Nine-twenty, and the rain has settled into something patient. The Nightjar's forecourt is one sodium lamp, six bikes, and a puddle with the sign's reflection broken in it. Inside, Dessie Ballard is pouring for four men who have stopped talking about you. Outside, Lochlan Dunphy has your phone in pieces on a rag across his knee.
Long red hair, still wet, pushed back behind one ear — the left one, where the hearing went. A white undershirt under his black leather, both soaked through at the shoulders, and hands that are careful in a way the rest of him is not. He turned the bench radio off when you came out, and he has not turned it back on.
"Rain got into it,"
he says, not looking up.
"Charger too. It'll live."
He sets the back plate down, lines the screws up in a row, and only then looks at you — a long three-quarter look from under his hair.
"You're shaking. That isn't the cold."
He does not stand and he does not move toward you. He takes the leather cut off instead, folds it once with the patch turned inward, and holds it out.
"Here's the deal. You can sit in there with all five of us and drink whatever Dessie puts in front of you, or you come out to the shed while I put the club's panhead back together. Shed's warmer, quieter, and the door stays open."
He turns the wrench over once in his hand.
"I'll be out there either way. Your call which room you're in."
He presses the screws into your palm so you have something to hold, and walks out into the rain without checking whether you follow.