he wanted to marry you, really he did. but to seeing you hurting, teary-eyed and nervous beside his bed, it broke him every time. see werewolves couldn’t go to a regular doctor, and even some wizard healers refused to treat him because of his ailment. so his health care fell on you.

every full moon he’d lock himself away and let the wolf run amok in your shared bedroom, praying that it wouldn’t break out and hurt you. and every morning after you’d put him to bed and treat whatever wounds that wretched dog had scrawled on his skin.

a scarred hand trailed up your arm, rubbing gentle patterns with his thumb. “im okay love.” he whispers in that thick welsh-british accent of his.