The Wolves ✓

31; forgive

2 months later.

Freya looked at herself in the mirror as she tied her hair up into a loose bun. The sun lit up the room, sliding past the pastel pink curtains and dancing across the floral wallpaper. Glancing down at the framed family pictures, she took a deep breath.

Downstairs, the front door open and closed. Freya could see Greg walking down the driveway and disappearing into the street. He was gone and wouldn't be back until much later. Sometimes he would stay out until sunset and share a silent dinner with Freya as their only interaction during the day.

Freya was starting to grow numb as she found herself alone more often. It had been two months since they'd been living this way but part of her clung to the hope that things would change one day.

People had begun moving into the houses on the street. Houses they now owned because there was nobody left to claim them. Freya walked out of the room and continued downstairs. Nobody had come to claim the house they were currently living in and so had been given an opportunity to keep it as their own.

Greg didn't have a problem with it so naturally, Freya agreed as well.

It was their house now.

There were piles of boxes near the entrance, things that had been left behind that they didn't need. She reminded herself that she would have to throw them out by nightfall so that they would be cleared by disposal early next morning.

Freya filled the kettle and turned it on. The house was silent except for the water that soon began to bubble.

And then there was a knock on the door.

She was startled but quickly rushed to the door, peeking through the hole to see who it was. Her breath hitched in her throat and she frowned, in confusion and surprise. Above the handle, her hand hovered. She was reluctant to open it.

"Freya?" Tristan asked from the other side.

She stayed quiet, not wanting him to know that she was home.

"I know you're there, Freya. I just wanted to see you," he said, looking directly at the door. Freya swallowed, nervously. It was like he could see her but she had to remind herself that there was no way that he could.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, bravely.

Tristan's features softened at the sound of her voice.

"I brought you a few things."

"Why?"

"No reason," Tristan said, nervously.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Please can you open the door?"

Freya felt like she was experiencing deja vu.

"No threats this time?"

"No," he swallowed.

Some time passed and neither of them moved or said anything. Freya reluctantly opened the door, remembering the first time she saw him but under such different circumstances.

"How are you?" he asked, taken aback from how beautiful she looked up close again.

She glanced at the bags near his feet and then back at him. His hair was disheveled and he had let his beard grow out a little, just enough to be called stubble. She felt her palms grow a little sweaty but realised that he didn't look that way intentionally. From the bags under his eyes, she wondered how well he had been doing.

"I'm okay, surprised to see you."

"I'm sorry for popping up unannounced," he told her. "But there was no way to let you know beforehand."