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."

"How are you?" she eyed him, skeptically.

"Been better," he chuckled and then shook his head. "Anyway, can I carry these inside for you?"

"What is it?"

"Some groceries," he picked them up and then looked at her.

In the early morning sun, the tips of his brown hair looked golden and his eyes were simply, illuminated. He didn't look well but he didn't seem like a threat either.

"You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to," he interrupted her. "So, may I drop them inside?"

"Okay," she said after a long moment of deliberation.

She closed the door behind him and led him to the kitchen. Still confused as to why he was being a good Samaritan, she watched him put the bags on the counter.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

He was surprised but quickly cloaked it. "You're welcome."

An awkward silence followed and Freya had no idea what to say to him. Tristan had been longing for the day he would be in the presence of his mate again but now that he was, he feared that she just wanted him to leave.

"How's Greg?" he asked, nervously.

"He's okay," she shrugged.

"He's not home," he noted.

Freya raised an eyebrow, "No, he isn't. Why?"

He shook his head, "No reason, just observing."

When she didn't say anything, he continued. "We've been rebuilding our pack house."

Freya pursed her lips, "Uhuh?"

"It was damaged after the fire," he told her. "Been busy with that."

"Good," she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

He took a moment before speaking, "There's another reason I came here today."

Freya waited for him to continue.

He let out a breath, "I wanted to apologise for how I've treated you and your brother in the past."

Freya swallowed, surprised by his admittance.

"I was a dick," he said, plainly. "With the witches and at the pack house. I should have been better."

Freya was quiet, too surprised to formulate any words. "It doesn't matter," she finally said. "You didn't have to come here and apologise."

"I think I did," he corrected her. "Because I've been losing sleep over this."

"Your pack terrorised us," Freya chuckled half-heartedly. "You gave me over to a psychotic witch for no reason. I'm not sure why you've suddenly remembered all of this."

"I'm trying to make amends," he told her.

"And I'm trying to move on," she said, abruptly. "I'm trying to forget everything, my parents' deaths, my life falling apart. All of it. And that includes you."

Tristan listened, silently.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Tristan. But our paths crossed, and now the smoke is gone. I'd like to keep it all in the past so you don't have to give me food or be my friend because it doesn't matter, literally," she finished.

"I didn't mean to make you upset," he looked away, briefly.

"How else did you think I was going to react?" she asked, exasperated.

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he asked softly.

"Maybe, I don't know," Freya said, honestly. "Why does it matter to you though?"

"I told you I think about it all the time."

Freya shook her head. She couldn't find it in her heart to be more accepting.

"I'll go now," Tristan finally said and began to walk out of the kitchen and to the front door.

Freya followed him to lock the door.

Tristan stopped on the mat outside and looked at his mate, feeling as helpless as he ever had.

"My number is in the shopping bag, if you ever want to reach out for help or anything. I'm sorry again, Freya," he swallowed, nervously. He expected her to slam the door shut or shout at him but she just looked confused and then disappointed.

"Have a nice life, Tristan," she finally said and closed the door.

Tristan left in his car, the weight of his shame crushing him. He had possibly lost his mate forever.