding the wall for balance—the world dipped slightly, a brief wash of dizziness making him close his eyes until it subsided. His stomach clenched with a hollow ache that reminded him he hadn’t eaten since before the fight at home, and that had been barely a handful of pasta he hadn’t tasted because his nerves had already been fraying.

He rubbed his arms briskly for warmth, though it did little good, and pulled his backpack onto his shoulders. It felt heavier than it had the night before, as though the contents had doubled under the weight of what he now carried: fear, exhaustion, the unfamiliar shape of being alone. He stepped out of the alley slowly and blinked into the muted morning light, the snow beneath his shoes crunching softly.

Riverbend in daylight looked gentler than it had under the harshness of night. The old brick storefronts with their hand-painted signs, the narrow streets lined with lampposts topped with holiday wreaths left over from a festival—everything felt faintly quaint, worn but warm in a way he might have appreciated under different circumstances. But his hands hurt, his lips were dry and cracked, and the cold gnawed at his bones. He had no luxury to admire anything.

He walked toward the town square because it felt like the kind of place where people might gather, where warmth might be found, where he could blend into the morning hum without drawing attention. The square was waking up: a café owner sweeping snow off the steps, a delivery truck unloading crates, an elderly couple shuffling toward the bakery with linked arms. Kitt kept his head down, breathing into his sleeve when the wind picked up.

He paused outside the bakery, the window fogged from the heat inside. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the cracks in the door, so rich and warm that his stomach twisted violently in response. He pressed his gloved hands to the glass for a second, letting the heat seeping through it remind him what warmth felt like. But he didn’t go inside. He knew he couldn’t afford even the smallest pastry, not when he barely had a few crumpled bills left in his pocket.

Further down the street, a small café had its open sign turned to FACE THE DAY in cheerful handwriting. The lights inside were soft and inviting, casting a golden glow over the tables. For a fleeting moment, Kitt imagined stepping inside, wrapping his frozen hands around a steaming mug, sinking into a seat where no one knew him, where he could pretend he wasn’t shattered. But the thought crumbled as quickly as it formed.

He kept moving.

He found a bench at the edge of the square, brushed the thin layer of snow from it, and sat down slowly. His body curled instinctively for warmth, shoulders hunched and hands tucked under his arms. He watched the town move around him—people walking briskly to work, a teenager in a hoodie jogging across the street, a woman walking a dog that stopped to sniff everything in its path. No one paid him much attention.

For the first time since he’d fled his house, Kitt felt the full weight of what he’d lost press into him with suffocating clarity. He didn’t have a home. He didn’t have a phone. He didn’t know if his mother was crying or if Matt had gone to bed worried or if his father had locked the door behind him and pretended everything was fine. Every version of his life that had existed before last night had fallen away, leaving him with nothing but a backpack and a heart that felt bruised from the inside out.

He needed warmth.

He needed food.

He needed a plan.

The cold morning air stung his cheeks as he pushed himself back to his feet and walked toward the diner at the edge of the square—the same diner he and Matt had visited once, the same one he’d seen just the night before, its closing sign glowing faintly through the snow.

Now it was open, the door propped slightly ajar, a bell chiming softly each time someone stepped inside. The smell of bacon and coffee drifted toward him like a siren call.

He hesitated only a moment before walking in, hoping the heat inside might thaw him enough to think.

The bell above the diner door jingled softly as Kitt stepped inside, and the blast of warmth hit him so suddenly it almost hurt. Heat sank into his frozen skin with a sharp sting, and for a second he simply stood there, blinking against the fog of warmth rising from his clothes. The diner smelled of bacon grease, coffee, and something sweet—pancakes or syrup—and the scent curled through him so powerfully that his knees nearly buckled from the weight of longing.

A waitress glanced up from behind the counter, her hair graying at the temples, her apron dusted with flour. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment—on his pale cheeks, the stiff way he held himself, the thin jacket that wasn’t meant for winter—and something soft flickered through her expression, though she kept her voice carefully neutral.

“Sit where you like, hon.”

