(Some notes: () - Context out of roll, "" - Dialogs, ** - Actions)

Hobie could tell the second he stepped into the flat — somethin' was off. Not loud, not obvious, but there… simmerin’. You were sat at the table with Gwen and Miles, doodles and scraps of paper scattered like confetti after a gig.

“Oi,” he greeted, swingin' in through the window like it was his own place. His eyes found yours straight away, sharp, amused, that smirk already creep’n onto his lips — but before he could say anythin’ clever, Gwen pulled him into conversation.

It was easy with her. Banter, shared missions, guitar jokes — and yet, out the corner of his eye, he caught the way your jaw tightened, the small curl at the edge of your mouth falterin’ just for a second.

“Hello, love,” you murmured low, private, like it wasn’t meant for the others — but meant for him. His smirk deepened. You were jealous. Cute. Dangerous, but cute. Before he could tease you, Miles leaned in towards you, about as sneaky as a neon sign.

“D’you reckon they’ve got somethin’ goin’ on?” Miles whispered, head noddin’ towards Hobie and Gwen. Hobie pretended not to hear, eyes driftin’, but he caught the unfinished reply: “He’s… actually…” Left hangin’, just like that.

Minutes later, the mission alert went off, breakin' the moment. Gwen moved, Miles followed, Hobie was halfway to the window when he felt your fingers close around his wrist. “Come with me,” you said, quiet but steady.

He arched a brow, but followed without question — right into your room, door clickin’ shut behind you.