Qeya River my head says i never should've left

he cannot stop the growl that bubbles up in his throat. but then there is the immediate flash of regret, and when she tries to walk off, bid by his outburst, he steps in front of her. a sudden movement, cutting her off with his shoulder, crimson meeting periwinkle as he looked into her eyes.

i dont want to be your friend. he snaps, but not from anger. from insistence. because he doesn't want to be her friend. she knows that, and he thought he made himself clear. but pushing it here, now, probably wasn't the best idea. so he shakes his head, like trying to rid himself of his arrogance and his eyes widen briefly as he looks upon her, like he's trying to make her see the good will of his intentions. or, lack of bad will.

and his teeth grit; like it pains him to admit his faults, but he knows he's walking on thin ground, and at any moment, one of her superiors could show up—and depending on what gjalla says, he could be leaving instead of staying. so he lowers his head to her level, as if trying to make himself appear less large, less imposing. he wasn't trying to exert himself over her, but he would if she wouldn't listen to him. his eyes almost frantically flick around her face, examining her hostile body language, as if some desperation had come over him.

i'm not wasting your time. he scoffs—practically gasps—the words out, his tail lashing viciously behind his towering form. i have never wasted your time. he says gruffly, insistently, brows drawing together in a furrow: i have only ever said the truth. it just— he stops, and exhales a breath. it wasn't my place. i'm— he pauses again.

he cannot say sorry. he cannot get it out. he looks into her eyes, as if silently pleading with her to not make him say it.