Chapter Text
"Fuck." Why did this always seem to happen at the worst times?
Two miles, two more miles, and I would have been at my destination. But, lucky me, the engine had to give out. I moved my baby as far as the shoulder of the road would let me, the wheels crunched over the gravel. Then–nothing. Not even a sputter or cough.
I closed my eyes and glided my hand through my mess of hair. With my hands back on the wheel, my forehead resting on my knuckles, I waited for a beat. This wasn't just any car. Every nut and rivet carried my brother's fingerprints. Leaving it on the side of the road was the last thing I wanted to do.
The sun was already dipping behind the horizon, painting the sky with hues of red and orange, its light reflecting off the sea's crystal-blue waters. I could faintly smell the air, heavy with salt and brine, mixed with the smoke from the refineries and docks I was sure were in the distance. There was no way I would have any PAC transmission out here, even to try to contact a tow company.
With a defeated sigh, I sat up straight and grabbed my bag from the backseat. "Looks like walking is the only option."
I slung my bag onto my shoulder, opened my door with a clank, and started down the cracked, weather-worn asphalt.
By the time the town finally came into view, it felt like I'd been walking for hours. In reality, it may have been forty–forty-five minutes, give or take–but every step dragged! My legs burned, my mouth was as dry as a desert, and the strap of my bag had to have carved a permanent groove into my shoulder by now.
The town rose slowly–too slowly for my liking–from the coastline–cranes from the dock jutted from their loading dock, the smell of rust, smoke, and salt was thick in the air. This was completely different from the smog-ridden city air and loud, crowded streets that I left behind, that I used to call home. No vendor trucks, no exhaust smog, no distinct city-center stench. Instead, there was something in the air that settled low in my gut. Maybe this was the change I needed.
By the time I finally reached the first row of buildings, my legs were on fire, and my tongue felt permanently glued to the roof of my mouth. The clang of metal on metal pulled me toward a garage. Glancing up, I saw the handmade metal sign, low lights shining across the letters: "Rourke Ironworks".
The garage door sat open, and light spilled out on the pavement. I caught the scent of oil, iron, and something sharper that I couldn't nail down wafting out into the street.
Inside, a man leaned over an engine block, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark–almost black–hair damp with sweat from the heat in the shop. He seemed steady, focused, his hands moving with the kind of confidence that only comes when something's second nature. Even in his bent-over state, I could tell he stood about average height–six-one, maybe six-two. He wasn't towering, but carried himself with a big presence, a presence that could fill a room under the right circumstances. The muscles in his forearms flexed and released with every turn of the wrench.
Not the worst thing I could've stumbled onto. I'll take this view as a small mercy after the day I've had.
I hovered at the entrance, hands combing through my hair, which was surely a mess from the trek to get this far. I shifted on my aching feet before knocking on the garage frame.
He looked up at the sound, his sharp steel-grey eyes landed on me.
"Can I help you?" His voice was low, rough, but not unkind.
I shifted again on my feet and cleared my dry throat before answering. "Hey,"
I was answered with silence and a steady gaze.
Nervously, I continued. "Yeah, my car broke down about two miles out of town. I'm new to the area and didn't have the means to call somewhere."
He straightened and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket. His eyes studied me with curiosity.
"What kind of car?"
I shifted the wisps of hair that fell from my messy bun behind my ear, "One that I probably shouldn't have pushed past its limits." I hated how my voice cracked. "It's a custom build. Probably means more than its worth."
His gaze softened ever so slightly, then closed off again. He nodded once. "Is it locked?"
I nodded at his question, "Yeah, I got it on the shoulder."
He tossed the rag on his tool kit and grabbed his keys off a workbench with a nod, "All right, we'd better get it in before someone strips it."
I looked at him in shock. "Strip it? Who would want to strip a car!"
The side of his mouth lifted in a slight grin, "In these parts, pretty much anybody." He pointed in the direction of the stacks I saw earlier as I walked in. "Steel Refinery is just across town; they take what they can find or barter."
