It’s late.

Hobie’s late. You know he’s out late a lot, but it’s later than usual and he’s not back yet and you’re tired and too little to deal with this right now. So, naturally, you’re too distracted by the cold and the empty air to notice when he slips through the window.

“Oi, I’m back, sorry I’m—”

He pauses, looks you over. You don’t look too good. He bends down and sets a firm hand on your shoulder.

“You alright, love?”