Kitt murmured a quiet thank you and slipped into the farthest booth he could find, the one near the window where he could remain half-hidden behind a plant that had clearly seen better days. The cushion was torn near the edge, but the warmth beneath his legs felt like heaven. His fingers tingled painfully as they thawed; pins and needles raced up his arms, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping.

For several minutes, he just sat there, trying to soak in the heat, hoping the feeling would reach his bones. The window beside him began to fog with his breath, blurring the view of the snowy street outside. Part of him wished—desperately—that he could stay right here all morning, tucked safely in this booth where no one questioned him, where the air was warm and the smells reminded him of every diner trip he’d shared with Matt after practice.

But warmth came with rules.

The waitress eventually approached with a small notepad in hand. Up close, she looked tired—like someone who had worked too many early shifts—but her voice gentled a little as she spoke.

“What’ll it be?”

Kitt froze.

He hadn’t expected to get this far. He hadn’t expected anyone to talk to him like a real customer. His throat tightened; his voice snagged somewhere between fear and shame. He wanted to tell her he was fine, that he’d eat later, that he wasn’t hungry—but the lie caught in his throat because he was hungry. Starving, actually.

His hands tightened under the table.

“I…” he tried, voice cracking. “I’m not… I can’t— I don’t have—”

His words fell apart. His shame rose around him like a cold tide.

The waitress didn’t sigh, didn’t scowl. She only pressed her lips together for a beat, then nodded as if she understood more than he had said.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “You warm up a bit, then.”

He nodded quickly, head bowed, face burning.

But warmth wasn’t free, not really. Not when someone needed the booth for paying customers.

After ten minutes of pretending to scroll through a phone he didn’t even have, he knew he couldn’t stay longer without making things worse. So he scooted out of the booth, murmured a quiet apology to the waitress—she waved it off with a tired smile—and headed for the door.

Just as he reached it, a voice called softly behind him.

“Hey.”

He turned.

A busboy—maybe nineteen, hair pulled up under a cap—was wiping down a table near the door. He didn’t look directly at Kitt, just held out a folded napkin without ceremony.

“Take it.”

Kitt hesitated, but the boy gently nudged the napkin toward him.

Inside was half a muffin—blueberry, warm enough that steam still curled off the top.

His throat tightened painfully.

“Th-thank you,” Kitt whispered.

The boy shrugged, keeping his gaze down. “Just eat it before the boss sees. And don’t make a habit of looking freezing at our door. People talk.”

It wasn’t cruel, just blunt. Maybe even kind in a rough-edged way.

Kitt nodded, tugged up his hood, and stepped back into the cold.

He ate the muffin slowly as he walked, savoring each bite even though his hands shook. The sugar hit his bloodstream almost instantly, making his head swim. His body, starved since yesterday, wanted more. Anything.

But there was nothing more to give.

He wandered through Riverbend, trying to map the town through the soft white haze of morning snow. His eyes caught on every storefront window, every HELP WANTED sign taped to doors, every place that might offer warmth or money or even a moment’s rest.

He began trying them one by one.

At the hardware store, the elderly owner frowned at him before he even finished asking.

“No minors. Liability.”

At the convenience store, the clerk didn’t bother raising her head.

“Need a permit. Come back when you’re eighteen.”

At a tiny boutique thrift shop, a woman looked him up and down, her eyes flicking briefly to his backpack.

“We’re fine. And we don’t keep cash in the register.”

He hadn’t asked for cash. He hadn’t even stepped inside. But the implication stung.

He tried a laundromat next. The owner, a weary man in flannel, glanced at him and simply shook his head.

“Kid, you look like you need help, not work.”

Kitt stepped back into the cold, shame curling hot under his frostbitten skin.

His stomach growled loudly enough that a passing mother looked over sharply, tugging her child a little closer as if instinctively wary of a teenage boy in a dirty jacket with hollow eyes. Kitt felt his face burn, but he didn’t blame her. He knew what he looked like. He could feel it in the way people stared just a moment too long before glancing away.

By late morning, the cold had seeped into every part of him again, even the deepest parts the diner’s brief warmth had reached. His legs ached, his fingers hurt, and exhaustion pulled at him every time he slowed his pace. He was almost ready to sit on the curb just to rest when the smell of warm spices drifted through the air.

