Author's note- So here we go with part two. Enjoy!

Disclaimer.

She looked so beautiful.

Her hair billowed in the wind from the open window, her small hand clutching the armrest. I loved her.

I feel like I've loved her forever, probably because I have. She sang distant mindedly to the song playing, her lips moving like she was whispering a secret.

Her present was under the back seat of the car, rustling in its velvet case whenever the truck hit a bump a little too hard. It was a Hummingbird True Vintage Gibson. A brand new six string.

She'd been playing ever since she was little. I still remembered the day that Ronny, Claire's dad, had put his old guitar into her lap.

Her eyes lit up, brighter than any desk lamp I'd ever seen. She had squealed delightedly and wrapped her tiny arms around the wooden body, already beginning to pluck away at the taut strings. That was her fifth birthday.

Ronny died on Claire's ninth birthday, lasting long enough to train the musicality that he had passed onto his daughter. That was an awful day. The worst of my life, because it had been the worst of Claire's.

Claire never talked about Ronny, and I never brought it up. She also tried hard not to think about him, she'd told me once. Her finger pushed the seek button to the right as she searched for her favorite song on the CD currently taking residence in my stereo.

The soft strums of the guitar hummed through the speakers and I saw Claire's fingers tap her thighs gently, playing the notes on an imaginary guitar. That had been the only thing that the family had kept of Ronny's, his guitar. It was, at this moment, lying on the window bed in Claire's room, having been played the night before.

That was the only time in which she liked to think about her dad, when she was playing her—well his and now her guitar. When she played she felt close to him. She played a favorite song of his over and over, Satellite by Dave Matthews. She would pull those strings through the intricate bars of escalating and diving dozens of times until her cuticles began to bleed.

But the neck was beginning to splinter, and the bridges to wear down. It hadn't been the nicest guitar to begin with and was definitely on its last leg. I'd saved up for months to get Claire this one, which I'd bought four months in advanced, special ordered and exactly how I wanted it.

The fingerboard on the Gibson was engraved with small flowers of some kind, a hummingbird drinking from one, a butterfly hovering above some others. I'd thought of Claire immediately when I had seen it.

I was so nervous about giving to her. Would she think that I wanted her to forget about her dad? Would she be angry? Sad?

I couldn't even begin to think of causing Claire pain. I'd seen her in enough of that, pain that I couldn't prevent. That was the worst kind. I was supposed to protect her. But when it came down to the nitty gritty I couldn't do anything to protect her from the worst of it.

The rain started. The gray here got monotonous, but I'd learned to love it. What I really loved most was the way Claire smelled in it. I know it seems weird but when the beads of water hit her skin it highlighted the…earthy smell in her. She smelled like thyme that had just been stepped on mixed with some lavender petals whose scents had been released. It was a sultry, minty smell that could send my head spinning.

To my surprise she didn't roll up the window but instead leaned her head back as the wetness began to pelt her face. I barely held in a chuckle.

"Forget to shower or something this morning, Claire?"

"No," she snorted, "I like the rain."Her voice was airy as she finished. She lifted her arms up and began to tie her hair back into a ponytail. The gentle slopes of her raised arms made my heart rate skip a little bit. Her sweater was tight.

Sam's growl shot through my head, breaking my concentration and bringing me back to the road.

"What would you like to do today?" I asked, beating my head into ignoring the heat in my veins.

"Hm, pizza, movie, ice cream?"

"Sounds perfect," I commented, taking the chance to smile at her. She smiled small in return, turning her attention back to the window. I did everything for those smiles, any smiles, any little bit of Claire I could get.

We passed for awhile in silence, until she decided to break it with the one question I had been dreading, "Where were you last night?"

"Working." Keep it short, keep it simple.

"But don't you work for Uncle Sam?" Her voice was a bit irritated, it made my heart sting a little bit.

"Ya."

"And he wouldn't give you my birthday night off?" I winced as her voice weakened. It hadn't been any of our choices; Sam had needed everyone last night.

"He didn't really get to decide, C."

She sighed dejectedly; I hated those sighs. My knuckles clenched around the steering wheel and I felt the vinyl bending a bit. I took a deep breath, trying to cool the temper that always pulsed through me.

"Claire I'm so sorry," I pleaded. She nodded stiffly, making me feel like a box had been shoved down my throat.

There had been more than one last night. Unrecognizable ones thank god, but more than one none the less. And they had gotten way too close, ignoring the smell of us that I'd been told they detest.

"You believe me, don't you?" I continued.

"What's not to believe?" She turned to me with an indignant look in her eyes, "you never tell me anything really so there's nothing to be dishonest about, right?" She spoke with a calm determination, absent of anger.

"It's not that simple," I repeated the phrase of Sam's that was coursing through my brain. He'd responded to my request to tell Claire about the pack that way for the past hundred times I'd asked.

She pursed her lips tersely and turned back to the window.

Sometimes I hated what I was. And then most of the time I didn't. Because if I hadn't phased I wouldn't have been able to pause my aging, and never would have been able to wait for Claire. That's all my life was, waiting. Which, as long as it was her that I was waiting for, I didn't mind. It would be so worth it in the end.

16. 16. 16.

I repeated in my head.

One more year and she will have caught up to the right age, the age I've been waiting for, the age when everything can happen the way it's supposed to.

One more year. Sixteen couldn't come soon enough.

Author's note- Leave me anything that you thought about it. Positive negative or whatever i would really appreciate feedback. I'm kind of crawling around in the dark here, creating Quil as a character that we don't know much about. Thanks for reading :)