That night I made spaghetti with meat sauce—a simple, easy dish—and put the leftovers on a plate in the fridge for Thorne to re-heat when he pleased. Of Thorne himself, I saw nothing, which was fine by me.

After my accidental trip down memory lane that morning, I'd spent the rest of the day carefully focused on the present.

I explored the house, took Dougal for a walk along the river, washed some windows, and aired out several rooms. In the process I'd discovered that Thorne was right: he hadn't been keeping up on the place, and I had my work cut out for me.

To be honest, I don't really mind. It gave me something to do—something physical that demands little thought. By evening, I'm pleasantly exhausted and, after enjoying a rather long bath in an enormous claw-foot tub, take myself to bed.

I rise early from a mercifully dreamless sleep and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. It's still dark, sunrise an hour off yet, and the house is steeped in a cool, pervasive silence.

Dane might think the house is creepy, but to me it just seems peaceful—restorative, even. As I traverse the hall and then descend the stairs, I notice Thorne's jacket hanging by the door. He must have got home some time in the night, after his late shift at the animal hospital. There was no sign of Dougal, and I wondered if he slept in Thorne's room.

In the kitchen I set the coffee brewing and then examined the contents of the fridge. Thorne had told me I was welcome to whatever he had on hand, at least until I had a chance to do some shopping of my own, and I settled on eggs, bacon, and home-made hash browns. The last two could be reheated easily enough if Thorne wanted some when he woke up.

It seemed he'd enjoyed the spaghetti, at least, judging from the dirty dishes I found in the sink. Frowning, I washed and put them away. It was far too early to be getting annoyed at the habits of my new 'housemate,' I knew; and beside that, I had no right to do so—it was his house, after all.

There's a small dining area attached to the kitchen—a sort of 'breakfast nook,' I suppose, or maybe it's where the servants would be expected to eat—with a simple rectangular table just large enough to seat six with the chairs very close. I wonder if Thorne eats here, or if he prefers the formal dining room, eating alone at the head of the long table.

I've just sat down with a cup of hot coffee and a plate of crispy bacon, browned potatoes, and fried eggs, when Thorne himself appears.

He must be one of those monsters who doesn't need much sleep.

He's dressed in loose cotton pants, a t-shirt, and a tartan robe, and looks very much the lord of the manor: tall, pale, and imposing, with his curling auburn hair spread over his shoulders in artful disarray.

"Good morning," he says, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thanks. Er...yourself?" I return, setting down my fork.

He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug and casts a glance at the food remaining in the pans. "No eggs?"

"Oh...I didn't know you'd be up so soon," I say. No one likes a re-heated egg. He slides the bacon and hash browns onto a plate and pulls out the chair on the side to my left.

"Ah, you have two I see. Share?" he asks, eyeing my eggs.

"O-Of course," I agree automatically, mostly because he's already reached across me and snagged one with his fork, lifting it to his own plate.

"Over easy," he comments. "Just the way I like."

He winks and one side of his mouth lifts in a smile that could just as easily be a smirk.

"Plans for the day?" he asks, digging in.

"Oh...er, n-no. At least, not until later tonight."

He raises his brows, nibbling a piece of bacon and inviting me to say more.

"I'm meeting with my brother and his...his partner...to discuss a case."

"Case? Your brother's a lawyer, then?"

"N-No," I stammer. "He's a d-detective. A p-private detective."

Thorne pauses mid-sip, watching me over the rim of his coffee cup. "You stutter when you're nervous," he states.

"S-Sorry," I say, and bite the inside of my cheek. "An old habit, I guess."

"Don't be sorry," he replies, still watching me. "I find it's rather sweet."

I feel my face flush, but fortunately my complexion doesn't lend itself to fiery blushes, and I hope he doesn't notice the extra color in my cheeks.

"Are you always nervous, or is it just me?" he asks around a bite of food, regarding me with detached interest.

Now anger adds heat to my already burning embarrassment, and I take a slow, careful bite of food. It's much too early in the morning for verbal sparring, as far as I'm concerned, and for that matter it seems like he should be thanking me for making him breakfast instead of insulting the state of my nerves.

