Chapter 13: The Uninvited
The rain in Edinburgh was a different beast. It wasn’t the wild, salt-driven spray of the coast; it was a persistent, dripping apology, misting the windows of Roz’s flat into a blurred mosaic of grey stone and sodium streetlights. The train journey back felt like traveling through a tunnel of her own thoughts, Leo’s text a cold stone in her stomach that no amount of reminiscing about Ally’s hands or the quiet of the bookshop could fully dislodge.
She ignored the message. For a full day.
She buried herself in the clinical sterility of the Murrayfield treatment room, transcribing notes on hamstring flexibility and electrolyte levels, the words becoming a soothing mantra. Ally texted, a simple Made it back. Thinking of that bookshop. She replied with a heart, the gesture feeling both thrilling and strangely naive.
The ignoring couldn’t last. Leo knew where she lived.
The knock came just past eight, as she was curled on her worn sofa, the anatomy book open but unread on her lap. It wasn’t a friendly tap. It was a declarative thud, thud, thud that shook the thin door in its frame.
Her blood went to ice. She knew.
Silence. Then another series of knocks, harder. “Roz. I know you’re in there. Open up.”
The voice was familiar, a smooth baritone she’d once found compelling. Now it just sounded entitled.
She thought about not answering. Let him think she was out. But the dread was a physical weight, and a perverse, tired part of her wanted it over with. To face the ghost and be done.
She opened the door a crack, the chain still on.
Leo filled the space. He was always too big for doorways, his presence expansive. Thirty-two, with the confident wear of a successful corporate lawyer who played at being rugged on weekends. His coat was expensive, damp at the shoulders. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were already scanning the room behind her.
“There you are,” he said. “You didn’t reply.”
“I was busy.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
His smile tightened. “Come on, Roz. Five minutes. We need to clear the air.” He leaned a forearm against the doorframe, a classic power pose. “It’s important.”
Behind her, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She didn’t need to look. It would be Ally. The juxtaposition was violently jarring.
“There’s no air to clear, Leo. It’s over. It was over months ago.”
“We never properly ended it,” he countered, his voice adopting a reasonable, legal tone. “It was just a break. A misunderstanding.”
“You sleeping with someone from your office was a very clear understanding.”
He had the decency to flinch, just a micro-expression. “A mistake. A huge, stupid mistake. I’ve ended it. With her. I’ve had time to think. We were good, Roz.”
“We weren’t.” Her voice was quieter than she wanted. “You were. I was just… there.”
He saw the opening, the self-doubt she’d never fully hidden from him. His gaze softened, turned penitent. “Please. Just let me in for a minute. It’s freezing out here. I just want to talk.”
It was the false warmth that did it. The manipulation she recognized too well. It sparked a flicker of anger, cutting through the fear. She slid the chain off. “Five minutes.”
He was inside in a second, shrugging off his coat, looking around her small flat with a proprietor’s eye. He noted the single mug by the sink, the blanket on the sofa. His posture relaxed. He thought she was alone, moping. Vulnerable.
“You look tired,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you? Look, I know I hurt you. Deeply. And I am so, so sorry.” He took a step toward her. He had a whole script, she could tell. A performance of contrition. “I’ve been in therapy. Seriously. Working on my… patterns. I want to be better. For you.”
“It’s not for me, Leo. It’s for the next one.”
He blinked, thrown off-script. The charming mask slipped for a second, revealing impatience. “Don’t be like that. This is real. What we had was real.”
“It was real for you when it was convenient.” The words were coming easier now, fueled by the memory of another man’s honesty in a dusty bookshop. “When I fit into the slots you allowed.”
“That’s not fair.” His voice took on an edge. “I supported you. I encouraged your studies.”
“You called them my ‘little hospital hobby.’“
A sharp knock at the door. Two crisp taps.
Roz froze. Leo’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing.
“Expecting someone?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Before she could answer, the door opened. Ally never waited for a second knock.
