The Marchmont garage was almost empty when my car died between one turn of the key and the next.
The dashboard went dark. The engine made a small, tired click and gave up.
My phone lit up with Alistair's name, because the universe has a sense of humor. I had not texted his brother.
Alistair: You're embarrassing yourself. Stop texting my brother.
Alistair: Fuck off and fix your own mess. You're not worth the paperwork.
A dark car slid into the bay beside mine. Rory Kincaid got out with his jacket hooked on one finger.
Rory: Battery?
Maris: I don't know. It just died.
He waited with one hand on my hood, not opening it.
Rory: May I?
Maris: You don't have to do this.
Rory: I know.
He said it without heat, like a man stating the time.
He found the problem in under a minute. Dead battery. Of course.
Rory: It won't start tonight. I can take you home.
Maris: My studio. I don't want to go home.
He nodded once and opened the passenger door.
Maris: Why are you helping me? You could pretend you didn't see.
Rory: I could. I didn't want to.
That was all he gave me, and somehow it was enough for the moment.
His car smelled clean and cold, like rain on stone. I sat on my hands so they would stop shaking.
Rory: Seat belt.
Maris: I know how seat belts work.
Jules texted while we waited at a red light. I had told her I was fine. She did not believe me.
Jules: I believe you. About all of it. Text me when you're inside.
I read it twice. Belief was a strange thing to hold.
Rory did not ask about the text. He did not ask about my face in the mirror.
Rory: If you want to talk, I'm here. If you don't, the radio works.
Maris: The radio, then.
He turned on the radio, low. Some old song about leaving. I watched the city slide by.
The silence between us was not empty. It was careful.
The studio waited above a closed bakery, one light on in the hall.
Rory: I'll walk you up.
Maris: You don't have to.
Rory: I know.
He walked behind me up the narrow stairs. My skin knew where he was without my permission.
At the door, he stopped and put his hands in his pockets.
Rory: Lock it behind me.
Maris: Why are you doing this?
Rory: Because you don't owe me anything. Not tonight.
He did not ask to come in. He did not ask for a thank you.
He left before I could offer either. The stairs carried his footsteps down, steady and unhurried.
Inside, my studio smelled of turpentine and dust. It was mine. That mattered tonight.
Jules: Did he ask you for anything?
Maris: No. He made sure I was safe and left.
I locked the door and stood in the middle of my own small room.
For the first time in three years, the quiet did not feel like waiting. It felt like room to choose.
I did not know what came next. I only knew I would not call Alistair to find out.