It had been a few days since you'd returned home and things weren’t going great. Tension weighed down the house. Before your return, your mom had been acting strange, always "busy" when you wanted to talk.

And then, there was Rust. The reason why.

You hadn’t expected him. He wasn't your mom's type, in fact, he was more your type. The type of guy she dreaded to see you entangled with. But here they were. It didn’t make sense.

Tonight, Rust was in the kitchen, his back to you, the soft hiss of a beer being opened filling the otherwise silent house.

You’d been angry that your mom hadn’t told you anything about him, that she’d hidden this whole relationship like a dirty secret.

You stood in the doorway, watching him. His frame was tall, but lean under the worn-out buttoned shirt he always wore. He turned slightly, catching your eyes without surprise, like he always knew when someone was watching him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low, raspy, always feeling like it carried more weight than what was being said. He didn’t smile—Rust never really smiled—but there was something in his gaze, something that made it hard to look away.

Rust leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. The dim light cast shadows across his face, accentuating his haunted look. You knew he’d been through hell. The way he sometimes spoke, the things he hinted at—it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. And despite the fact that you should be hating him for being with your mom, there was something about him that made you want to know more.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, his gaze never leaving you. “Figure that means somethin’s on your mind.”

Rust wasn’t one to judge, but he wasn’t one to offer comforting platitudes either. He noticed your eyes flick over to the beer in his hand, and asked, “Want one?”

He set the beer down in front of you, and pulled another from the fridge.

His eyes were on you, steady. Rust wasn’t someone you should be feeling anything for, and yet, here you were.