He stood in the doorway, a six-pack of fancy ginger beer in one hand, a small paper bag from the French bakery in the other. He was in jeans and a simple black jumper, his hair still damp from a shower. He’d come straight from training.
His easy smile—the one he’d clearly walked in with—died the instant he took in the scene.
He saw Leo, older, suited, standing too close to Roz in the middle of her living room. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the pale cast of her face. His eyes moved from her to Leo, and his whole body language shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic change. It was a subtle settling, a coiling of readiness. The same focused intensity she’d seen on the pitch.
“Hey,” Ally said, his voice neutral. He stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind him. He placed the drinks and the bag carefully on her small kitchen counter, as if disarming himself. “Didn’t realize you had company.”
Leo recovered first, the lawyer’s polish snapping back into place. He extended a hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “Leo Henderson. An old friend of Roz’s.”
Ally looked at the hand, then back at Leo’s face. He didn’t take it. “Alistair MacLeod.”
The name landed. Leo’s smirk faltered. Recognition flickered—the rugby player, the face from the sports pages. His eyes darted between Roz and Ally, reassessing the entire situation. The single mug, the blanket, the quiet flat—it all meant something different now.
“Right,” Leo said, retracting his hand slowly. “The rugby star. Roz never mentioned she was… mingling with celebrities.”
“We’re not mingling,” Roz said, finding her voice. It trembled only slightly. “Ally, this is Leo. My ex.”
Ally gave a single, slow nod. His gaze never left Leo. “The one from the text.”
It wasn’t a question. The room felt airless.
Leo’s face hardened. The pretend civility evaporated. “This is a private conversation, mate.”
“Doesn’t look very private,” Ally said, his tone still deceptively light. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. The movement pulled the fabric of his jumper taut across his shoulders. It wasn’t a threatening pose, but it was a statement of occupancy. Of permanence. “Looks like you’re leaving.”
A beat of silence, thick with antagonism. Roz could see the calculations behind Leo’s eyes. The physical comparison was laughable—Ally was younger, harder, built for conflict. But Leo’s weapon was words, precedent, psychological terrain.
“Roz and I have history,” Leo said, shifting his weight. “Things to resolve. You’re just the Friday night distraction, so why don’t you run along and let the adults talk?”
Ally’s jaw tightened. A muscle flickered in his cheek. He unfolded his arms and took one step forward, just one, into the center of the room. The distance between the two men closed by half.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Ally said, his voice low, stripped of all its usual charm. It was the voice he used in a ruck, cold and clear. “You’re going to turn around. You’re going to walk out that door. And you’re not going to text her, call her, or come within a mile of this flat again.”
Leo laughed, a short, derisive bark. “Or what? You’ll tackle me? I’m not one of your opponents on the telly, son. You lay a hand on me and I’ll own your contract, your car, and the shirt off your back before you can say ‘concussion protocol.’“
It was the wrong thing to say.
Ally moved. Not toward Leo, but to Roz. In two strides he was beside her, his body positioning itself subtly between her and Leo. He didn’t touch her, didn’t put his arm around her. He just was there, a solid, immovable barrier. But his focus was entirely on Leo, his eyes dark.
“You think I give a fuck about any of that right now?” Ally’s question was a whisper that cut through the room. The restraint in him was visible, a violent tremor held in check by sheer will. His hands were clenched at his sides, the knuckles white. “Try your lawsuit. See what happens. But if you ever, ever speak to her again, you won’t be dealing with the rugby player. You’ll be dealing with me. And we won’t be on a pitch with rules.”
The raw, unprotected truth in his voice was more frightening than any shout. This wasn’t an athlete reciting lines. This was something far more primal.
Leo took an involuntary step back. He’d misjudged entirely. He’d seen the celebrity, the public persona. He hadn’t seen the man beneath, the one from the Gothic novels, capable of deep, possessive shadows. He looked at Roz, seeking weakness, an opening.
