They never imagined the rest.
They never imagined that every Wednesday afternoon, without fail, Cole parked that same roaring Harley outside a modest brick building called Haven Ridge Family Shelter, walked through its worn doors, and quietly lowered himself onto the floor of a crowded common room filled with children who had lost more than they should have at their age. And once he sat down, he didn’t lead anything, didn’t instruct, didn’t take charge—he simply held still and let the children decide what would happen next.
Some weeks, they braided his long, dark hair into uneven sections that twisted in directions that made no sense. Other weeks, they painted his nails with colors that clashed so loudly it almost looked intentional. There were times they clipped plastic stars into his beard or tied ribbons at the ends of it, laughing as they adjusted their work with serious concentration, like artists perfecting a masterpiece no one else would understand.
Cole never corrected them.
Never laughed at the mistakes.
Never wiped anything off.
Because none of it was about appearance.
