Promises in winter

The cold presses hard against the windows, creeping through the cracks in the old walls like an unwelcome guest. It sinks into their bones, making it impossible to feel warm no matter how close they sit to the stove.

In the small kitchen, the stove glows weakly, offering what little heat it can. Paisley stands at the counter, peeling cabbage leaves with quick, practiced hands. Her movements are smooth but mechanical, as if she's done this a thousand times. It isn't that she minds the task—it's just easier to focus on the work than on her thoughts.

Adrian shifts on the floor by the stove, huddled close to the warmth. His cheeks are flushed, either from the fire or the cold that still clings to him.

"Paisley," he calls, his voice soft and tentative, as though he's not sure if he should speak.

She glances over her shoulder, finding him sitting cross-legged, arms wrapped around his knees.

"It's freezing," he says. "Don't catch a cold."

Paisley sighs. "Then get off the floor. Sit on the stool."

Adrian's eyes brighten, and he clambers onto the stool she drags closer to the stove. He sits quietly for a moment, watching her work in the stillness of the room.

"When I grow up, I'll take care of you," he says suddenly, his voice filled with childlike certainty. "Because we're family."

Paisley pauses, her hands stilling over the cabbage. She turns to look at him, tilting her head slightly as if trying to figure out what prompted the promise. Family. The word sounds strange to her. How could a boy with a mind trapped between childhood and adolescence promise to take care of anyone?

But the look in his eyes makes it clear—he means it. There's no hesitation, no doubt, only quiet determination.

She doesn't know how to respond. So she just gives him a small nod and turns back to her work.

"Can I help?" Adrian asks, leaning forward eagerly.

Paisley hesitates. Adrian's help usually makes things harder, but the hopeful look on his face makes it impossible to say no. She picks up a cabbage and shows him how to peel the outer leaves, then reaches for the knife to trim them.

Just as she's about to hand it to him, her phone buzzes on the counter.

Paisley's expression shifts the moment she sees the caller ID, a flicker of warmth crossing her face. She picks up the phone quickly, leaving Adrian alone with the cabbage.

"Mr. Baxter! Hi," she says, her voice soft and pleased in a way Adrian has never heard before.

His heart sinks, his hands gripping the cabbage tighter. She never sounds that happy when she talks to him.

Adrian stares at the knife she left on the counter. Without thinking, he grabs it and stabs it into the cabbage. The dull thud echoes through the kitchen, but it does nothing to ease the tight knot forming in his chest.

In the other room, Paisley sits at her desk with a pen in hand, scribbling notes in her notebook.

"Adrian is seventeen, but he's behind," she explains quietly. "His home life was abusive, so he never got the chance to go to school properly. He struggles with basic things."

"Do you think he might be autistic?" Mr. Baxter asks.

"I don't think so," Paisley replies, rubbing her forehead. "I think it's just trauma. He's emotionally shut down and still figuring things out."

Mr. Baxter hums thoughtfully. "We have a trade school for kids like him—orphans, runaways, or anyone who's fallen through the cracks. We teach basic education and practical skills to help them get back on their feet."

"That sounds perfect," Paisley says, glancing at the rough schedule she's drawn. "How far is the school?"

"Not far. I'll send you the address. We don't charge upfront, but we do ask families to contribute if they can."

"Okay. How much?"

"With the sliding scale, it's about 6000 dollars a year," he answers. "That covers meals, supplies, and materials.Transport and of course medical services! For children like Adrian, we provide extra facilities such as socializing with new people, art and crafts, music, interests. A lot of things. You can choose anything for him."

Paisley's heart sinks. She pulls open the drawer and takes out a small box, peeling back the rubber band on a neat stack of cash. Fifteen thousand dollars. It feels like a fortune to her, but spread over several years, it's not nearly enough. She saved them to finish her own study.

Adrian's mother left some money but it is not enough to make it through. She can't pay everything all together. What if some emergency comes up and she has no money like she doesn't have right now.

She bites her lip, hating what she has to ask. "Could I pay it in installments? Maybe 3000 thousand a year, split across semesters?"

"Of course. Many families do the same," Mr. Baxter says kindly. "Pay what you can, when you can. We'll make it work."

Paisley exhales, relief loosening the tightness in her chest. "Okay. I'll do it."

But it's another emotionally exhausting thought about how she will manage to save 500$ dollars every month? She can't get a loan either– she is an Omega with no support.

"Great. Just try teaching him some basics before he starts so he won't feel too overwhelmed. The next semester will start next fall!"

"Got it. Thanks, Mr. Baxter."

She hangs up the phone and walks back into the kitchen.

Adrian is still sitting on the stool, the knife awkwardly lodged in the cabbage. His shoulders are hunched, and his brows are furrowed in frustration.

"Adrian!" Paisley says sharply, rushing over to pull the knife from his hands. "You'll hurt yourself."

"I just wanted to help," he mutters, his voice low and sulky.