He looked up.

Across the street was a small Mexican restaurant—bright colors painted around the windows, strings of lights still hanging from the roof even in winter. The kitchen door was propped open, letting out a wash of heat and the scent of simmering meat and fresh tortillas. Laughter drifted from inside—soft, relaxed, genuine.

A young man stood behind the counter, wiping down the surface with a cloth, humming something low under his breath. His hair was tucked under a backward cap, his sleeves rolled up, a faint smile curling his mouth as he worked.

Kitt’s breath caught without explanation.

He didn’t know who the guy was.

He didn’t know this restaurant.

He didn’t know why he paused.

But something about the warmth spilling through that open door made his frozen body lean toward it instinctively.

He didn’t approach. He wasn’t brave enough yet. His pride and fear were still too raw.

He simply lingered for a few seconds—just long enough to feel the heat brush his face—then forced himself to move on.

A block later, he saw a handwritten cardboard sign taped inside a fogged window:

ROOM FOR RENT — CHEAP

It hung slightly crooked, like it had been there for years.

As he approached, a woman stepped out onto the front stoop, a cigarette dangling between two fingers. Her dyed red hair frizzed around her head like she’d slept on it wet, and her robe didn’t quite close in the front. She looked Kitt over with sharp, calculating eyes.

“You looking?” she asked, blowing smoke to the side.

Kitt swallowed. “I… maybe. How much?”

She named a number that was almost all he had left.

“It’s cash only,” she added before he could respond. “No exceptions. No complaining. No noise after ten. No visitors unless they pay rent. And you pay every week or you’re out. Don’t care if you got nowhere else to go.”

Her voice held no cruelty—just the blunt edge of someone who’d learned survival didn’t wait for kindness.

Kitt hesitated. The cold wind whipped past his ears, slicing through his clothes like knives.

“Can I see it?” he asked quietly.

She nodded toward a narrow staircase. “Second floor. Last door.”

The room was small, drafty, with peeling wallpaper and a bare mattress that sagged in the middle. But it had a door that locked. It had walls. It had a roof.

It was more than the alley.

It was more than nothing.

He handed over the money.

When she left him alone with the keys dangling from his fingers, Kitt shut the door gently behind her and sank onto the mattress. The springs creaked under his weight. The air was cold enough that he could see his breath, and the window rattled every time the wind shifted. But he was indoors. The numbness in his fingers began to ease. The panic in his chest loosened just enough that he could breathe again.

He set his backpack beside him and pulled out the muffin the busboy had given him earlier. Half remained. He ate it slowly, savoring every crumb.

When he finished, he curled onto the mattress, pulling his knees toward his chest.

His eyes stung.

His throat tightened.

The tears came quietly—soft, restrained, the kind born from exhaustion rather than despair.

He whispered one name, barely audible in the empty room.

“Matt…”

It trembled through the cold air like a confession.

Outside, faint and distant, he heard laughter and the clatter of dishes drifting from the Mexican restaurant down the street—the warmth he had walked past, the place where his next chapter would begin without him yet knowing it.

Kitt closed his eyes, his body aching, his heart bruised, and let the exhaustion pull him under.

For the first time since running, he slept.

. . .

Kitt woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway—heavy, uneven, dragging across the worn floorboards.

At first he didn’t recognize where he was. His brain surfaced slowly, as if from underwater, and for a few disoriented seconds all he could feel was stiffness. His back ached sharply from sleeping curled on the thin mattress, and one of his legs had gone numb in the night. The room was cold enough that the air burned against his nose when he inhaled. Pale morning light seeped through the thin curtains, outlining the peeling wallpaper and the cracked electrical outlet that hummed faintly in the corner. It took a moment before memory struck him all at once—the fight, the snow, the bus, Riverbend, the alley, the landlady.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hands together, trying to bring sensation back into them. His stomach tightened with a hollow ache that made him fold forward instinctively; hunger came in waves, each one sharper than the last. He didn’t know when he had last eaten a full meal. The half muffin from yesterday felt like a dream.

