[ He makes a face, because that doesn't make any sense, even to a werewolf with amnesia, something he's accepted because it's what he is. He stops, abruptly, not answering Malia's question as a car passes. His ears pick up every part of the car: the cars against the road, the blaring music inside, the honking when the car needs to make a faster rights turn. His hands come to his ears, covering them. Hunching over, he waits for it to pass, waits for the two cars to speed off before removing his hands again, and looking to Malia.
Maybe she won't ask about that. ]
I don't remember anything. Not living here, not where I live, and not who I live with. [ He doesn't. Remember. Anything. ]
no subject
Maybe she won't ask about that. ]
I don't remember anything. Not living here, not where I live, and not who I live with. [ He doesn't. Remember. Anything. ]