Chapter 2

I woke the next morning to the sound of moving boxes in the living room.

My internal clock had me up early anyway, but today the dull ache in my chest seemed to have faded another notch. I walked out to find Grace directing a crew of movers, hauling cardboard boxes stamped with Fred's Personal Items straight into the master bedroom.

Morning light spilled across her busy profile. Everything looked so natural—like this was exactly how it was supposed to be.

"You're up?"

She didn't even glance at me. Her tone was flat, like she was commenting on the weather.

"Fred's health is fragile. The doctor says keeping his spirits up might actually give him a fighting chance against the cancer, so I'm having him move in. Give him a home first."

"What about me?" I asked. My voice came out steadier than I expected.

She finally stopped and turned, a tiny crease forming between her brows—like my question was an inconvenience.

"Guest room. You're always in the study anyway. Besides, Fred needs care—it's easier if he's close."

I didn't argue. Just nodded and headed to the study.

The shelves were stacked with books I'd collected over the years—hunting techniques, survival skills, tool-making, everything about how wolves lived in the old world. I'd planned to compile them into something useful after Grace and I settled down. Maybe one day they'd actually matter.

Now they were the only comfort I had left. The only place that still felt like mine.

By afternoon, Fred arrived.

Still pale, still fragile, draped across the sofa like a wilting flower—and Grace hovered over him like a devoted wife, fussing and feeding and tending.

"Thorne, I'm really putting you out, aren't I? Taking over yours and Grace's bridal suite," Fred said with a weak little smile—but his eyes gleamed with quiet victory.

I didn't answer. Just kept sorting through my things.

Not that there was much to pack. Most of what I owned belonged to this world. Belonged to her. Nothing I could take with me.

Still, I found myself pulling out the few items that were mine—the ones from before. I didn't want him touching them. Didn't want them dirtied by this farce.

Grace caught me rifling through drawers and finally frowned.

"Thorne, what is this now? Fred's already moved in—can you please act like an adult for once?"

I stopped mid-motion and looked at her.

For the first time, I looked at her like a stranger.

No love. No hurt. No resentment.

Just... nothing.

"I'm not acting out," I said quietly. "Just sorting things."

"Sorting things for what?" Her voice sharpened with suspicion. "Don't tell me you're still thinking of leaving. Thorne, be real—you leave me, you've got nobody in this city. Absolutely nowhere to go."

Fred let out a mocking laugh from the couch. "Oh, don't tell me—Thorne here's going to say he can just go back to his own time or something? That fairy tale might work on Grace, but come on. If you've got a problem with me, say it to my face. I'll leave. Just drop the act."

Grace's expression went cold. "Thorne! How long are you going to keep spinning these ridiculous stories? Fred is sick—can't you just let him have some peace?"

I looked at her and almost laughed.

Ten years together, and she'd never once believed me. Now she was using my honesty as ammunition—painting it as attention-seeking, as excuses, as lies.

Good. Maybe that made this easier.

That night, I slept in the guest room.

Through the wall, muffled voices drifted from the master bedroom—soft, intimate, gentle. Every syllable was a quiet verdict on what we'd had.

And none of it mattered anymore.