Broken Zippers and Brake Lights

Rory makes a break for it in the pouring rain, only to find that freedom looks a lot like a beat-up sedan and the silent guy behind the wheel.

The zipper on the duffel bag split. Of course it did. It was a poetic kind of failure, really—the teeth gaping open like a mocking grin, exposing his frantic packing job: three pairs of mismatched socks, a hoodie that smelled like stale popcorn, and his favorite mug wrapped in a t-shirt. Rory stared at it, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, and let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. It was just… perfect. The universe’s little way of saying, ‘Nice try, kid.’

He stood on the curb, the water soaking through his sneakers, turning his toes into ice cubes. The streetlights were blurring in the downpour, creating these fractured halos of orange and white on the wet asphalt. It smelled like wet dirt and exhaust fumes, that specific, heavy scent of a city trying to wash itself clean. He shivered, not just from the cold. The adrenaline was starting to curdle in his stomach, turning sour.

He checked his phone again. The screen was cracked—another casualty of the last hour—but he could see the time. 11:42 PM. He wasn’t coming. Why would he? Rory had called him twenty minutes ago, hysterical, rambling about needing a ride, needing out, needing… something. Declan had just said ‘Okay’ and hung up. ‘Okay’ could mean anything. ‘Okay, I heard you.’ ‘Okay, you’re crazy.’ ‘Okay, good luck with that.’

A pair of headlights swept across the brick wall behind him, blindingly bright. The car slowed, tires hissing against the slick road. It was a dark sedan, older, with a dent in the rear bumper that Rory recognized instantly. The passenger window rolled down with a mechanical whine that sounded like a dying cat.

Declan. He was there.

Rory didn’t move at first. He just stared at the profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. Declan looked… the same. Calm. Immovable. He was wearing that grey thermal henley he always wore, the one with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He wasn’t looking at Rory; he was watching the rearview mirror, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked like he was waiting for a light to change, not picking up a guy who had just imploded his entire life.

“Get in,” Declan said. His voice was low, cutting through the sound of the rain like it wasn’t even there. He didn’t shout. He never shouted.

Rory scrambled. He shoved the broken bag onto the floorboard, not caring that his underwear was probably touching the dirty mat, and threw himself into the seat. The door slammed shut, sealing them in. The sudden silence was deafening. It was warm in here, smelling faintly of pine air freshener and old coffee. The heater was blasting, a dull roar against the quiet.

Rory sat there, dripping. He was shaking so hard his teeth were actually chattering. He clamped his jaw shut, trying to stop it, but his body had decided to revolt.

Declan didn’t say anything. He just put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He drove with one hand on the top of the wheel, his grip loose but controlled. Rory watched his hand. Veins traced the back of it, leading up to a thick wrist. It was a steady hand. A capable hand. Rory looked down at his own hands; they were pale, trembling, the knuckles scraped raw from when he’d barked them against the doorframe on the way out.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Rory said. His voice cracked. Humiliating.

Declan glanced at him. Just a flick of the eyes, dark and unreadable, before returning to the road. “You called.”

“Yeah, but… it’s late. And I sounded like a crazy person. I probably am a crazy person. Who packs a toaster? I think I packed a toaster. I don’t even eat toast.” Rory was babbling. He knew he was babbling. He couldn’t stop. The silence was too big, too heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. If he stopped talking, he’d have to think about what had just happened. The yelling. The wall. The decision. That moment where the switch flipped and he realized he’d rather sleep in a dumpster than stay another second.

“You’re safe,” Declan said.

Two words. They hit Rory in the chest like a physical weight. He stopped talking abruptly. He slumped back against the seat, the fabric scratching against his wet neck. Safe. The word felt foreign, like a coin he’d never seen before. He looked out the window. The city was streaking by—neon signs for liquor stores, darkened storefronts, the endless rhythm of wipers slapping back and forth. *Swish, thud. Swish, thud.*

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Rory whispered to the glass. “I mean, I have money. A little. Enough for a motel. Maybe a bad motel. The kind with the flickering sign and the stains.”

“You’re coming with me,” Declan stated. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an offer. It was a fact, stated with the same neutrality as reading a weather report.

Rory turned to look at him. “I can’t. I can’t impose. You have… you have your life. Your space. I’m a disaster zone. Look at me, Declan. I’m literally dripping puddle water on your upholstery.”