Paisley softens. "You can help," she says gently. She grabs a pair of gloves and hands him a bowl of Persian cucumbers. "Rub salt on these, like this."

She shows him, her hands moving with ease.

Adrian watches her closely, his frustration easing into quiet concentration. "Like this?" he asks, rubbing the salt carefully over a cucumber.

"Exactly. Just make sure it's even."

They work side by side, the quiet hum of the stove filling the space between them. For the first time in a long while, Adrian feels like he's part of something—not just a burden or an afterthought.

He steals glances at Paisley as she moves around the kitchen, her hands steady and sure. She seems to know how to do everything—how to keep things running, how to survive.

And she's letting him stay.

A warmth spreads in his chest, unfamiliar but welcome. He clenches his hands around the cucumber, a silent promise forming in his heart.

One day, he'll take care of her. Just like he said.

Even if she never smiles at him the way she does for others.

" You are going to school next Fall!" She says, while making the brine.

" What? Am I really going to school?" He jumps on his spot, " Can I make lots of friends?"

" Yes!" She says softly.

" Yay!!!" He hugs him from behind, excited. " Thank you, Paisley!"

" Don't worry about anything! What do you want for dinner?" She asks, while washing some cucumbers to put it will cabbages.

" Sandwich."

" Sandwich?" She hums a bit, " We got some Tuna. What about making Tuna mayo sandwiches?"

" Is it tasty?" He asks, looking so excited.

" You can tell once you eat. Let's finish it first, ok?"

He nods constantly, drooling.

Meanwhile,

The door creaks open under the weight of a heavy boot, and three men dressed in black step inside the cramped two-room apartment. The stench of mildew, stale food, and neglect hits them like a wall. One of them grimaces, covering his nose with the sleeve of his coat.

"Damn. Smells like a morgue," one mutters, scanning the dim, dingy room.

The apartment is a mess—clothes strewn across the floor, empty bottles kicked into corners, and a cracked ceiling that threatens to crumble. A broken heater in the corner wheezes weakly, failing to ward off the chill.

The first man, tall and lean, pulls out a flashlight and sweeps it over the surroundings. No sign of life. Just rotting leftovers on the table and piles of tattered blankets thrown haphazardly over a sunken mattress.

"Looks like someone left in a hurry," the second man says, his voice low and raspy. He flips over a chair with the toe of his boot, revealing nothing but dust and a scurrying cockroach.

The third man—older, broader, with scars marking his knuckles—steps further into the apartment. He narrows his eyes at the closed door to the second room. Without waiting, he kicks it open.

The room is just as lifeless as the first. A cracked window lets in the faint hum of city traffic from below. The bed is unmade, stained sheets tangled in a corner. No sign of the boy they are looking for.

"Adrian's not here," the first man says flatly, frustration lacing his tone. "Damn kid's slippery."

"He couldn't have gone far," the second one adds. "There's no way he can make it out there alone."

The older man turns slowly, his cold gaze landing on the only other occupant in the apartment—a man sitting calmly in a rickety chair, legs crossed, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

This man is in sharp contrast to the squalor around him. He's dressed in a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous calm. He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them before exhaling a plume of smoke.

"Where is he?" the older man asks, his voice low and heavy with threat.

The man in the suit chuckles softly, tapping ash into a cracked cup on the table. "I was wondering when you'd come knocking," he says, his voice smooth, too self-assured for a man surrounded by filth.

"We're not here to play games." The first man steps forward, his hand twitching toward the gun at his side.

The man in the suit raises a brow, completely unfazed. "Relax. You're in no position to make demands. Not here."

The older man clenches his jaw. "We know Adrian was staying here. Where is he now?"

"Gone," the man replies, flicking the cigarette aside. "And if you had half a brain, you'd leave him alone.You should have taken him in once you killed his mother!"

The second man sneers. "You think you can protect him? A kid like that won't last long. Sooner or later, we'll find him."

The man in the suit leans back in his chair, his gaze cold and calculating. "You're underestimating him. And me."

The third man takes a step closer, his presence looming. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But it won't mean much when we bring the heat down on you."

The man in the suit smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Let me give you a piece of advice," he says quietly. "You walk out of here now, and you forget you ever came looking for that boy. Because if you don't…"

He trails off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air like smoke.

The men exchange uneasy glances. The older one narrows his eyes, weighing the odds. He knows the man in front of him isn't someone to cross lightly. The calm demeanor, the confidence—it all screams connections, power, and something far worse than the mess they've already stepped into.

After a tense moment, the older man gives a curt nod. "This isn't over."

The man in the suit smirks. "No, it isn't. But if you're smart, you'll let it be."

With that, the three men retreat, the door slamming shut behind them.

The man in the suit watches the door for a moment, the smirk slowly fading from his face. He pulls another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with a flick of his lighter.

Adrian may be gone for now, but trouble is on his heels. And the man in the suit knows it's only a matter of time before it catches up.

He leans back in the chair, smoke curling around him like shadows, waiting for the storm that's bound to follow.