Riley walked through the familiar, dimly lit alleyways of his neighborhood. He stopped in front of his home—a cramped, one-story house tucked right next to a dead-end alley. It was a dangerous spot; the shadows of the dead-end were often used by thugs for "business," or as a place for drunkards to sleep off the night. It wasn't a good place to live, but they didn't have the money to move.
As Riley reached for his keys, a soft, familiar meow drifted from the darkness. He stopped and looked toward the alley. A white cat with jagged gray patches sat there, its eyes reflecting the faint streetlamp.
8
" Sorry kitty." Riley said his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. He knelt down. "I have nothing for you tonight. I had to leave my things in my locker at the bar... but I promise I wil buy you a treat tomorrow."
He reached out and patted the cat's head.
Riley had loved cats since childhood. He also had one when he was five, but it died due to an illness. After that, he never adopted another—first out of fear of loss, and later because he couldn't afford one.
Still, he loved them. Whenever his pockets allowed, he fed strays.
Riley had been feeding this particular cat for almost a year. At first, it had hissed at him and fled with the food clutched in its mouth. It took three months before it allowed him to touch it.
The cat nudged his hand one last time before darting back into the darkness of the alley.
Riley entered his house. The air inside felt heavy and smelled of old wood. Paint peeled from the walls like dead skin, and the ceiling bore the yellowish stains of old leaks. He kicked off his shoes and slid into his thin slippers.
It was a small open kitchen. On the left was a sink and a tiny fridge; on the right, a counter with a single stove. Outside the kitchen stood a small dining table with three mismatched chairs.
Riley opened the fridge. His gaze landed on a half-empty bottle of milk.
He poured some into a bowl and stepped back outside.
"Kitty," he called softly.
No response.
" Kitty, come out. Look I have brought some milk."
The cat was nowhere to be seen. Riley stepped further into the pitch-black alley. The alley was dark, barely lit. Trash cans lined the walls—places the cat often hid.
A faint, metallic scent reached his nose.
Blood.
There must have been a fight here earlier, Maybe that was why no thugs were around tonight.
He took another step forward.
His foot struck something near a trash can.
The bowl slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground as he fell to his knees. His palm brushed against something solid.
His breath hitched. It was a leg.
He fumbled for his phone and clicked on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, landing on a man's face.
Silver hair spilled down to his shoulders, framing pale skin flushed faintly with color. His eyes were closed, long lashes resting softly against his cheeks. A straight nose, gently parted red lips.
He was the most beautiful person Riley had ever seen.
Like a fallen angel.
Riley forgot to breathe.
Clank.
The sudden sound snapped him back to reality. He swung the light toward it, only to see the cat perched atop a trash can, looking down at them.
"Phew…" Riley exhaled shakily.
Turning the light back to the man, Riley noticed his clothes—black, clean, expensive. He looked in his early twenties.
There was no smell of alcohol.
So he's not drunk.
There were no visible injuries on his face, but—
"Hey," Riley whispered. "Wake up."
No response.
Hesitating, Riley placed a hand on the man's arm to shake him.
His fingers touched something wet and sticky.
He lifted his hand under the light.
Blood.
The man's arm was soaked beneath the black fabric. A narrow cut ran along his arm, already half-dried. Riley pressed his palm to the man's forehead.
Hot.
He has a fever.
The local clinic was long closed. Riley looked at the man's pale, expensive-looking face and knew he couldn't leave him here.
I'll take him home. Tomorrow, I'll take him to the hospital.
Riley wasn't the type to bring strangers home—but he couldn't leave an injured man in a dark alley.
What if someone took advantage of him?
He slipped one arm behind the man's back and the other beneath his legs, trying to lift him in a bridal carry.
Failed.
Despite his slender frame, the stranger was solid muscle and unexpectedly heavy.
With a strained groan, Riley hoisted the man onto his back, his muscles screaming as he hiked the stranger up.
Step by step, he carried him inside.
Passing the two bedrooms, Riley stopped at the door in the corner—the room that used to be storage, now his.
The space was tiny. A thin mattress lay against the wall, a small study table beside it. There was barely room to stand.
Riley carefully lowered the man onto the mattress, chest heaving from the effort.
He walked out and look at his brother room.
Thankfully his brother hadn't woken up.
He grabbed a small first aid kit from the kitchen and returned to the room. To treat the wound, he had to unbutton the black shirt.
As the fabric fell away, revealing a pale, firm chest, Riley felt his ears turn bright red. He quickly worked to disinfect the wound, applying antiseptic and wrapping the arm in clean white bandages.
Once the man was patched up and changed into a spare, oversized T-shirt, Riley stepped back. The stranger looked peaceful, his silver hair fanned out across Riley's only pillow.
The man's legs extended past the mattress. Riley removed his shoes and socks, placing a cushion beneath them.
The man's body covered the entire mattress.
Riley went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of cold water and a small towel.
He dipped the cloth into the bowl of cold water, squeezed it until it was just damp, and folded it carefully over the man's burning forehead. He sat on the floor in the narrow gap between the mattress and the study table, his back against the wall.
Every few minutes, he would refresh the towel. The man's breathing was shallow, his silver hair dampened by sweat and the stray droplets of water. Up close, without the harsh shadows of the alley, his beauty was even more staggering. He didn't belong in a room like this—surrounded by peeling paint and the scent of old wood.
Who are you? Riley wondered, his gaze lingering on the man's calm expression. Who would leave someone like you bleeding in a dead-end alley? He thought about the man's family. Somewhere, in a house probably as grand as the one Liam and Ethan lived in, people were likely panicking. But Riley had no way to call them; he hadn't found a phone on the man, and even if he had, he wouldn't dare pry into the stranger's private business.
Riley's head began to nod. He tried to blink himself awake.
Just for a second, he thought, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, right next to the man's hand.
Riley's eyes shut slowly. Exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep right there on the floor, his fingers inches away from the silver-haired stranger.