Floss

I can feel him looking at me. At least, I'm sure that's it. Each time I glance in that direction his eyes are firmly on the television or one of his friends. Maybe I'm being paranoid, hoping he's looking at me even. That's fantastical thinking. I shake it off, at least try too.

He is pretty. There's no denying that. And there's certainly no harm in enjoying a bit of attention. I glow in it for a little while, try and catch him, see if he is actually looking. I'm not sure if it's more pathetic to imagine him looking or to enjoy the thought that he is so much. The feeling doesn't last long, the little poisonous voice that has rooted itself so deep in my brain rears its head. I deflate a little, and Quill, who had essentially stuck himself to my side notices with a little nudge.

He's roasting too, the temperature in this room is ridiculous. I feel like I should be on a beach in mid-summer, far from the pacific northwest at the start of April. My jumper feels far too heavy and sweat is definitely starting to prickle under my fringe. No-one else seems to notice, Emily and Sam are even cuddled up in one corner. I leap at the chance when Quill mentions getting a drink, the temperature in the small kitchen is a dramatic and thankful shift. Without heels, he is a little taller than me and makes a big deal about reaching a bottle very slightly out of my reach. I laugh when this fails, and his reaction time is not swift enough to catch the plastic before it crashes to the floor, bouncing loudly off the work surface.

The next room falls silent for a moment before Leah cusses at him, and he assures her that there's no permanent damage. The noise level returns to normal, or what appears to be normal for this odd group of friends. Loud, Quill notices whatever look comes across my face as Sam's boom of a laugh echoes through space.

“I know, would you believe I'm one of the quiet ones?” I grin at him, “I think anyone counts as quiet compared to Sam.” Quill pretends to consider this but nods, pouting thick lips. “Fair point.” Finally, he pours us both a drink and I sip it gratefully, setting a mental reminder to never visit in such a thick top again. Quill can carry a conversation, and it's a while before it settles on familiar small talk. I was so bored of assuring people I was settling in well, that school was okay, the house was lovely. Quill must easily sense this, and goes straight back to telling me about La Push, little prodding needed.

I find out there are days of celebration in the summer, exploring traditions of the Quileute tribe, that the best cliffs are near second beach, but first beach has the nicest views. After a while, when we're both sat on the counters and he's picking at an enormous bag of crisps there's a bit of a scuffle in the other room. I flinch but Quill remains unbothered, assuring me it's friendly and someone was probably just winding someone else up. “Whoever comes in will be the loser.” He assures me, offering me the bag for about the eighth time.

Exactly the eighth time, I'd been keeping count. Not just of the offers, but the number of handfuls he's rammed into his mouth. I can have a good guess at the amount of calories he's just ingested, it makes me feel queasy.

Whatever took place in the living room has ended, and I hear the creak of heavy steps. Quill meets my eyes, smirks and looks past me to the door. “I'm done.” He announces, tossing down the near-empty packet and wiping his hands on his jeans. He leaves demanding it's his go on the game. I twist, follow his route and find my eyes on Paul again. He's most definitely looking at me now, although the gaze drops quickly and he heads to the sink, “Want anything?” I take a second to reply, overwhelmingly distracted by his presence.

“I'm okay thanks.” Swirling the glass still in my grasp, he nods, runs his tongue over his lower lip. He hesitates, look like he may leave the room but then swings himself up in Quill's vacated spot, managing it with far more grace than I had earlier. It makes the muscles in his biceps pop and I tear my eyes away quickly, feeling heat ripple along my cheekbones. How old was I twelve? Blushing because some good looking guy was wearing a tight t-shirt. Paul drags me from my internal scorn, holds my eyes this time, “Sam told me I should apologise about before.”

“Sam told you to apologise?” I echo, and his smile forms, realising how ridiculous a sentence that is.

“He's the boss.” Paul shrugs, and although I can tell he's kidding there does seem to be some truth in that. Sam had all but looked at Leah and she'd left, maybe he was like the Dad of the friendship group. “I can see that...” I allow, sipping my drink again to give me time to think, “But what do you need to apologise for?” I can't think of anything he'd done wrong, other than leave. Was he apologising for the fact he didn't get a proper introduction? The only reason he should say sorry is if he somehow left because of me. I challenge that, maintain my own smile. His reaction isn't quick enough and there's a tightness that stretches either side of his eyes before he can force it away.