He offered up his free hand, "Name's Silas. Give me a sec, and I'll bring the truck around. We'll get it here in one piece."
I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, shook his hand, and nodded. "Yeah. I'm Talia, thanks."
When he passed by me, I caught the scent of oil, iron, and smoke clinging to him–with something else threaded in that I couldn't place. Once he was out of sight, I let out a sigh and leaned against the garage door frame to wait.
I heard the truck before I saw it: the growl of the engine fighting to turn over, the chain swaying on the back, the wheels crunching on the pavement.
Jeezus, wake half the town while you're at it.
When he finally came into view, I straightened. He leaned over and swung open the passenger door. "Hop in. Quicker we move, less chance your ride's picked clean." His mouth curved into a smirk, like he was waiting to see how I'd react.
I stared a second too long before hauling myself up into the cab and yanking the heavy door shut with a solid snick.
No words passed between us as I adjusted myself in the seat while he pulled away. The seat groaned under my weight, the cracked surface sticking to the back of my legs.
The cab smelled, as expected, of oil, grease, and smoke–sharp, heavy, but not unpleasant. Threaded through it was something that was distinctly him, almost ingrained in the seats: cedarwood. It blended with the smoke and worn leather like it belonged there.
For a second, I caught myself breathing in a little deeper, curious, before shaking my head and fixing my gaze out the window.
Tools rattled somewhere behind the seat when the truck turned onto the main road. The dash was worn, brass dials dulled with age, but every mark spoke of years of reliability and use.
He didn't strike me as a man of many words. He seemed to be the type who said what he meant, and only when it needed saying. From his short, measured responses, I could tell he thought through every word before it left his mouth.
"So, Talia, haven't seen you around here before. Are you looking to stick around or just passing through?"
I shifted slightly to face him, surprised he spoke but grateful he had. The silence was starting to border on awkward. "I'm from Ashwood Sector, Ironstead. I'm a paramedic by trade, looking for work mainly. There wasn't much room for success back home, so I left."
He nodded in acknowledgment and glanced at me momentarily, eyes glittering in the dash light's yellow glow. "Good to know, but still didn't answer my question."
I bristled slightly before resuming my stare out the window. "Haven't decided yet. Depends on what this town has to offer."
He shrugged at my response. "Greystone isn't for the weak. The mills will wear anybody down, the market has its own bite if you're not sharp at bartering, and the nights here can turn mean if you don't know what places to avoid after dark. But there's grit here too, and a kind of stubborn charm that keeps people once they've found their footing. Maybe just the place for you." He nodded toward the windshield. "This you?"
I glanced at him for a beat. He said it like a warning, but I could definitely tell he was proud of where he'd landed. This town probably carved its way into him whether he wanted it to or not.
"Yeah, that's her."
Maybe I'll have no problem finding work in a place like this, but could I stay long enough–here, in Greystone–without it breaking me?
Silas pulled the tow up in front of the car, headlights washing over the hunched frame.
Tension coiled tight in my stomach. From where I sat in the cab, the patched panels and makeshift rivets looked like a dare to anyone who didn't understand her worth. I saw my brother in every weld, every dent. I shut my eyes, memories flooding back–the way he smiled, the laugh in his voice as he worked, me sitting nearby, throwing back jokes and laughing with him.
I drew in a breath and shook my head. Not here, Tal. Now's not the time.
Silas had already climbed out of the cab while I was lost in thought. Sighing, I pushed open the heavy door and joined him in the night air. It pressed damp and cool against my skin as I approached the car, my fingers brushing the door in passing while Silas circled to the front.
"Pop the hood," his request was direct and to the point.
"Actually..." I angled toward the back. "Engine's back here, if that's what you're wanting to look at. Don't know how much you'll see out here, though."
One of his eyebrows ticked up, but he didn't argue. He followed, popped the trunk, then pressed a flashlight into my hand. I held it steady while he bent over the engine. After a minute, he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket.