I chew and swallow and, infuriatingly, he continues to watch me, clearly waiting for an answer. I decide to be honest—honesty makes people uncomfortable, and maybe if I turn his raw candor back on himself, he'll leave me alone.

I take a deep breath. "No, it's not you," I say quietly, wiping my mouth on a linen napkin and sitting back in my chair. "I've always been...reserved...and uncomfortable in social situations. Especially with strangers. I had a bad stutter as a child, which didn't help, but I overcame it, eventually. It only comes back now when I'm...stressed."

"Moving is stressful, aye," he agrees, thankfully turning his attention back to his plate. "What's brought that on, by the way?"

"The move?"

"Mm," he nods, mouth full.

"I lost my job," I say, hardening my voice to keep it steady. "And my home, and my...partner."

I'm not sure what else to call Thom. In retrospect, he wasn't really my 'boyfriend,' or my 'lover.' We never went out in public together as a couple, or even spent time together outside of home. At the time, I hadn't really noticed how odd that was, because I was happy enough to stay in. Now I realize it was because he hadn't wanted to be seen with me.

"Ah—a breakup," Thorne says, not unsympathetically. "You or her?"

Meaning whose fault, I gather.

I take another deep breath before I answer. I'm not interested in hiding who I am—other than the fact that I'm a Wolf, that is—and if Thorne doesn't like it, the sooner he knows the better.

"Him," I say.

Thorne doesn't say anything, and when I look up, I find him looking at me with one eyebrow raised, head tilted slightly back, staring down the bridge of his long nose. That same, smirk-like half-smile twists one side of his face.

"His loss, I take it?" he says.

"Not really," I mumble, turning my attention back to my food, though it no longer interests me.

The only thing Thom had lost was my affection and respect, and those were clearly nothing he'd miss.

When I look up again, Thorne is still watching me, but his expression has lost its sharp edge. His amusement is gone, replaced by something more thoughtful and dark, his eyelids half lowered and the shape of his mouth at rest.

"Perhaps a fresh start is just the thing you need," he says thoughtfully. "Though I can't give you much advice in that department. I'm something of a 'confirmed bachelor,' myself, as they used to say—though I've little more interest in the lads than the lasses, to be quite honest. Perhaps it's my nature, or perhaps I haven't yet 'found the one,' as it were. Regardless, I prefer my own company...in most ways."

His smirk returns, and a flicker of red-brown fire lights his eyes.

I blink and look away, taking a too-large gulp of coffee and then barely managing not to choke.

"Well..." He rises abruptly, pushing back his chair with a scrape and clatter of wood against the flag-stone floor. "It's back to bed for me. It was only the smell of breakfast that lured me out. Good luck with your 'case,' whatever that may be. Oh, and...if you could have dinner out before you leave, I'd much appreciate it. I've got another evening shift tonight."

He throws me a wink and departs without another word, leaving his dishes on the table. I stare at them a moment, wondering what I ought to do. If I leave them as they are, the remnants of egg will dry and probably never come off, but I don't want to start a bad habit of cleaning up after him.

After thinking about it for far too long, I gather up both our plates and carry them to the sink.

~ ☾ ~

The day passed pleasantly enough. I cleaned a bit—making a special effort to clear out the fireplace in the living room, which had been boarded up.

The house is a strange mix, I find; some things appear clean and regularly used, while others look like they belong in a Shirley Jackson novel.

As it nears time for me to leave, I waver. On the one hand, Thorne's presumption that I'm 'making dinner' at all, rubs me the wrong way (I'm actually planning to eat at Dane and Julian's), but on the other hand, we've only known each other a few days, and in that very short time he's given me quite a lot. The least I can do is cook him a meal.

The problem is, I don't know what he likes.

In the end, I make some chicken piccata and a salad, and leave it in the fridge. If he doesn't like it, he can find his own dinner, and I'll eat it myself for next day's lunch.

Around four, I depart, leaving Dougal outside in the yard, as Thorne suggested I do.

You'd think a perk of being a werewolf would be the ability to speak to dogs, but it's not.

I can only look Dougal in his soft brown eyes and tell him to be a good boy as I pat his head (or what I can reach of it in the confines of his cone) and try not to look back as I walk to my car, his tragically lonesome gaze fixed on my back as I go.