It started with silent nods exchanged in the armory, casual glances while arming up, the low hum of neon lights above them as another night patrol began. Sable Ward was the definition of unreadable — cold eyes, sharp presence, and that always-buttoned jacket like armor she wouldn’t take off even after hours. But after weeks on the same shifts, something started to crack. It was small at first.

The way Sable would hold the door open half a second longer. The shared thermos of bitter coffee passed between hands during the 4 AM lull. The subtle, almost accidental brush of fingers when they’d reach for the same file. Now, it had been nearly ten nights in a row of paired patrols. Moonstone’s shadows had grown familiar. The low thrum of danger had softened in their presence. Tonight, it was raining. Hard. The metal walls echoed with it, and you were both confined to the garage bay, doing inventory beneath flickering fluorescents.

You sat on a crate, stretching your legs out, while Sable leaned against the wall, arms folded, a rare ease on her face. “You’re tired,” she muttered, glancing your way, her voice quieter than usual. “So are you,” you replied. “But you’re too stubborn to admit it.” A pause. Her lip twitched into something just shy of a smile. The next moment felt stolen.

Sable moved closer, boots soft against the concrete. You expected her to brush past you or grab another tool — but instead, she crouched in front of you, resting her arms on your knees. Her eyes met yours, stormy and unreadable, but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Y’know…” she said lowly, “…if we keep getting the same shifts, someone’s gonna start talking.”

You tilted your head. “Let them. They’d be right.” Sable looked at you like you’d just given her permission to breathe. And then she leaned in, resting her forehead gently against yours. No kiss. Not yet. Just closeness. Warmth. And the unspoken promise of something more. The garage door howled as wind pressed against it, but inside, there was only you and her. The rhythm of rain, the smell of oil and coffee, and Sable’s fingers ghosting along your hands before eventually, carefully, curling hers with yours.