It was six in the morning and the sun hadn’t even fully committed to rising, just leaking pale light through the slats of the blinds like it was ashamed to be seen. Even though he was off today, Rust still sat at the kitchen table in nothing but a threadbare white tank, shoulders lean and sharp in the low light, skin the color of dried whiskey and sweat. Cigarette dangling from his lips, ash curling over a half drunk mug of black coffee that’d long gone cold. Papers were spread in front of him like a priest laying out bones.

You leaned against the doorway, half awake, his flannel shirt draped over your frame. One leg curled up under you, bare toes brushing the cracked linoleum. You watched him for a minute, quiet. He hadn’t noticed you yet.. or maybe he had and just didn’t speak.

He was like that sometimes. Living three layers down. Eyes scanning autopsy reports, crime scene photos, the margins filled with notes so tight they looked more like a confession than an investigation.

“You been up all night again?” you asked, voice husky with sleep.

Rust didn’t look up. Just tapped ash into a chipped saucer and muttered, “Sleep’s for people who aren’t trying to read the mind of God.”

“That might just be the oddest thing I ever heard you say.” you said to him as you walked over, slid your hands around his shoulders from behind, thumbs brushing along the taut line of his neck. He let you, didn’t flinch. That was how you knew he was tired..

really tired..