Through The Lies

Chapter 5: Garrett's POV

Work had always been a means to an end for me, a necessity, never something I was passionate about. But these days, it was barely even that. My focus had completely shifted to Thorne. His recovery was all I thought about, but not entirely for noble reasons.

Each day, I brought him food, not only for health reasons but as a test, too. If Thorne really had no memory at all, it would have shown in the way he reacted to the things I did, the things I said. A slip of the tongue, a flicker of recognition, anything could give him away. Yet, day in and day out, he kept his story straight. No familiarity, no suspicion. Just politeness and gratitude, silence and distance.

Yet, there was something in the way he carried himself that piqued my interest. He was trusting in a way I wasn't used to anymore, not after all that had happened. Despite the confusion, despite the inability to recall who I was or what kind of life he'd led, Thorne didn't question my presence. There was an honesty to it, something raw and unguarded that I found…refreshing.

And yet, I couldn't let my guard down. I needed to know if there was something he wasn't telling me. Did he remember anything about me? About my family? It was a possibility I couldn't ignore.

The first few visits were frustratingly uneventful. Thorne was polite, thanking me for the food and my company, but his gratitude felt rehearsed, hollow. He never asked questions about me, never probed for details. His eyes avoided mine more often than not, and every attempt I made at conversation fizzled out before it could go anywhere.

One day, I brought a dish prepared by my private chef-a careful balance of nutrients expertly crafted to help in his recovery. I placed it before him with a bright smile, hoping to assess his reaction.

"I'm not hungry," he replied, barely looking at the tray. His tone was aloof, almost mechanical.

It stung more than I cared to admit, but I didn't push. If he really had no memory, I couldn't expect him to open his heart overnight. Yet I couldn't shake off this nagging feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me, even if unconsciously.

By my fourth visit, I was starting to lose my patience. Thorne's rehabilitation sessions were gruesome to watch. He pushed himself through the exercises with a quiet determination that bordered on self-punishment. His hands shook as he gripped the parallel bars, his teeth clenched to suppress any sound of pain. It was clear he was in agony, yet he refused to show it.

I hated it. To watch him suffer in silence, stubborn and alone, was to have something inside me ache. I wanted to help, to lighten his load any way I could. But more than that, I wanted to see if I could break through that wall of composure.

"Why don't skeletons fight each other?" I asked suddenly, leaning against the doorframe.

Thorne looked at me, his face impassive. "Why?" he repeated, his tone flat.

"Because they don't have the guts," I said, grinning.

The silence that followed was nearly deafening. A moment passed, and I thought I'd gone a step too far, that he might tell me to leave. But to my surprise, he gave a small huff of air—a laugh.

It was quiet and restrained, but it was a laugh. Emboldened, I continued.

"What do you call fake spaghetti?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed but curious enough to indulge me. "What?"

"An impasta."

This time, he laughed properly. It was short, reluctant, but genuine. The sound of it caught me off guard, making my chest tighten in a way I didn't expect.

Would you like to try the lunch I brought?" I asked, a little emboldened by his reaction. "I promise it'll ease your pain more than my jokes ever could."

He was hesitant; his gaze flickered between me and the food. For a moment, I thought he might refuse again. But then, to my surprise, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly.

I set the tray down beside his bed, trying-and failing-not to look too relieved. It wasn't a lot-just grilled chicken and roasted vegetables, and light soup-but it was something, and more to the point, the first thing he'd accepted from me.

As we ate, some of the tension in that silence dissipated. The quiet wasn't so loaded. Thorne picked at his food initially, tentative and slow, but started eating proper as time wore on.

"You were right," he said after some time, his voice low. "This is better than the jokes."

I grinned, leaning back in my chair. "Told ya."

For the first time, Thorne began to open up. His words were tentative at first - stumbling and uncertain - but the more he spoke, , the easier it was for him to let his thoughts flow.

He told me about the hospital, about waking up into a world he didn't recognize. He described the fear and confusion, the long, lonely hours spent staring at the ceiling, wondering who he was and why no one from his life had come to claim him.

It's like being a ghost," he said softly, staring down at his plate. "I'm here, but I don't belong. I don't know who I am or who I'm supposed to be.

His words hit harder than I expected. For a man who prided himself on control, hearing such vulnerability was unsettling. I wanted to reassure him, to tell him it was okay, but I held back. Thorne didn't need hollow platitudes. He needed someone to listen.

"I just want to remember," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time I try to reach for something—anything—it just…hurts. It's like there's this wall in my mind, and I can't break through it."

I studied him hard, searching for any sign that he was holding back. If he remembered anything—about me, about my family—this was when it would slip out. But his pain seemed genuine, his frustration real. For the first time, I began to believe that maybe he truly didn't remember.

The more we talked, the more fascinated I was with him. There was something disarming about his honesty, the quiet strength in the face of so much uncertainty. It was a far cry from the cutthroat world I knew, where trust was a liability and honesty a weakness.

By the time we finished, some of the ice was beginning to break between us. Thorne was still guarded, but somehow the distance between us was not so great. The walls he had built were a little lower.

But I wasn't naive enough to let my guard down completely. Thorne's trusting attitude was refreshing, yes, but it also made me wary. I couldn't forget why I was here-to figure out whether he was a threat to me and my family.

I stood to leave but then hesitated, glancing back at him. "Thorne," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He looked up at me then, his pale blue eyes meeting mine for the first time that day.

"If you ever need anything-and I mean anything-you can call me," I said. "I mean it."

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Thanks, Garrett.

As I left the room, I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that had settled over me. Thorne was a mystery, one I was determined to unravel. But with every passing day, I found myself less focused on the answers and more drawn to the man himself.

It was dangerous, I knew. Letting my guard down could cost me everything. But as much as I tried to remind myself of that, I couldn't deny the truth: Thorne was getting under my skin.

And that terrified me more than anything else.