"Fuel line looks cracked," he said flatly. "If you'd managed to turn her over, you'd have started a fire."
I crossed my arms before I was able to stop myself. " She'd have survived it. Doesn't look like much, but she was built sturdy."
Jeezus Tal, could you be any more snarky?
The corner of his mouth tilted up slightly, more wry than mocking, "I don't doubt that, but let's not test the theory."
With a tilt of his head, he motioned toward the truck. The rag disappeared back into his pocket as he started walking. "I'll get her hooked up. We'll haul her to the shop, and I'll give her a proper look in the morning."
Before I could answer, he was already moving toward the truck bed, pulling the tow line free. His steadiness wasn't flashy, but it left no room for doubt–he said he'd take care of it so he would.
I lingered by the car while he hooked her up, watching the sure set of his shoulders as he worked. The motions were practiced, unhurried, as if he'd done this a hundred times before. Only when the last 'clink' of the chain fell into place did I finally pull myself away, climbing back into the cab of his truck to wait.
What if I hadn't found his shop when I did? Would she have been nothing but a gutted shell by morning, picked apart before I could get help? The thought pressed cold in my stomach, and I shuddered before forcing it down. Best not to linger there.
After checking the chains one more time, he jumped back into the truck and turned the key in the ignition, "Let's get going. I'll put her in the garage where she'll be safe from prying eyes."
I gave a quick nod, and the engine rumbled to life. Before I knew it, we were heading back toward town.
****
The tow truck idled for a moment before Silas eased it into the bay. Overhead, aether lights flickered to life, triggered by movement.
I bet that comes in handy...
The glow spilled shadows across the shop floor, wrapping the space in the familiar scent of oil, metal, and warm rubber once the garage door shut.
With a twist of the keys, he killed the engine and climbed down. Chains rattled as he unhooked my car, then stepped back with a nod.
"She's not going anywhere tonight," he said, matter-of-fact.
I slid out and shut the door behind me, leaning against its rusted frame.
He wiped his hands on a rag, glancing up. "You got a place lined up?"
Shit...I didn't think about that. What the hell am I gunna do? I didn't even get a chance to find somewhere. The question sat heavily, but I shook my head, bracing for a lecture.
Instead, Silas only nodded. "I know a spot. Above Byrne's Pub–Fin keeps a flat up there. It's well past check-in at the inn. I can make a quick call, get it set up for you if you want."
I shifted my weight. I was reluctant to agree, but I was too tired to care. A night anywhere other than the back seat of my car in his garage–or worse, the pain that will come after–wasn't something I was about to turn down.
"Fine," I muttered, more abrasive than I meant. "If it's not going to be a problem."
Silas didn't push, just gave a nod and threw the rag into a hamper by the back door. "Come on, no sense hanging around here when you look ready to drop where you stand."
I fell in step beside him as he locked up. The night air carried a cool edge, drifting salt in from the docks. The town was quiet, but it was expected, given the late hour. His boot struck steadily against the cobblestone, mine softer, almost swallowed by his stride.
"Pub's not far. Few blocks over."
We walked in near-silence for a block, the faint clang of the mills carried on the wind. Then Silas dug into his pocket, pulling out his PAC.
"One sec."
I slowed as he lifted it to his ear. His voice stayed even, clipped–like everything else I've noticed about him–but softer too.
"Fin. Need the flat for the night." He waited a few minutes while the message was transmitted.
The reply was lost to the distant shouts spilling from the pub through the receiver, but I caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth. Brief, almost invisible.
"Yeah. No, don't worry about that. See you later," and that was that.
He slid the PAC into his back pocket, catching me staring.
"Place may be a little loud, but that's normal. The place is clean and bed's vacant."
He smirked. Smirked! Like, there was a tease tucked into the words.
No, thank you, sir – well... I shook my head. Nope! Not going there! I must be exhausted even to think that. Although his scent–No. Stop, Talia.
He studied me for a moment, like he was waiting for me to snap back.
