The nice thing about not really giving a fuck about whether you pass or not - when there are more important things than vanity and pitch forks at stake - you can go anywhere regardless of what you look like. Like Lorne. Few days after Valentine's, he decides to pay Fitz a visit, so here he is. Here he is, leaning against his door, waiting for him to come back home sweet home.

His head's bowed when he comes into view, his fedora casting shadows over his gloved hands cupped in front of his mouth, and they in turn shield the tell tale flickering of a match.

This is not a social call. Fitz would know this - the green guy never smokes unless he's on edge.