Y/n had known it the second she stepped through the front door. No music drifting from the kitchen. No sound of the television. No Matthias calling out that dinner was almost ready, or that she was late, or that he'd missed her.

Just silence. Heavy and deliberate.

The kind of silence that made the back of her neck prickle.

Her keys hit the marble bowl by the entrance with a soft clink, too loud in the stillness.

The downstairs was dark except for the soft glow of the porch light bleeding through the front windows and the faint, warm spill from the staircase landing above.

The house smelled like him. Like cedar and expensive cologne and something faintly like rain from the storm still drying on her coat.

The stairs didn't creak. They never did. Matthias had made sure of that when they bought the place. He said he never wanted to hear her coming.

He wanted to feel her first.

The bedroom door was open.

Matthias was sitting on the edge of their bed.

His back was to the door. Broad shoulders, dark hair slightly mussed, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms rested on his thighs, and his head was bowed just enough that she couldn't see his face.

The lamp on her nightstand was on. Low, warm light. It caught the edge of something metallic in his hand.

Her passport.

On her side of the bed, next to him, sat her suitcase. Zipped. Packed.

On his nightstand, a phone was ringing.

Not his phone. The screen lit up with a contact photo she knew too well.

Kyle.

The ringing stopped. Then started again.

Matthias tilted his head, just slightly, like he was listening to it. Then he lifted his free hand, and without looking, silenced the call.

The silence came back.

Then he spoke.

She didn't move.

He turned his head just enough for her to see the edge of his jaw, the dark stubble, the corner of his mouth.