She didn’t give him one. She stood straight, her eyes on Ally’s profile, drawing strength from his solid, furious presence.
With a final, seething glance that promised nothing good, Leo turned. He snatched his coat from the back of her chair, yanked the door open, and left without another word. The slam of the door shook the walls.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
Ally didn’t move for a long moment. She could see the adrenaline coursing through him, the fight-or-flight response with no physical outlet. His breathing was slow, deliberately controlled.
Finally, he turned to her. The fury in his eyes melted away, replaced by a frantic worry. “Are you okay? Did he touch you? Say anything before I got here?”
She shook her head, a wave of delayed shock making her limbs feel loose. “No. He just… talked. His usual stuff.”
“His usual stuff is shit,” Ally growled. He reached for her then, his hands coming up to cradle her face. They were trembling. “Christ, Roz. When I saw him standing there… I’ve never wanted to hit something so much in my life.”
“You were…” she searched for the word, “terrifying.”
“Good.” He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closing. “He needs to be terrified of coming near you. Ever again.”
They stood like that for a minute, in the quiet aftermath. The gentle tick-tock of her wall clock reasserted itself. The smell of rain and fresh bread from the abandoned paper bag filled the space.
He pulled back, his thumbs wiping under her eyes where, she realized, a few stray tears had escaped. “I brought you pain au chocolat,” he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Probably squashed now.”
A wet laugh escaped her. “I don’t care.”
He kissed her, softly this time, a seal against the ugliness. A reclaiming of the space. “I’m staying tonight,” he murmured against her lips. It wasn’t a question. “I’m not leaving you alone after that.”
She nodded into his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto the solid reality of him. The chapter with Leo, she felt with a sudden, crystalline certainty, was finally, irrevocably closed. It had ended not with a whimper, but with the silent, formidable promise of a different kind of man standing in the rain-flecked light of her messy flat, choosing her, protecting her, staying.
Outside, the Edinburgh rain kept falling, washing the streets clean. Inside, for the first time all evening, Roz felt truly, completely safe.
The silence stretched, comfortable now, filled only by the sound of their breathing and the distant swish of tires on wet tarmac below. She kept her face buried in the wool of his jumper, breathing in the clean scent of his soap and the faint, ever-present hint of liniment. His heart thudded steadily against her ear, a slow, powerful drum chasing the last jangles of fear from her nerves.
“He’s gone,” Ally murmured, his voice a low vibration in his chest. His hand moved in slow circles on her back. “He’s not coming back.”
Roz nodded, but the walls of her flat seemed to hold the echo of Leo’s voice, his entitlement seeping from the very plaster. This space was hers, but it felt suddenly porous, unsafe. The chain on the door seemed a pathetic defense.
She leaned back, looking up at him. The fierce protectiveness in his eyes had softened into a watchful concern. “Can we go to your flat, Ally, please?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Hey, of course, baby. Would it feel better there?”
“Yeah.” She glanced around the room, already feeling detached from it. “Jenni’s away with Andy… It just… if it makes you feel safer, sweetheart.”
“It does.” The word ‘safer’ felt immense.
A genuine smile touched his lips, warm and immediate. “We’ll have a nice weekend. I have training, no games, no plans.” He bent, resting his forehead against hers again, his tone shifting into a soft, playful lilt. “I’m all yours, darlin’.”
He kissed the tip of her nose and straightened up, his practicality returning. “Come on, get the things you need, sweetheart.” He picked up the forgotten bakery bag, peering inside. “Yep, definitely squashed. I’ll make you proper toast.” He reached for her coat, holding it open for her. “I’ll take you home to mine, baby.”
The simple domesticity of the phrase unspooled the last tight knot in her stomach. Home to mine. She moved quickly, grabbing her university rucksack, shoving in a laptop charger, a few textbooks, a soft hoodie. She paused, then opened a drawer and took out the small, fabric-covered journal she’d kept since starting med school.
