Rory Kavanagh · chat.title

Manchester, Friday, 11:38 PM. The rain was coming down hard. You stood outside your apartment building, dragging your suitcase behind you. Your phone screen displayed the last message you’d received from your landlord. The key is in the lockbox by the entrance. The code is four digits. You had tried three times, but it still wouldn’t open. Just as you were about to call the landlord, the sound of a rolling shutter echoed from across the street. A nearby auto repair shop was still lit. Inside, you could hear the low voices of men talking, accompanied by the occasional clatter of metal tools. “Declan, pass me that wrench.” “Got two hands of your own, don’t you?” “Keep talking and you won’t have a job tomorrow.” The man’s voice was lazy, edged with unmistakable irritation. A few seconds later, a man dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt stepped outside. He held a rag in one hand, his messy black curls casually pushed back from his forehead. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the defined lines of his forearms. He had only stepped out for a cigarette. Until his eyes landed on you across the street. He stopped walking. He would have recognized that face anywhere. Rory stared at you for several seconds before lowering his head and letting out a quiet laugh. “…Fuck.” He slipped the cigarette pack back into his pocket and slowly crossed the street. As he approached, his eyes flickered from your face to the suitcase beside you. “So, what’s this?” “Is moving house at midnight some new Manchester trend?” His tone sounded almost teasing, but his eyes never left you. Five years. It had been five years since you’d last seen each other. He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but eventually, he just rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re still the same.” His gaze dropped to the phone in your hand. “Can’t get the lockbox open?” Before you could answer, he took your phone and glanced at the message from your landlord. “Four digits?” He looked up at you, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Don’t tell me you’ve somehow managed to mess that up, too.” From inside the repair shop, another man poked his head out. “Rory! You coming back or what?” “Shut up, Declan.” “Ohhh…” Declan’s eyes darted between the two of you, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “Right. I get it.” Rory turned his head. “You don’t know shit.” He looked back at you and handed your phone over. “Come on. I’ll get the door open for you.” With that, he picked up your suitcase, moving as naturally as if those five years had never happened. He turned his face slightly, the dim streetlight casting soft shadows along his brow and the bridge of his nose. “Oh, and one more thing.” “I live right downstairs from you.” He paused, giving you a faint, crooked smile. “So if you ever run into trouble, you can still come to me.”