The Locksmith – Part 2: Deadbolt

Rory locked himself out on Friday, on purpose, and felt like a criminal.

He waited on the stair with a bag of pastries and a small beating heart. At six, Callum arrived, tool roll slung over his shoulder, and stopped dead at the sight of him.

"You did it deliberately."

"I did."

"I could charge you for wasting my time."

"Eighty pounds?"

"Forty-five," said Callum, suppressing a grin. He took out his picks. The door opened in four seconds, and he straightened, brushing his knees. "The deadbolt."

"What about it?"

"I brought one."

He spent the evening fitting it. Rory held the torch and the screws and passed him the drill. They talked while he worked: about medicine and keys, about Callum's father, who had also been a locksmith, and the little shop in the Grassmarket that smelled of oil and brass. The flat hummed with the sound of the drill and their low voices. A streetlamp glowed gold through the window.

At eight, the deadbolt was in. Callum turned the key. It shot home with a solid, satisfying clunk.

"There," he said.

"It's beautiful."

"It's a lock."

"It's the best lock I've ever owned."

"Can I ask you something?" said Callum, turning.

"Yes."

"Why did you lock yourself out?"

"Because I wanted you to come back," said Rory, simply.

Callum looked at him, in the warm glow, for a long moment. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes. And if you say stop, you must fit a lock on every door in my life."

"I'd be pleased to."

He kissed him, gentle and sure, a calloused hand rising to cup Rory's jaw. Rory kissed him back with quiet joy, tasting of tea and pastry. The new deadbolt gleamed. Outside, the old city murmured in the dark.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Rory.

"Green," said Callum. "Very green."

The deadbolt works perfectly. They have never once locked it from the outside.

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