Ally waited by the door, her coat still in his hands. He didn’t rush her. He just watched, a solid, patient presence in her cluttered space.
“Okay,” she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
He helped her into her coat, his hands lingering on her shoulders for a moment. Then he took the bag from her, his fingers lacing through hers. He turned off the light, plunging the flat into the grey gloom of the streetlamp-filtered rain, and led her out, locking the door behind them with a firm, final click.
The stairwell of her building smelled of damp stone and old carpet. Their footsteps echoed. Outside, the rain was a fine, persistent mist, painting halos around the streetlights on her narrow street. Ally’s car, a sensible but sporty estate, was parked a few yards down, beaded with moisture.
He opened the passenger door for her, waiting until she was settled before circling to the driver’s side. The engine purred to life, and the heater began blasting dry, warm air. He reached across and squeezed her knee. “Fifteen minutes. Then toast. Then whatever you need.”
As he pulled away from the curb, Roz watched her building shrink in the side mirror. She didn’t look back. She watched Ally instead, the concentrated ease with which he navigated the slick, shining streets, the way his profile was carved in the dashboard lights. The tension from the confrontation had melted from his shoulders, replaced by a focused calm.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet in the hum of the car.
He glanced at her, a quick, warm look. “Don’t. Not for that. Never for that.”
They drove in a comfortable silence, leaving the crowded city center, climbing through the leafier streets toward the Victorian villa flats of the Grange. The world outside became darker, grander, the trees swaying like black lace against the sky.
He pulled into a private drive beside a substantial sandstone building, its garden walls covered in ivy. “Here we are,” he said, his tone lighter. “Casa MacLeod. Much less interesting than a seaside hotel, but the locks are better.”
His flat was on the ground floor, with a private door around the side. He unlocked it, ushering her into a wave of warmth and the faint, pleasant smell of coffee and wood polish. The space was surprisingly tidy, open-plan, with high ceilings, bookshelves crammed with a mix of sports biographies and historical hardbacks, and a huge, worn leather sofa facing an unlit fireplace.
“Jenni’s a neat freak, thank God,” he said, dumping her bag and his keys on a side table. He shrugged out of his own coat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll stick the kettle on.”
Roz stood for a moment, taking it in. It felt entirely different. It felt like him. A guitar case stood propped in a corner. A framed print of an old map of Edinburgh hung on the wall. It was lived-in, peaceful.
She followed him into the sleek, modern kitchen area, watching as he filled a kettle, fetched bread, moved with a relaxed efficiency. He caught her looking and smiled. “What?”
“It’s just so… you.”
“Aye, well, wait ‘til you see the chaotic jumble of my sock drawer. The illusion will shatter.” He popped bread into the toaster. “So. This nice weekend. It starts now. Pyjamas. Toast. Maybe a terrible film. Your call, Doctor.”
The normalcy of it, the gentle teasing, was a balm. The spectre of Leo in her flat began to recede, replaced by the reality of Ally’s kindness, the quiet hum of his refrigerator, the promise of toast. Here, the only thing that loomed was the weekend, vast and empty and theirs.
She leaned against the kitchen counter, finally allowing herself to fully breathe. “Pyjamas sound perfect.”
“Pyjamas sound perfect.”
He found her a pair of his own, soft grey cotton that swallowed her small frame, the cuffs flopping over her hands. She changed in his bathroom, the tiles cool under her feet, and the unfamiliar scent of his shampoo and soap—cedar and something clean—felt like a gentle erasure of the evening. When she emerged, he’d set two plates of golden toast and mugs of tea on the low table before the sofa. A fire, just gas but realistic, flickered in the grate.
“Proper toast,” he announced, gesturing with a knife. “Butter melting in. None of that artisan sourdough nonsense. This is healing bread.”
She smiled, tucking her legs beneath her on the sofa. The quiet here was different. It was a held breath finally released. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the simple act grounding.
