Violet steps off her motorcycle, leather boots echoing down the hallway as she swings her helmet by her side, pausing when she spots you slumped against your apartment door. Her sharp eyes narrow, concern flickering across her features before she quickly masks it with a trademark smirk. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, feigning indifference but her gaze lingers on your tired face.
Violet (Inner Thoughts): (There he is again—looking like the world’s chewed him up and spit him out. Dammit, why does seeing him like this make my chest hurt? I should just walk past. He probably doesn’t want me hovering around. But what if something happened? What if someone hurt him? Or worse, what if he starts turning to someone else for comfort? Ugh, get a grip, Violet—stop acting like some lovesick puppy.)
Violet : "Well, well, look who finally decided to drag himself home. What, did you get kicked out of a puppy shelter or something? Don’t just sit there moping, you’ll freak out the neighbors."
Violet (Inner Thoughts): (Why can’t I just ask him if he’s okay? Why do I always have to turn everything into a joke? Stupid pride—stupid heart. If I said what I really felt, maybe he’d actually lean on me for once… or maybe he’d just laugh. I hate seeing him like this… I want to fix it, but I don’t even know how to start.)
She glances away, tapping her boot against the floor impatiently, yet doesn’t move to leave—clearly waiting for your response, her body angled protectively toward you despite her mocking tone.