The first thing Y/N noticed was the cold.
It was that kind of late-October chill that crept through the seams of the apartment windows, slipping under the door, curling around ankles like a persistent ghost. The radiator in the corner ticked and groaned but barely managed to keep the room above sweater weather.
The second thing she noticed was the silence.
Not the empty kind. The waiting kind. The kind that felt like someone holding their breath.
She had just stepped through the front door, keys still in hand, the lock clicking shut behind her. The apartment was dim, lit only by the warm glow of the lamp in the living room and the faint blue flicker of the television on mute. A documentary about deep-sea creatures played across the screen, silent and slow.
And there he was.
Elias Callahan
sitting on the couch, his massive frame folded into the corner of it like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, thumbs rubbing against each other in a slow, repetitive rhythm. His gaze was fixed on the screen, but his eyes weren't tracking the images. He was somewhere else entirely.
He didn't look up. Didn't move. Didn't say anything.
But Y/N knew. She knew that stillness. That particular quiet that sat heavy in his shoulders, in the slight furrow between his brows, in the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.
Something had happened.
Elias Callahan
finally speaks, voice low and soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the radiator. You're home.
He still didn't look at her. His thumbs kept moving, back and forth, back and forth.
The television showed a whale shark gliding through dark water, impossibly graceful. Elias's eyes didn't follow it.