The departure was typical. Tord stood by the front door, adjusting his expensive cufflinks with a smug tilt to his chin. He’d traded his hoodie for a charcoal overcoat that screamed "international business," looking every bit the high-powered boss.

"Don't let Thomas burn the house down," he’d joked, flashing that sharp, confident grin.

He lingered by you a second longer than necessary, his gray eyes softening into that "too sweet" look. "And you—try not to miss me too much. I know it’s hard."

He winked, hopped into his black sedan, and vanished toward Heathrow.

The Tord who came back two weeks later wasn't the same man.

The front door didn't just open; it hit the wall with a violence that made the frames rattle. Tord offered no greeting. He didn't drop a bag of Norwegian chocolate on the table.

He marched straight past Edd and Tom, his face a mask of cold, jagged stone. He looked thinner. His hair, usually styled into those perfect horn-like spikes, was messy and dull. But it was his eyes that stopped you cold—they weren't expressive or smug anymore. They were flat.

"Tord? You're back early," Edd started, stepping forward with a smile. "How was—"

"Shut up, Edd," Tord snapped. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp. He didn't even look at him. He slammed his bedroom door so hard a piece of plaster flaked off the ceiling.

For the next three days, the house became a war zone. Tord didn't come out for meals. When he did emerge for water or cigarettes, he was a ghost. If Tom made a joke, Tord didn't fire back with a sarcastic insult; he simply looked at Tom with such genuine, icy hatred that even Tom went quiet.

You finally had enough. You didn't knock. You pushed into his room, and the smell hit you: stale smoke, heavy alcohol, and the oppressive scent of someone who had stopped caring.

The room was a wreck again. A chair was overturned; a glass had been shattered against the far wall. Tord was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

"Tord," you said softly.

"Get out," he muttered into his palms.

"No. What happened in Oslo? You were happy when you left."

Tord let out a laugh—a horrific, dry, hollow sound. He looked up, and you flinched. His eyes were sharp, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles leaped in his neck.

"I was a fool," he spat. "I thought... for a moment, I could have something normal. Something that wasn't business or machines." He stood, pacing like a caged animal. He kicked a fallen ledger.

"She was perfect. Everything I wanted. And she looked me in the eye and told me I was nothing but a 'useful contact.' A stepping stone for her family's interests."

He stopped in front of you, his shadow looming large. The "softie" was dead. "So don't look at me with that pitying expression," he hissed, leaning down until he was inches from your face. "I don't want your kindness. I don't want your 'friendship.' It’s all a lie. People are just tools, and I’m done being handled."

"Tord, that’s not fair. I'm not her."

"You're all the same!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a rage that sounded like grief. He grabbed a glass and hurled it into the bin. "Now get out. If I see your face again today, I’ll give you a reason to actually be afraid of me."

He turned his back, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together. The silence was suffocating. The Tord who left for Norway was a man who joked about the music being too loud. The man who came back realized that in his world of secrets, love wasn't a luxury he was allowed to keep.

He was a bastard now. Mean, serious, and perpetually pissed. And as you backed out, you realized the most heartbreaking part: he wasn't just mad at her. He was mad at himself for believing he could be anything else.