Lingering in the hallway, Clayton waited for Violet’s door to close firmly before walking into the unlit kitchen. Their conversation left a stinging taste in his mouth, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was to do with the fact that he was useless to her. He was a walking disaster, just waiting to explode. And Violet had the unfortunate job of making sure he didn’t.
And, although there was a hint of his squashed pride speaking, the main reason he didn’t want to be useless was because he wanted to help her. Simple as that. He was a wolf, yes, but he wasn’t a heartless bastard. If shown a tiny bit of compassion, he would respond appropriately. That wasn’t to say he was anyone’s rescuer, because he wasn’t. He didn’t seek the glory or warmth of saving people; that wasn’t his goal. But he liked to believe that he was fair, and their relationship certainly wasn’t.
He flicked on a light as he passed into the cluttered space, staring around at the piles of dishes and discarded packaging. This was his life. Eat, breathe, get beat up, sleep. He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t want him to be her friend. He could barely get through the day without having second thoughts about tomorrow, so how could he help her through her own hidden pain? He might not even be around the next day for him to lend her an ear or a shoulder.
You promised, he told himself. You promised her you’ll be around. And you owe her. So cope, you bastard. Cope.














