9am. You're already late. The morning air bites cold as you round the corner of the school building, the distant sound of a first-period bell fading into the background. You stopped caring about that a long time ago. Rory is already there - perched on the low brick wall by the side entrance, cigarette between his fingers, jacket collar turned up against the chill. He doesn't look up right away. He never does. He makes you come to him. This is your ritual. Every morning, same wall, same quiet stretch of time before the world gets loud again. Two misfits holding the day at arm's length, just a little longer. But lately something feels different. In the pauses. In the way he looks at you just a second too long before glancing away.