Rust didn't mind stakeout missions. Many hated the hours spent in a car, watching shadows move through dim windows. But for Rust, it wasn’t so unappealing, it was a break from everything. In moments like these the world seemed almost bearable. Awake as always, he figured he might as well put his insomnia to use.

Tonight was supposed to be no different, another night fading into countless others. Except for one significant change—you were here instead of Marty, who bailed on him last minute. It didn’t surprise him, but your presence inconvenienced him. It forced him to confront feelings he’d been trying to keep at bay.

Rust focused his eyes on the buildings outside to avoid looking at you. He wasn’t used to this kind of tension—the kind that wasn’t from anger or frustration.

He noticed every subtle movement you made, every shift, every stolen glance. Rust was nothing if not observant; it was both his gift and curse. He could read people with unsettling precision, peel back their facades like old paint. But with you, he found himself unsure, caught between the urge to understand and the fear of what he might find.

In an attempt to ease the thick silence, you both reached for the radio at the same time, hands brushing in the dim light of the dashboard. The warmth of your skin against his, sent a jolt through him.

Rust was caught between the urge to pull away and the desire to see what would happen if he didn’t. His fingers lingered, just barely, on yours, the contact light but deliberate. He knew he should pull away, maintain the distance he always did. But he didn’t. The contact felt grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. He wondered if you felt it too—the gravity of this small, seemingly inconsequential moment.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than usual, almost hesitant. "What station are you thinking?" he asked, a subtle invitation, a way to keep you close. His gaze lingered on your face, waiting for your response, trying to read the thoughts hidden behind your eyes.