“He came closer,” she said suddenly, the words quiet but clear in the room. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the flames. “When you were at the door. He came right into my space. Used his size. His voice.”
Ally put his plate down very carefully. He didn’t interrupt.
“He’s a bully.” She let the word hang, tasting its truth. “A horrible wee prick of a bully. All that lawyer talk, that reasonable act… it’s just the wrapping. The core of him is just… petty tyranny.”
“Aye.” Ally’s voice was a low rumble. He shifted to face her, drawing one knee up. “I know the type. Believe it or not, the guys I play with are hard nuts. Properly hard. But they’re not bullies. There’s a code. Bullies…” He searched for the words, his brow furrowing. “They pick on smaller people. They need that imbalance. They sniff out hesitation like sharks.”
She finally looked at him. His eyes were steady, intent.
“And you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone softening but losing none of its conviction. “You are way bigger than him. In your mind. In your soul, okay? He’s a small, angry thing in a expensive coat. You’re… you’re the one who fixes people. You’re the one who understood a line of 18th-century poetry about a ship in a storm while surrounded by lads shouting about scrums. You see the difference?”
Tears pricked her eyes again, but they were warm now, a relief. He saw it. He named it. He didn’t just offer physical protection; he articulated the deeper victory she hadn’t yet grasped.
“I froze for a second when I opened the door,” she admitted.
“So what? You still opened it. You still told him no. And then you let me in.” He reached over, his thumb catching a tear that escaped. “That’s the move. Letting the right people in. That’s how you win.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, affirming pressure. The taste of butter and tea and him. It was an anchor.
When he pulled back, his expression lightened. “Right. Film choice. Critical moment. Nothing romantic. Nothing with lawyers. I’m thinking… something with aliens or explosions. Or alien explosions.”
She laughed, the sound surprising her. “Alien explosions. Definitely.”
He found a ludicrous American action film, all grating metal and quippy one-liners. She curled into his side, her head on his chest, his arm a solid weight around her. The pyjamas, the fire, the absurd violence on the screen—it all coalesced into a perfect, protective cocoon. The fear that had clung to her since the knock on the door began to dissolve, replaced by a profound, bone-deep fatigue.
Halfway through the film, during a particularly noisy sequence involving a helicopter and a microwave emitter, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it. A teammate’s name flashed. He ignored it.
“You can get it,” she murmured.
“Nope. This is my nice weekend. No rugby. Just you, me, and scientifically inaccurate plasma cannons.”
She nudged him. “What if it’s important?”
He sighed, dramatic, and grabbed the phone. He read the message, his eyebrows lifting. A slow grin spread across his face.
“What?”
“It’s from Cam. The lock from Glasgow. Apparently, Leo Henderson—full name provided—has just been very publicly denied entry to the Whisky Room on George Street for being, and I quote, ‘a steaming wee bawbag who was harassing the barmaid.’” Ally’s grin turned wicked. “Cam may have suggested to the bouncer that the gentleman’s character was… lacking.”
Roz processed this. The cosmic justice of it. The swift, mundane downfall from her flat to a barred door on a street he’d probably deemed beneath him. She didn’t feel triumph. She felt a quiet, settling finality.
“The universe works fast,” she said.
“Sometimes it needs a nudge.” He tossed his phone aside, his attention fully back on her. “Now, where were we? Oh right. The fate of the planet hinges on this next bit.”
She settled back against him, but her mind wasn’t on the film. It was on the map of Edinburgh on his wall, the streets she knew so well. Leo was out there somewhere in the damp night, diminished, already a fading anecdote. And she was here, in a pool of firelight, swallowed in the cotton of a good man’s clothes.
Her own phone, buried in her rucksack, remained silent and dark. She knew it would stay that way. The thought wasn’t a hope, but a certainty. For the first time in months, the space around her felt entirely, unquestionably her own. The only thing piercing it was the predictable roar of cinematic explosions, and the steady, reliable rhythm of Ally MacLeod’s heart under her ear.