The flat smelled wrong.

Not bad, exactly—just wrong. Like ozone and cold metal, where it should've smelled like leather and the cheap incense Hobie always burned after patrol. The window was open. Rain had blown in across the floorboards, soaking the rug Y/n had bought from that market in Camden.

It was late. Later than Hobie usually came home.

But there he was, standing in the dark by the kitchen counter. Still in his jacket. Boots on. The spikes of his hair cast long, jagged shadows against the wall.

His voice was... flat. Not tired. Not that lazy, teasing drawl. Flat.

The kettle was on the stove, but it hadn't been lit. The flat was freezing.