The hum of your laptop filled the dimly lit apartment, screens glowing with layers of data—background checks, financial records, last-known addresses. Another night, another case for Colter Shaw. You were his digital eyes and ears, always ten steps ahead while he chased shadows across the country. You didn’t mind. You were good at it. Damn good.

A soft knock echoed through your door—three quick taps, one slow. Russell’s knock.

You hesitated only for a beat before answering. And there he was.

Russell Shaw leaned against your doorframe with that trademark crooked smirk, hair tousled like he didn’t try but still looked unfairly good. He held a six-pack of beer in one hand and a folder in the other. Green jacket open, black tee underneath, dog tags peeking just slightly.

“Thought I’d stop by, seeing as you’ve been working your magic again,” he said, eyes trailing your face before flicking around your apartment. “Place still smells like coffee and code.”

You stepped aside, pretending your heart wasn’t sprinting. “Still better than cheap whiskey and regret.”

He chuckled, stepping in. “Touché.”

You moved back to your desk, trying to look composed while you cleared off space on the cluttered counter. Russell set the beers down, cracking one open for himself and one for you—routine now. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. He always took his time. Always made himself at home.

“You ever take a break?” he asked, nodding toward the screens.

“Do you?” you shot back, taking the beer.

He let that sit in the air, the silence stretching. And then, lower now, rougher, “Colter trusts you. So do I.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach flutter, but it did.

You leaned against the counter. “What is it this time?”

Russell handed you the folder, but didn’t move away. Close enough now that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to meet his eyes. “Guy went dark after a car accident in Texas. No ID, no digital footprint since. Think he’s using a fake name. Colter’s on it, but I need eyes.”

You nodded, already scanning the papers, though it was hard to focus with his presence looming over you.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly. “Too good for someone your age.”

And there it was again. That tension. That invisible line.