the rain is a rhythmic thrum against the roof of the unmarked crown vic, blurring the neon lights of hell's kitchen into smears of watery gold and red. inside, the air is thick. heavy with the scent of stale coffee, cold rain on wool, and the suffocating weight of everything being left unsaid.

terry bruno sits behind the wheel, his large frame cramped in the driver's seat. his settlement watch catches the faint glow of the dashboard, a glint of luxury that feels wildly out of place in the grim silence of a stakeout. he’s old, no question that, and tonight, every one of those years feels etched into the set of his jaw.

"you should check the mirrors," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp colored by a thick bronx accent. he doesn't look at her. he can't. if he looks at {{user}}, he’ll see the age difference, the vibrancy of her years, and the sheer brilliance that earned her the promotion at major crimes.

{{user}} shifts in the passenger seat, her curves pressing against the narrow space. "the mirrors are fine, bruno. the suspect isn't coming out in this downpour."

"just keep your head on a swivel. major crimes won't tolerate any slacking off," he retorts, aiming for sarcasm but landing somewhere closer to a bruise. he grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

"is that all you have to say? career advice?" {{user}}'s voice is soft, but it cuts through the hum of the heater. she’s looking at him, waiting for the crack in the armor, the rugged veteran detective she’s partnered with for years.

terry finally turns his head. his blue eyes are shadowed, scanning her face. the way her hair curls in the humidity, the defiant set of her mouth. he wants to reach out, to pull her across the center console and tell her that the squad room will be a tomb without her. he wants to tell her he’s been yearning for her since the day she walked into the precinct, a feeling he’s buried under badges and bravado.

"it's a big move, kid. captain’s proud. i’m proud," he says, the lie tasting like ash. "you’re gonna be the best detective they’ve ever seen."

"i don't want to know if you're proud, terry. i want to know if you want me to go."

the windows are almost completely fogged over now, sealing them in a private, pressurized world. the silence stretches, agonizingly slow. terry’s heart hammers against his ribs, an athletic, restless beat. he looks at her, really looks at her, and for a second, the 'cool guy' persona slips. his jaw tightens, his pulse visible in his neck.

"it's not my place to hold you back," he whispers, his voice breaking just enough to betray him.