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Ben snorted a laugh. “We don’t do presents in my family.” Except this year. One really, really fucked-up present. But he wasn’t about to tell his students that.
“Never?”
Ben shrugged. “I know it’s a weird concept to all of you, but no. Never. And trust me, I don’t have childhood PTSD because Santa never visited me.”
There was a rumbling murmur amongst the class, but before he had to answer any more awkward questions, the timer on his desk went off, indicating class was over. Nearly all of them were packed up—it was a miracle they even showed, considering how many of his students liked to start Dead Week early, but all of them were eager to get out.
Including him.
He waited until the last person was out, and then he slowly packed his things and headed for the campus mall to grab the largest tea the café had on offer. He had seventy more short essays to grade before posting his study guides online, and he was already getting an end-of-semester migraine.
As he pushed in through the doors, there was a rush of A/C, which was entirely uncalled for in the frigid temperatures, and while Ben had been fully prepared to remove his beanie and coat, instead, he tucked his collar around him and shuffled up to the counter.
“Why is it arctic?” he asked the barista, who was rubbing her hands together.
She scowled. “The heater broke, and we’re not allowed to run the store without airflow. I’m pretty sure this is just punishing all of us for wanting to unionize.”
Ben had absolutely no patience to listen to protest talk, so he just nodded. “You have my support. Can I please get your largest London Fog with an extra pump of vanilla?”
She seemed vaguely annoyed he didn’t want to hear her pitch, but she rang him up, and he swiped his card before shuffling over to the pickup counter and shoved his hands into his pockets. He tapped his foot in a little pattern on the floor, rocking to an invisible beat when the door behind him burst open.
He startled, then glanced over his shoulder as a tall man with very dark, very curly hair, wearing a threadbare, stained T-shirt with no coat, burst in. He stumbled up to the front of the counter and dropped chest-first against the marble.
The barista just gave him a flat stare, which, Ben thought, was a slightly apathetic reaction to such huge dramatics.
“Not today. I don’t care if you die,” she finally told him after she finished steaming Ben’s milk.
The guy looked up with a pout, and Ben got a good look at his face. Two things happened simultaneously: he was both instantly attracted to him and relieved because the man was most definitely older than an average student. His hair was dark, but there were flecks of grey at his temples and crow’s feet by each eye.
“Iamdying. It’s, like, thirty degrees outside.”
“And yet you’re once again making it my problem. Please get out of my shop before I call security on you.”
“I literally have to sleep in my car. Please, just…”
“No,” she snapped. She slid the drink over toward Ben without looking at him. “I’m so sick and tired of people coming through that door trying to make their problems my problems. Get out.”
The guy looked actually stricken and turned, heading back out the door. Ben was mortified. He understood the students’ burnout. Teachers had it too. But the man was clearly down on his luck and suffering, and there was no way he’d survive the night with what he had on. Ben wanted to ask the barista why she couldn’t be kind for just a second, but he knew it would be pointless.
Instead, Ben found himself rushing after the guy, catching up to him a few feet down the sidewalk. He had one hand out, grabbing the stranger by the elbow as his other began to immediately work its way out of his coat.
The stranger let out a startled cry and pulled away from Ben, but instead of punching him, which was what Ben was half expecting, he froze.
He stared at Ben with huge brown eyes as he finally shucked his jacket and shoved it at him. The guy looked well-kept enough that he probably wasn’t homeless because of an addiction. Chances were he was someone in a situation he wasn’t sure how to handle. Maybe he’d lost his job. Maybe he’d gotten evicted. The world was horrible and expensive and impossible, and there were far too many people out there who had no hope and no help, even when they asked for it.
And Ben wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least do something for him.
“Oh. Dude…”
Ben shook his head and took a step back, holding his hands up like he was surrendering. “You’re out here in a T-shirt, and my office is just down the way. Take it, okay?” Ben shoved his hand into his pocket and fumbled for his wallet.
“I can’t.”
He started to hand it back, so Ben caught him by one wrist, andGod, his skin was so cold. He managed to wiggle out whatever cash he had on there and pressed it to the man’s open palm. “I don’t care why you’re sleeping in your car. You can’t do it without something to keep you warm. And use this to get something to eat. Please.”
The guy stared at him as the skin on his wrist sent a strange sensation up Ben’s arm. He knew he should let go, but he felt pinned by his dark eyes. Then the guy swallowed heavily, and the thread snapped.
“Thank you,” he rasped. “You’re sweet.”