The mattress springs creaked beneath him as he forced himself to stand. He pulled on his jacket, zipped it up to his chin, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He didn’t have a plan—just a list of necessities in his mind, vague and overwhelming:

Warmth.

Food.

Money.

Something stable.

Something safe.

And maybe, though he couldn’t admit it even silently, a flicker of hope that he might hear news of Matt—that somehow, impossibly, Matt was looking for him, thinking of him, missing him. But that hope was too painful to hold for long, so he buried it beneath more immediate needs.

He stepped outside into the cold, bracing himself against the wind. Riverbend was brighter now, its morning rhythm beginning; shopkeepers unlocking doors, people carrying paper cups of steaming coffee, children trudging toward school with backpacks heavier than they were. Kitt kept his head down as he walked, not wanting to attract attention, but he knew he already looked like someone on the edge—eyes tired, clothes rumpled, steps unsteady.

He headed toward the square again, if only because it felt like the center of the world here, the one place where all roads eventually crossed. His stomach clenched painfully when he passed the bakery, the smell of fresh bread drifting outside, richer and sweeter than anything he’d tasted in weeks. He took a step forward instinctively but stopped himself. Even a roll would cost more than he could spare.

He pushed on.

A coffee cart near the corner drew a small line of locals, and for a moment Kitt considered hovering nearby just for the warmth radiating off the brewing machine. But the barista caught his gaze and offered a stiff, polite smile tinged with suspicion, and that alone made Kitt turn away before the pity or questions could start.

He wandered from one storefront to another, reading HELP WANTED signs with increasing desperation. Each door led to another disappointment:

A deli where the manager shook his head before Kitt even finished asking. A bookstore where the owner explained he wasn't hiring “for someone your age… or in your situation,” whatever that meant. A pet shop where the woman simply said, “Try somewhere else, sweetheart,” and offered nothing more. A small print shop where the man inside looked him over once and muttered, “Not today.”

The rejections built on one another, forming a heaviness that settled deep in Kitt’s chest. Every no made him feel more transparent, more breakable, like he had become someone people saw right through. Someone who didn’t belong.

By midday, the cold had burrowed under his skin, and he felt lightheaded again. His body screamed for food, but his pride—still raw, still aching from last night’s humiliation—made him hesitate to ask for help. He needed something, anything, to keep himself upright.

He passed the same Mexican restaurant from yesterday—the one with the bright windows and warm smells. The door was open again, letting out a wave of heat. A radio played softly inside, the upbeat rhythm drifting onto the street with the scent of grilled meat and warm tortillas. He paused without meaning to, drawn to the warmth like a moth to flame.

And that’s when the door swung open wider, and a young man stepped out carrying a plastic garbage bag in one hand. He was the same guy Kitt had seen yesterday, though somehow even more vivid in daylight—short dark hair tucked under a backward cap, warm brown skin, a few tattoos curling along one forearm, a fitted T-shirt that suggested he spent time in a gym. His eyes were dark, expressive, and half-lidded with morning exhaustion.

Mateo.

Kitt didn’t know his name yet, but something about him hit with quiet force—his ease, his confidence, the way he filled the space around him like it belonged to him.

Mateo didn’t notice Kitt at first. He set the garbage bag aside, shook out his hands, stretching his shoulders as he exhaled sharply. Then he spotted Kitt lingering near the sidewalk, half-turned as if prepared to flee the second anyone looked at him.

A flicker of something—confusion, maybe curiosity—crossed Mateo’s face.

“You okay there?” he called out, voice warm, low, carrying easily across the cold air.

Kitt froze, his breath catching. His instinct was to retreat, to apologize, to bolt the way a startled deer would when spotted too close to a trail. He shook his head quickly, eyes dropping to the ground.

“I—I’m fine,” he murmured, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Mateo took a couple of steps closer, not enough to crowd him, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t brushing him off. He studied Kitt for a beat—his too-thin jacket, the tired slump of his shoulders, the way he clutched his backpack as if it were armor.

“You don’t look fine,” Mateo said bluntly, but not unkindly.

