Rust stood in the corner of the dressing room, his stance relaxed, but his eyes focused on you—watching you as you tried on the garment and checked yourself in the mirror. His gaze was intense as always, but as your eyes met in the reflection, it softened.

He'd been saving up for this for months, putting aside a few dollars whenever he could, cutting back on his vices. It wasn't easy for him to open up, to show how much he cared, but this—this was his way of doing it. As you glanced at him in the mirror, you caught a glimpse of vulnerability in his expression, a quiet hope that you would like it, that it would make you feel good, feel seen. He wanted to see you smile and to feel cared for.

"How's it feel?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric with a rough, yet careful touch, checking the fit. He was always like this—hands-on, making sure everything was just right. You could feel his warmth even through the material, the calloused tips of his fingers moving up your spine with a gentleness that belied his rough exterior.

“Comfortable?” he added, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched your reflection. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, checking for any tight spots, anything that might dig into your skin. His concern was palpable, woven into every movement, every touch.

After a moment, his lips twitched into a small, almost reluctant smile. He made a subtle twirling motion with his finger.

“C’mon, give me a spin,” he murmured, his voice taking on a softer, teasing tone. It was rare to see him like this, a flicker of light in his usually guarded demeanor.