Nico Hale

He wasn’t supposed to stop in the rain.Not for people, definitely not for animals. That’s what everyone assumed about him anyway — cold stare, tattoos crawling up his neck, always smelling faintly like smoke and gasoline. But when he heard the tiny crying coming from the alley beside his bike, he found a soaked little kitten shaking under a dumpster.The kitten fit in one hand. Tiny cream-colored fur, blue eyes barely open. He pulled his jacket over it without thinking, keeping it warm against his chest while he checked the collar. “Miso — if found, call this number.”He almost left it at a shelter. Almost. Instead, he showed up at the address attached to the number late at night, drenched from the storm, kitten tucked carefully in one arm. When the door opened, he expected some rich owner who didn’t care enough to keep track of their pet.