Kitt swallowed hard. He wasn’t used to people seeing through him in a glance. It made him feel too exposed, too naked in the cold.

“I’m just… looking around,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mateo nodded slowly, the air fogging softly from his breath. “Yeah? You hanging around town for a while?”

Kitt hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how much truth he could afford to share.

Before he could answer, his stomach growled—loudly, embarrassingly, echoing in the quiet morning air.

He felt his face flush hot.

Mateo’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hold on,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He disappeared into the restaurant.

Kitt blinked, alarmed, unsure whether he should stay or run—but his legs felt too heavy to move.

A moment later, Mateo returned holding a warm paper-wrapped package.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into Kitt’s hands before he could protest. “Breakfast burrito. Don’t make it weird.”

Kitt stared at the package, steam curling out of the edges, the smell so overwhelming he felt dizzy. His throat tightened painfully.

“I can’t pay—”

“I didn’t ask,” Mateo cut in. “Eat before you pass out.”

Kitt’s fingers trembled around the warm paper.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words cracking like something fragile slipping from him as tears welled in his eyes.

Mateo gave a small shrug. “We open at noon if you need a place to warm up later. Just… don’t stand outside like you’ve got nowhere to go.”

Kitt didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All he could do was hold the warm food against his palms, feeling the heat seep into him like a gift he didn’t deserve.

Mateo headed back inside, humming again as the door swung shut behind him.

Kitt sank onto the curb, the burrito warm against his freezing hands, his eyes stinging in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

For the first time in two days, he wasn’t starving.

For the first time in two days, someone saw him and didn’t look away.

He didn’t know who that boy was.

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow.

He didn’t know how long he could keep running.

But for now—for this moment—he ate, warmth filling his chest in small, careful breaths.

And somewhere deep inside, a tiny ember of hope flickered awake.

. . .

The burrito warmed him from the inside slowly, like a flame coaxed back to life after being nearly extinguished. Kitt ate it in small bites, sitting on the curb outside the restaurant, his hands trembling as the heat seeped into his fingers. He didn’t rush. He couldn’t. Each bite felt like it steadied him a little—easing the shakiness in his limbs, softening the hollow ache in his stomach, nudging him just far enough from the edge that he could breathe without the sharp pinch of panic rising.

By the time he finished, the snow had stopped falling and a thin sunlight filtered weakly through the clouds, softening the harsh edges of Riverbend’s winter morning. Kitt wiped his hands on his jeans and stood slowly, feeling more like himself than he had since the night he fled Lakehurst. The world still felt overwhelming—too big, too unfamiliar, too uncertain—but the warmth in his stomach gave him enough strength to take another step.

He started walking again, wandering the streets with no destination except movement. He knew he couldn’t waste the day. Food required money. Money required work. And if he wanted to keep the room he’d rented from the landlady, he needed to find a way to earn enough to survive the week.

He passed a few more shops he hadn’t tried yet—an antique store that smelled faintly of dust and cedar, a barber shop already full of men in winter coats waiting for their turn, a small hardware supply outlet with a handwritten sign that read NO OPEN POSITIONS. Each time Kitt slowed, considered going in, and kept walking when his pride shrank his courage back down.

He knew he had to try. Eventually.

Just not yet. Not when the last rejection still clung to him like frost.

His feet carried him without conscious direction, and when he finally looked up again, he realized he was back near the Mexican restaurant. A few customers lingered outside waiting for the lunch hour to start, steaming breaths curling upward. The warmth from the open door reached him even from across the street, and he could hear the faint clatter of pans from inside.

He hesitated.

He didn’t want to seem desperate.

He didn’t want Mateo to think he was hovering.

But he wasn’t sure where else to go.

Before he could turn away, the door opened again and Mateo stepped out, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. He spotted Kitt immediately and shook his head with a half-smile, the kind that said he wasn’t surprised to see him lingering nearby.

“You’re back,” he said, amusement woven through his voice.

Kitt flushed and glanced away. “I’m just… walking.”

Mateo snorted softly. “Yeah. Sure. Everybody ‘just walks’ in twenty-degree weather.”

