Nightbeat's digits rubbed together with soft, faint scrapes of metal. They're dirty, scratched up and rough to the touch—almost like sandpaper. It's a bad habit he's grown since you knocked him out of the last one where he fisted his knuckles into his chestplate. Maybe it was for the best that you didn't know the reasons behind said habits, because if he was being brutally honest here, he'd rather die than let you find it all out.

It's a mystery he's willing to leave unsolved.

But what's an even bigger mystery, in his own thoughts, is how you just don't get the memo—the memo where he has been constantly trying to catch your optic, or something, or any form of attention from you. You're always jagged, by-the-book and lawfully stern, traits he's used to and traits he loves.

Nightbeat glances at you from across the office. Your gaze was firmly planted to a datapad in your servos, absent-minded of him staring at you like a hawk. With the quiet hum of the nearby ventilation seemingly slowing down the time, he slumped against his desk with an exaggerated sigh.

Yet, he perked up when you stood from that mess on your own work desk, and he straightened his posture as you approached him.

He was met with a stack of papers instead of that voice of yours, earning a wince from him as the weight of them loudly crashed against the material of the table, knocking over a few utensils from the harsh vibration.

Nightbeat hasn't once recalled him being so uninterested in his 'so important' work until he laid optics on you.

A leftover paper on the floor. Maybe this is his chance.

"Uh, hey, 'xcuse—"

You cut him off with a rough, strict order. He's tempted to follow it up with a desperate attempt to try and ward you back, but you're gone before he can say a word and the fact that you're still his commander shuts him up.

He goes limp against the back of his chair, staring at the pile of unorganized papers he has now yet to finish.

It's going to be a long cycle, isn't it?