Quinn sat hunched on the old, wobbly stool in her kitchen, the wooden legs creaking under her slight weight. The dim light overhead flickered every now and then, casting irregular shadows across the small, cluttered space. Her hands cradled a steaming cup of tea, the warmth of it barely comforting her as she stared down into the swirling liquid. It was her go-to when she was feeling like complete garbage, the ritual of sipping on hot tea when life felt like it was unravelling.

Isaac had long known this about her, and he had made the tea for her before he left. He was familiar with her routines and her small comforts, and right now, this was all she had to hold onto.

The kitchen around her looked like something out of a forgotten time. The fridge in the corner groaned with every movement, its old hinges squealing in protest as it struggled to stay upright, giving the whole room a sense of decay. It was a familiar sound, one Isaac had heard all too often when he used to live in his father's house, back when it had been filled with the echoes of emptiness and neglect. Quinn's house, it seemed, was no different. The only difference now was that he wasn't the one living in it, and Quinn's solitude felt more suffocating than ever. She had been alone here for far too long.

Isaac hadn't dared to explore the house much, and he was only now beginning to see the extent of how isolated Quinn really was. Her bedroom in the basement was the only place he had ever been, a place where she seemed to feel safe despite the chaos that surrounded her. But now, standing in the tiny kitchen with its peeling paint and the stale air, Isaac couldn't help but feel the weight of the room's emptiness. The silence around them was thick, like a presence, pressing in on him. He couldn't believe this was where she had been staying all this time. And worse, he realized that while he had found solace at the McCall house, Quinn had been left to fend for herself, trapped in this suffocating space.

"Where is Quinton?" Isaac finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual, as though he was afraid of disturbing the fragile tension between them. Quinn's lips pressed together, and the muscles in her jaw tightened. She paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on her tea before she finally spoke in a voice that barely rose above a whisper.

"He left," was all she said, her tone flat, almost lifeless. The words hit Isaac like a physical blow. He felt his heart twist at the finality in her voice, and an overwhelming sense of dread settled deep in his chest. Quinn had been left again. Another person had walked away from her.

"Quinn, I—" Isaac began, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"Don't you dare apologize," she snapped, lifting her head to meet his gaze. The strength in her voice surprised him, but there was something behind her eyes—a rawness, a pain—that made him freeze. "I've gotten used to people leaving," she continued, her words slow and deliberate. "It's not new to me." The weight of those words was unbearable, and it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. The sense of loss, of abandonment, pressed in on Isaac until it was suffocating. She wasn't just talking about Quinton. She was talking about all of them, about him too.

Isaac swallowed hard, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "Quinn..." he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. His chest felt tight like there was no room left to breathe. He wanted to say something—anything—that could make this better, but nothing seemed adequate.

"At first," she went on, her voice softening slightly, "I thought it was just the world playing games on me. Like a cruel joke. But then, after you left, it was like this never-ending cycle of people coming into my life for a moment—and then they're gone." She closed her eyes, and her face twisted in pain as if she was reliving every loss all over again. "And I just... I can't keep doing this. I can't keep losing everyone."

The words sliced through Isaac, leaving him reeling. She was speaking the truth, the painful truth that he had been too afraid to acknowledge. He had left her. He had broken their promises, and no matter how much he wanted to make things right, he knew that nothing could erase the hurt he had caused. "Nothing I say can change the way I left," Isaac said quietly, his voice filled with regret. "I broke our promises, Quinn. And I left you."

Quinn didn't immediately respond. Instead, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a long, slow sip, the hot liquid seeming to burn her throat as she swallowed. She set the cup down on the counter with a soft clink before looking up at him again. Her eyes were distant, like she was somewhere far away, lost in her thoughts. "Maybe it was just that," she muttered.

Isaac frowned, confused. "What do you mean?" He took a step closer, unsure if he should push for more answers or just give her space.

"We relied on each other way too much," she said, her voice barely audible. There was no bitterness in her words, only a deep sadness that made Isaac's heartache.

"But that's not a bad thing," Isaac protested, his brow furrowed. "It was what made us strong. We helped each other. We were supposed to be there for each other."

"I never said it was," she retorted quickly, cutting him off. "It might have been good for the both of us," she added, her voice soft and almost wistful, "even if it was painful. But maybe... maybe it's better we leave it at that." She said the last part so softly that Isaac almost didn't hear her.

"You say it like we can't fix it," Isaac replied, his voice tinged with frustration and desperation. He couldn't understand. How could she just give up on them? On everything they had been through together?

"I don't know what you want me to say, Isaac," Quinn said, her voice breaking. She was fighting the tears that threatened to spill, but they were too much to hold back. "You want me to say that we can work it out? To go back to how things were?" She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "And then what? We just go back to normal? It'll only lead to more hurt. And maybe this time, I'll be the one to break the promises. Maybe it is a never-ending cycle."

Her voice had risen with each word, and Isaac winced at the volume, but he couldn't bring himself to stop her. Her pain was real, and it was unbearable to watch. He wanted to tell her that he would never hurt her again, that they could start over, but he couldn't find the words.

"I need you, Quinn," Isaac whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he was feeling. He had never felt this vulnerable, this broken. His heart ached for her, for the relationship they had lost, for the person she had become in his absence.

Quinn's response was a hysterical laugh, one that felt like it was ripping her apart. "And I needed you months ago," she snapped, standing up abruptly. Her eyes were wild, her face flushed with anger and frustration. She walked toward him, each step heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. When she turned her back on him, Isaac could see the change happening in her—her nails were lengthening, her eyes shifting to a glowing golden hue. She was losing control, and Isaac could feel it in the air.

"I think it's best if you go," Quinn said quietly, her voice trembling as she tried to suppress the wolf within her. "Forgive me for earlier. I was weak. It was a mistake." She couldn't meet his gaze anymore, the change in her voice unmistakable. Her words were barely above a whisper now, but they hit Isaac like a blow to the chest.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," he said, his voice barely audible. But he didn't move. He couldn't. Not when he knew that this moment, this chance to make things right, could be slipping away for good.