Kitt opened his mouth to protest, but the look Mateo gave him—light, teasing, but perceptive—made the words evaporate. Instead, he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, suddenly aware of how pathetic he probably looked.

Mateo’s expression softened.

“You got a place to stay?” he asked, tone casual but eyes sharp.

Kitt nodded. “Yeah. A room. Upstairs from this lady who… rents stuff.”

“That narrows it down to half the town,” Mateo deadpanned. “But good. Better than nothing.”

He leaned against the doorframe, breath fogging the air as he studied Kitt with a thoughtful frown.

“You looking for work?” Mateo asked.

Kitt stiffened. “I… yeah. I tried a few places. They weren’t hiring. Or they, um—” He hesitated, not wanting to admit how some had looked at him like a risk or a thief or simply an unwanted problem. “It didn’t work out.”

Mateo let out a low hum, considering this. Then he jerked his chin toward the inside of the restaurant.

“We might need help,” he said. “Like… might. My cousin is supposed to work afternoons but he flakes a lot, and the dinner rush can get insane. You ever worked in a restaurant?”

Kitt shook his head quickly. “No. I mean—no. But I can learn. I’m quick. I’m—”

“You clean?” Mateo interrupted, brow raised. “Reliable?”

Kitt swallowed. “I can be.”

“You willing to do the boring stuff? Dishes, restocking, mopping, scrubbing grills?”

“Anything,” Kitt said, and the word came too fast, too sharp, more desperate than he meant—but true.

Mateo didn’t flinch at the desperation. If anything, it seemed to settle something in his mind.

“All right,” he said, pushing off the doorframe with easy confidence. “Come in. Boss is in a decent mood today. If he likes you, you’ll start tonight.”

Kitt blinked. “Just… like that?”

Mateo shrugged. “We’re not exactly fancy hiring material here. You show up, do the work, don’t piss anyone off—that’s enough. By the way, I’m Mateo.”

“Kitt,” he offered his hands.

“Come with me, Kitt.”

Kitt stepped closer, steeling himself as Mateo held the door open. The warmth hit him immediately, washing over his chilled skin in a wave so soothing it almost made his knees buckle. The inside of the restaurant was small, colorful, loud with music and chatter from the kitchen. It smelled like grilled corn, citrus, and warm spices. It reminded Kitt of summers, of laughter, of places where people lived fully.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed all of that until now.

Mateo nodded toward a man behind the counter—mid-forties, tall, with a kind of stern face softened by deep laugh lines.

“That’s Javier,” Mateo whispered. “My uncle. Don’t worry—he barks more than he bites.”

As if on cue, Javier turned, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed Kitt from head to toe. Mateo stepped forward, clapping a hand on Kitt’s shoulder.

“This is the kid I told you about. His name is Kitt,” he said. “He’s looking for work.”

Kitt stiffened under the weight of the man’s gaze, trying not to look too fragile, too cold, too desperate. He straightened his back and folded his hands to keep them from shaking.

Javier grunted. “You got experience?”

“No,” Kitt admitted, voice steady even though his heart wasn’t. “But I’m willing to work. I learn fast.”

Mateo gave an approving nod, subtly urging Javier with a look.

Javier sighed, wiping his hands on a towel. “We’ll see. Grab an apron. Mateo will show you the dish station. If you don’t break anything in the first hour, we’ll talk schedule.”

Kitt’s breath caught.

“Really?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Javier warned, though his voice held more kindness than threat.

Kitt nodded quickly—maybe too quickly—and a warmth bloomed in his chest that wasn’t from the heaters or the spices or the steam rising from the kitchen. There was something profoundly grounding about being allowed in. About being given a chance. About being seen as someone capable of contributing, not just someone to avoid.

Mateo tossed him an apron with a grin. “Welcome to the glamorous world of kitchen work. Try not to die.”

Kitt let out a small laugh—weak, but real—and tied the apron around his waist. It felt like the first step toward something steady, however fragile.

For the first time since leaving Lakehurst, he felt the tiniest spark of control over his life. A thread of survival, thin but intact.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath layers of exhaustion and fear, something else flickered awake:

Hope.