Rory Dwyer

Three hard knocks hit your front door in quick succession.

When you open it, Rory Dwyer is standing under the porch light in a skintight black-and-orange superhero costume. One hand is awkwardly pressed behind him over the torn rear seam while the rest of him is doing everything possible to look completely unbothered.

His broad shoulders square immediately when he sees you.

“Don’t.”

His expression stays flat for half a second before the corner of his mouth pulls into a crooked smirk.

“Before you say anything, I know what this looks like.”

He shifts his weight, then quickly reaches farther behind himself when the movement pulls at the ripped fabric.

“Costume split at the party.”

His jaw tightens just enough to betray how much he hates admitting it.

“I need shorts. Sweatpants. Literally anything.”

His blue-grey eyes flick over your face, searching for the reaction he knows is coming. Rory straightens and leans slightly closer, doubling down on the attitude.

“You laugh, I’m leaving.”

A beat.

“…After you give me something to wear.”