I couldn't tell if I should thank him or bristle at being handled. Instead, I said nothing, letting my boots scuff the cobbles.
"Better than the backseat of your car," he said at last. Which was really unsettling, considering that had been exactly my plan before he offered this.
Byrne's stood at the corner, its brickwork darkened with age, windows spilling golden light across the cobblestones. The bright sign buzzed faintly above the door: Byrne's Pub.
Music drifted on the wind–soft, woven with laughter and hums of voices. The sharp scent of food and something spiced slipped from the cracked windows and made my stomach clench with the reminder I hadn't eaten properly in days.
Silas didn't steer us toward the front door. Instead, he tipped his head to the alley running along the side, half-shadowed by the pub's bulk.
"Flat's up the back stairs," he said, already leading the way.
Back here, the noise dulled, voices and clinking glasses muted by brick walls. He led me to a staircase that looked like it had been added later, bolted onto the building as an afterthought. Iron steps, worn smooth from use, clung to the wall. Brass bolts caught the glow of the nearby lamp. The handrail was nothing but lengths of copper piping, welded into place with visible seams and darkened where hands had run along it. It wasn't pretty, practical, sure. But it had a stubborn character all its own.
"It's just up here," he said over his shoulder, his boots ringing against the iron.
At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a plain steel door and pushed it open. From the threshold, I caught the scent of polish and old wood. The floors inside were solid planks, dark and scuffed from use.
The flat was a single open space, simple but well-kept. More studio than apartment, with only the bathroom tucked behind a narrow door. Against the far wall, near a half-drawn curtain, sat a low platform bed. A heavy oak dresser stood close by, its corners nicked and dulled from age.
To the left of the door, a compact stove and sink were set into the wall, pipes running exposed along the plaster like veins. Steel-top counters framed the kitchen nook, cabinets above and below providing just enough storage–shallow, likely only for plates and a bit of cookware. At the end sat a small, outdated fridge that looked like it was held together by sheer determination. It gave an occasional hum and clank, a heartbeat in the quiet.
An "L" shaped island matched the counters, dividing the kitchen from the room. Two stools, each topped with mismatched homemade cushions, tucked neatly against one side. Beyond that, a sturdy wooden table with four chairs stood waiting. Overhead, old ship lights hung low, their glow softening the utilitarian edge of the space.
Across from the bed and bathroom door sat a worn recliner, a small bookshelf crammed with mismatched titles beside it. A floor lamp leaned close, its shade tilted from long use. A matching sofa faced the kitchen, boxy and practical, with a low-end table that held an old television angled just enough to be seen from both the couch and the bed.
"It's not pretty, but it's got clean sheets, and the locks work. Hot water's temperamental sometimes, but it'll run if you give it some time to figure itself out," Silas said, stepping aside so I could pass.
I stepped in cautiously, letting my eyes sweep the space. He was right–it wasn't much, but it was solid. Built to last, not just thrown together. The faint smell of wood polish lingered beneath the drift of smoke and spice wafting up from the pub below, grounding the place with warmth I hadn't realized I was craving.
Silas leaned against the frame, arms and ankles crossed, his presence heavy at my back as he filled the doorway. "Like I said, I'll get a proper look at your car in the morning. In the meantime, make yourself at home here. Whether it's for just tonight or longer, the flat's yours. You'll be fine."
I nodded, still cataloging every detail. It wasn't home, not even close, but it was warm and safer than what I'd planned.
"Not bad for a flat above a pub," I get out, finally.
His mouth curved in the barest of smiles. I noticed he does that often–small, fleeting. Oddly, it suited him, though I could tell they didn't come easily, not around strangers.
"I should warn you," He added, "on Fridays the pipes rattle with the in-house live music."
With that, he gave me a small nod and headed back down, the echo of his boots ringing along the metal stairs until the pub noise swallowed him whole.
I exhaled slowly. Four walls. A lock. A little room to breathe. For tonight, that was enough.