Declan reached over. He didn’t look away from the road. His hand, warm and rough, landed on Rory’s knee. He gave a squeeze—firm, grounding. The heat of his palm seeped through Rory’s wet jeans, burning in the best way possible. Rory’s breath hitched. His heart did a stupid, traitorous flip.

“Shut up, Rory,” Declan said, but there was no bite in it. Only a strange, rough softness.

He didn’t remove his hand. He kept it there, driving one-handed through the rainy streets, tethering Rory to the seat, to the car, to the moment. Rory stared at the hand. He wanted to cover it with his own, but he didn’t dare. He just sat there, feeling the warmth spread up his thigh, feeling the terror in his gut slowly unspool into something else. Something exhausted and achingly grateful.

They drove for twenty minutes in silence. It wasn’t the awkward silence of strangers; it was the charged silence of two people occupying the same small space with too much unspoken history. Rory watched the way the streetlights played over Declan’s face. The sharp angle of his nose, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looked tired. But solid. Like a cliff face that waves just broke against without leaving a mark.

When they pulled up to Declan’s building, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. It was an old brick building, industrial and sturdy. Declan killed the engine. The sudden absence of the motor’s vibration made Rory’s ears ring.

“Wait here,” Declan said.

He got out, rounding the car. Rory watched him, feeling a sudden spike of panic at being left alone, even for ten seconds. But then Declan’s door opened, and he was leaning in, grabbing the broken duffel bag with one hand as if it weighed nothing.

“Come on,” Declan said.

Rory stumbled out. His legs felt like jelly. He followed Declan up the front steps, counting the cracks in the concrete to keep himself upright. One, two, three. Breathe. You’re out. You’re here.

The apartment was warm. That was the first thing Rory noticed. It hit him the moment Declan unlocked the door—a wall of dry, still warmth. Declan flipped a switch, and a lamp in the corner bathed the room in amber light. It was tidy. Sparse. A leather couch that looked well-worn, a bookshelf overflowing with manuals and thrillers, a pile of mail on the counter. It smelled like Declan—sandalwood and laundry detergent.

Declan dropped the bag by the door. He turned to look at Rory, really look at him, for the first time. His eyes swept over Rory’s soaking hair, the red rim around his eyes, the way he was hugging himself.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Declan pointed. “Towels are under the sink. Take a shower. A hot one.”

Rory nodded, mute. He felt like he was moving underwater. He shambled into the bathroom and locked the door. The tile was cool under his feet. He turned on the shower, cranking it as hot as it would go. Steam instantly began to fill the small room, fogging up the mirror.

He stripped off his wet clothes, peeling the denim from his skin. He caught his reflection in the foggy glass. He looked wrecked. Pale, skinny, eyes wide and bruised-looking. But he was here. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t waiting for the sound of a key in the lock that meant trouble. He was in Declan’s bathroom.

He stepped into the spray. The heat was shocking. It stung his cold skin, turning it pink. He stood there for a long time, just letting the water hammer against his back, washing away the city grime and the fear sweat. He watched the water swirl down the drain, dark and gray. He imagined it was all the bad stuff, all the insults, all the grabby hands and sharp words, just spiraling away into the sewer.

When he finally turned the water off, the mirror was completely opaque. He toweled off, the fabric rough and clean. He realized with a jolt that he didn’t have clean clothes in here; they were all in his bag out in the living room. He cracked the door open a few inches.

“Declan?” he called out, his voice hoarse.

“Door,” Declan’s voice came from right outside. Rory jumped.

There was a knock on the wood. “ hanging on the knob.”

Rory waited for footsteps to retreat, then opened the door. Hanging on the doorknob was a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He grabbed them and retreated. They were Declan’s, obviously. The sweatpants had a drawstring that he had to tie tight to keep them on his hips. The shirt was huge. It hung off his shoulders, the hem hitting his mid-thigh. It smelled intensely of him. Rory buried his nose in the collar for a second, inhaling. It felt… illicit. And comforting. Like wearing armor.

He walked out into the living room. Declan was in the kitchen, standing by the stove. The kettle was whistling. He had changed too, into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white tee. He looked softer without the jacket and boots. Domestic. It made Rory’s chest ache.

Declan poured water into two mugs. He turned and saw Rory standing there, drowning in his clothes.

Declan’s eyes darkened. He stared for a beat too long. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with static electricity. Rory felt a flush creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the hot shower. He fidgeted, pulling at the hem of the shirt.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Rory mumbled, staring at a scuff mark on the floor.

