Sometimes, I do allow his smile to get the best of me.

To give in to him would be to let the ocean swallow me whole. But then, some people don't mind drowning. He calls himself too old. Too poor. A werewolf. The latter he never said, though the undercurrents just below the surface of his eyes said everything.

Between us, we could manage, maybe even do better than manage. We could thrive like the other schools of fish. We, too, could become just two more parts of the whole.

Only difference is that he'd still have his furry little problem.

I'd vowed not to allow it to bother me.

I wanted to shelter him from those around us who didn't understand his affliction.

And then he let his guard down.