Chips and Secrets

(Rory POV)

The trek back to our place is dead quiet—too bloody quiet. Leo’s a few steps ahead, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders all hunched up against the wind. That grip he had on my arm earlier—tight, like a warning—keeps replaying in my head, and Frankie’s slimy smirk’s stuck there too, gnawing at me. I bite my tongue ‘til we’re inside, but the second that door clicks shut, it’s like a dam bursts. Our flat’s a cramped little hole—sagging couch, bed shoved up against the wall, a mess of clothes and empty cans—but tonight, it’s a cage. The air’s thick, choking with all the crap we’re not saying.

I chuck my jacket on the couch, spin round to him. He’s kicking his shoes off, acting like it’s all normal, but I’ve had it. “Leo,” I say, sharp enough to cut. “What’s the deal with you and that sleaze Frankie?”

He stops dead for a sec, then keeps going, peeling his jacket off slow like it’s no big thing. “Nothing’s up,” he says, voice flat as a plank. “He’s just some regular. You’re seeing shite that ain’t there.”

“Seeing shite?” I step in, chest all tight and hot. “Don’t play me for a fool. I clocked him staring at you—like he bloody owns you. And that call, that text—‘Time’s running out’? What’s that about, eh?”

He turns, finally looks at me, but his eyes are hard, locked up tight. “It’s work, Rory. Told you already. Let it go.”

“Work?” My voice shoots up, bouncing off the walls in this tiny dump. “You’re lying straight to my face now! I’m not some thicko you can fob off. Nadia’s losing it over Mia, Frankie’s skulking about like a shark, and you’re acting like it’s all grand. What’s he got over you?”

“Rory, stop it,” he snaps, stepping up close, jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Then bloody tell me!” I yell, fists curling up. “I’m scared, Leo! You’re hiding something, and it’s tearing me apart inside. Just spit it out!”

He stares at me, breathing hard, and I see it—this crack in his armor. Then, quick as a flash, he grabs my collar, yanks me in, and his mouth slams into mine. It ain’t gentle or sweet—it’s rough, wild, like he’s gasping for air and I’m it. My hands clutch his shirt, dragging him closer, and all that fear and rage just blow up into something else. We stumble, crash into the wall, his fingers digging into my shoulders. It’s messy, raw, all the pent-up shite smashing together.

I taste the smoke on his lips, feel him pressed up hot against me, and everything else just shrinks down to us. We stagger toward the bed, my hands clawing at his shirt, buttons pinging off somewhere. He’s yanking my jumper up over my head, rough and fast, and we hit the mattress in a heap. His touch is hard, like he’s claiming me, but there’s this soft bit too—his thumb brushing my jaw, his breath all warm on my neck. I’m shaking, muttering his name, and he’s everywhere, holding me steady in the madness.

“Rory,” he mumbles, voice cracking as he kisses down my chest. “I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

I’m lost in it, clinging to him, fingers tangled in his hair. “You’re my only sure thing,” I gasp back, out of breath, meaning it down to my bones. It’s love, it’s panic, it’s us needing each other when it’s all going to hell. His skin’s warm under my hands, his weight pinning me down, and for a minute, it’s enough—enough to shove Frankie, that text, all of it out of my head.

We collapse, panting, my head spinning like I’ve had too many pints. His arm’s flopped over me, solid and real, and I’m trying to catch my breath when my hand bumps something in his jacket pocket—it’s still on the bed from the chaos. I fish it out, just some crumpled scrap, and flatten it without thinking. Then I see it—scribbled in black ink: $10,000 by Friday, or the kid pays.

My blood turns to ice, freezing me stiff. I bolt upright, the note shaking in my grip. “Leo,” I say, low, voice wobbling. “What’s this?”

He lifts his head, eyes all foggy at first, then they snap clear when he clocks what I’ve got. His face goes hard, shuts off, and he reaches for it, but I jerk back. “Rory—” he starts, sitting up quick.

“No,” I cut in, heart thumping so loud it’s in my ears. “$10,000 by Friday, or the kid pays? Who’s ‘the kid’? Me? What the hell is this?”

“I can explain,” he says, fast, lunging for the note again, but I’m up now, stumbling back.

“Explain?” I choke out, staring at the words ‘til they smear. “This is a bloody threat, Leo! Someone’s after us—after me—and you knew? All night, you’ve been lying?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, on his feet now, hands out like I’m some jittery colt. “I was sorting it—”

“Sorting it?” My voice splits, raw and loud. “You’ve dragged me into something, haven’t you? Something massive, something rotten, and you didn’t even tell me!”

“Rory, listen—”

“No!” I fling the note at him, and it floats down between us like a dead leaf. “I trusted you! You’re meant to be the one bloody thing I can lean on, and now this? What the hell have you dragged me into?”

He doesn’t say a word, just stands there, eyes dark and heavy, staring me down. The quiet stabs deeper than anything he could’ve said. My chest’s heaving, hands trembling, and that trust we had—it’s cracking, falling to bits right here. I turn, snatch my jumper off the floor, needing air, needing out. He says my name, soft, almost begging, but I don’t look back. Can’t. Not now.