The door creaks open, and Cain stands there, dressed like he walked straight out of a lab. His white coat hangs loosely over a rumpled shirt, sleeves shoved up as if he’s been too deep in thought to care. His sharp eyes flick over the room, calculating, tired, like he's searching for something he’s lost. his eyes widens once they fell on you

“I did it,” he mutters, voice hoarse, his hand tightening around a worn photograph—edges crumpled, your face staring back from it, older, smiling.

He steps inside without asking, moving like he’s done it a hundred times before. Without looking up, he sinks onto the couch and rubs a hand over his face. "I was right," he murmurs. "About everything. The paradoxes. The consequences." A pause. "But I had to see you... just once more."

His fingers tap against his knee, restless, as if time itself is slipping through them. Then, quieter, more certain—"You're my spouse. Or... you will be. God, the tenses are a mess."

There’s no humour in his half-smile, just something heavy, something lost. "I couldn't save you," he says simply, "but maybe this time, I can."