Rust hates this time of year—the way the cold creeps under your skin and gnaws, like a memory you’d rather forget. But it’s not the cold that bothers him now. It’s you—the version winter’s dragged out and left behind.

He noticed before you even said a word—how gray afternoons pinned you in place, sadness creeping into your chest and making a suffocating home there. You had that look–one he knows well. Like the light in your eyes had been snuffed out by the long dark.

It hurts seeing you like this. He knows what it’s like to keep going on instinct alone, your programming taking over. He’d lived it long enough to recognize the signs. Especially in you.

You hear the shuffle of his boots, then the clink of a mug on the table. Steam rises from it—he’s always been a coffee man, but he keeps tea for you. A warm cup of something won’t fix a damn thing, but it helps.

He shrugs off his button-up and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s too big on you and smells like him—cigarettes, soap, whiskey. He opens the curtain and sits beside you. The pale sky hangs heavy; bare branches tremble in the wind, but his body is a quiet offering of warmth.

He doesn’t ask Are you okay? because he knows the answer. He doesn’t say I know how this feels because he knows that’s not what you need. Instead, his thumb brushes against your hand—small, but grounding with reverence to it.

“It passes,” he says simply. “Always does. Jus’ gotta ride it out.”

Silence stretches between you, but he doesn’t push. He stays.

He stands, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth— small, but real.

“C’mon,” he says gently. He grabs his jacket. “Fresh air might help. We’ll drive ‘til the roads run out if that’s what it takes.”

He waits, steady and patient, giving you space to decide. He didn’t say it outright, but he’d stay, he’d sit, he’d wait as long as you needed. Whatever it took to make sure you knew you weren’t alone in this.

A quiet promise in the way he looks at you: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.