Not broken. Not burning. But when I open Rookie's door and step into the hallway, the air has a weight to it I haven't felt before.
His side of the bed was cold when I woke up. Laptop gone from the desk. Boots gone from the floor.
He left before dawn without waking me, which he's never done.
The common room is occupied but silent.
Two brothers I don't know well, Daemon and Wraith, sit at the bar with coffee and expressions carved from the same stone Bloodhound wears.
They glance at me when I pass and look away without speaking.
The chapel door is closed.
Light bleeds from underneath it.
Voices too low to make out, the murmur of men having a conversation nobody else is supposed to hear.
I pour myself coffee in the kitchen and stand at the counter the way I stand at my own counter every morning.
Hands wrapped around the mug, spine straight, reading the room.
Ellie is at the stove, scrambling eggs.
She doesn't look at me when I walk in, which is unusual. Ellie always looks. Ellie always reads.
Today she's stirring eggs and staring at the pan with the focus of a woman who's keeping her attention on the only thing in the room she can control.
"Morning." I say it to her shoulder.
She nods without turning. "Morning, sweetheart. Eggs are almost done."
No follow-up. No pointed observations. No Ellie-style assessment of whether I've slept enough, eaten enough, or have enough layers on for early March.
The absence of her normal routine tells me more than any conversation could.
I eat the eggs standing up.
Prospect rules don't apply to me, but sitting at the table feels wrong this morning.
Everything about this kitchen feels like a held breath.
Rookie appears in the doorway twenty minutes later.
He's wearing the same clothes from last night, his hair pushed in four different directions, circles under his eyes dark enough to look like bruises.
He sees me, and his expression does something complicated.
Relief and tension layered on top of each other, two emotions fighting for the same space on his face.
He crosses the kitchen, presses his lips to my forehead, and pours himself coffee without speaking.
"You okay?" I ask it to the side of his jaw.
He takes a long pull from the mug. "Club stuff."
Two words. The same two words he gave me at the Backroads reopening when his phone buzzed and he disappeared into the hallway.
Except this time the words are heavier and his shoulders are carrying something I can't see.