“They fit,” Declan said. His voice was rougher than before.

He walked over, carrying the mugs. He handed one to Rory. “Tea. Camomile. Suppose to help you sleep or whatever.”

Rory took it. Their fingers brushed. It wasn’t a gentle graze; it was a collision. A spark zapped Rory’s skin, traveling straight up his arm and settling in his stomach. He nearly dropped the mug. He looked up, startled, and found Declan staring right at him, his gaze intense, focused, like he was trying to solve a complex equation written on Rory’s face.

“Careful,” Declan said softly. “It’s hot.”

“Right. Hot,” Rory managed.

They moved to the couch. Declan sat on one end, Rory on the other, curling his legs up under him. He blew on the tea, the steam curling up around his nose. He felt… safer than he had in years. But also on edge, hyper-aware of Declan’s breathing, the way his arm rested on the back of the couch, inches from Rory’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Declan said suddenly, breaking the silence. “About what happened. Not tonight.”

Rory looked into his mug. The liquid was dark amber. “I just… I was done. You know? It wasn’t even one big thing. It was… he moved my books. Again. Told me I was messy. Told me I was taking up too much space. And I just thought… I don’t want to be small anymore. I don’t want to be invisible in my own life.”

He looked up. Declan was watching him with a ferocity that made Rory’s breath catch. There was anger there, deep and cold, but it wasn’t directed at Rory. It was for him.

“You’re not invisible,” Declan said. He leaned in, closing the distance between them. The couch dipped under his weight. “You’re loud. You’re messy. You take up space. And you should.”

Rory swallowed hard. “I’m annoying.”

“Yeah,” Declan agreed, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “You are. You never shut up. You sing terrible 80s pop songs in the shower. I could hear you, by the way.”

Rory felt his face burn. “The acoustics are good.”

“You’re annoying,” Declan repeated, his voice dropping an octave, becoming serious again. “But you’re not small. Don’t ever let anyone make you small.”

The intensity of it was too much. Rory felt tears prick his eyes again. He blinked them away furiously. He wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not in front of Declan, who was so together, so solid.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Rory admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I have no plan. I have a broken suitcase and a toaster. That’s it.”

“You have a place to sleep,” Declan said. “You have tea. You have…” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to Rory’s mouth for a split second before snapping back up. “You have time. Figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, just… be here.”

Rory nodded. He took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, probably too much honey. It tasted like salvation.

“Can I stay?” Rory asked, needing to hear it again. “Just for a few days? Until I find a place?”

Declan scoffed, a short, sharp sound. He reached out and, with a hesitation that was uncharacteristic of him, brushed a damp lock of hair off Rory’s forehead. His fingers lingered there, against Rory’s temple. His skin was rough, calloused, but his touch was incredibly gentle. Rory leaned into it instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Stay as long as you want,” Declan said. The words vibrated in the air between them. “I’m not letting you go back there. You know that, right? Even if I have to physically bar the door.”

Rory opened his eyes. Declan was close. Too close. Rory could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. He could smell the sandalwood soap on his skin. He wanted to lean forward. He wanted to hide in the crook of Declan’s neck and never come out.

“I don’t want to go back,” Rory whispered.

“Good.” Declan’s thumb swept across Rory’s cheekbone, catching a stray drop of water. Or maybe a tear. “Then you’re home.”

Home. It wasn’t a place, Rory realized. It wasn’t an apartment with brick walls and a leather couch. It was this. It was the heat of a hand on his face. It was the look in someone’s eyes that said, *I see you, and I’m not looking away.*

Rory let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for three years. His shoulders dropped. The frantic buzzing in his brain finally quieted down to a low hum.

“Okay,” Rory said. “Home.”

Declan held his gaze for another moment, heavy and promising, then pulled his hand back. The loss of contact made Rory’s skin ache. Declan picked up his own mug, taking a long drink, his throat working.

“Drink your tea,” Declan said, staring at the bookshelf across the room, though his ears were turning a faint shade of pink. “Before it gets cold.”

Rory smiled, burying his face in the oversized mug to hide it. It was a small smile, wobbly and terrified, but it was real. Outside, the rain lashed against the windowpane, angry and cold. But inside, with the smell of toast and timber, with the heat of the radiator clanking in the corner, and Declan sitting a foot away like a personal bodyguard against the world, Rory felt the ice in his chest finally begin to melt.