My stomach drops, he is playing it off, and I mention Sam's little joke about his 'girl trouble', he laughs at that, deep throated and chesty. It doesn't settle me. He left the party because I was here? That's mental, ridiculous and I can't even believe I'm letting myself give that idea any weight. I hadn't said a word to him, barely lain an eye on him. I'm being stupid, but I pride myself on being able to catch those little signs that someone is lying. That glimmer of tension was his.

He isn't lying now, allows that Sam may have had a point but it's all sorted now. His features relax but he drains his water, goes back for more and hovers near me rather than return to the other side of the tiny room. “You as good at this game as your brother makes out?” He indicates towards the other room, “Better.” I smirk, willing myself to let before go. “Wouldn't want to embarrass him though, not in front of Seth.”

The corners of his mouth dart upwards, “Fair point. He's talking a big game in there.”

“Teddy always gets a bit...” I shrug, stopping myself from saying anything remotely negative. In truth, Teddy was doing nothing but fitting in, the showing off was expected, everyone did it. “Seth's pretty much in love with him,” Paul confirms, pulling a giggle from me.

After that, it's easy to speak to him and I learn a lot about Paul. He lives with his Dad, Mum left a few years back, practically got a new family. He tells me this with a careful mask. He goes to the Quilette high-school and is in his senior year, not that school seems to interest him at all. Before I know it it's half ten and I just about pick out the noise of my phone ringing from the other room.

Teddy answers, followed by a yell that Dad wants us back by eleven since it's a school night.

It's a shame. I hadn't realised how quickly the last hour had gone.

Paul Lahote has absolutely charmed me.

Paul was doing fine.

Sure, he was thinking about her constantly, dreaming about her most nights. The dreams were actually worse, they were so lucid and he could do anything. This also meant they were the hardest not to think about, which of course brought them to the forefront of his mind every time he phased. Sam had all but threatened to ground him until they were less 'disgusting'. He couldn't help it, made that point with snarls. And they couldn't have it both ways, all that talk of accepting his feelings, not fighting it and now they were unhappy he was trying.

It was a lose-lose situation for them but had quickly morphed into a win-win for Paul. He got to see her, she'd lived here just over two weeks and he'd seen her four times. Paul had never been so thankful of Mrs Uley and her need for company, or that Carrie had gone to the dumb conference in Seattle. If none of that had happened Paul would never have met her.

Florence.

The word filled him with warmth, it struck his chest first and then fizzled, practically setting his limbs alight. She was growing more comfortable with the pack, her brother and Seth were all but glued at the hip, another reason for her to be around. Leah was still being Leah, but Paul was so over it. Let her bitch at him when she could outrun him, he was letting it roll off his back. Most of the time at least.

Her brother called her Floss. Others had picked that up, Quill incessantly called her 'Flossy'. Paul just called her Florence, with a name that beautiful why would you want to say anything else?

They were having a barbeque on the beach today. It was sunny for a change and Mrs Uley had quickly sent Sam off on a mission for food. Paul hadn't had to say anything, Sam had instantly assured him Florence and the others were invited. The warm feeling lasted all day, even though he was dirt tired from his patrol.

Dad was out when he got home, not due until Tuesday, long-haul trucking took him away for days at a time. It had been odd at first after Mum had left and Paul had so much time alone. It was a blessing now, his Dad didn't have to know anything about the pack, that legacy had come from his mothers' side.

He takes way too long focusing on his appearance. Shifting between three different shirts until he was satisfied. His hair was next, although that didn't take much doing. It was far more fun to imagine what she might be wearing, and if he wasn't wrong, she too had been taking more effort in how she was dressing the last couple of times she'd been round.

And she sat next to Paul. That was all he could go on at the moment, each time she's seen him in the last week she had chosen to sit beside him. He knew which perfume she preferred, but that she used three different ones. Her shampoo had remained a constant, and every time she flung her head, a loud laugh ( which he was privy to more and more) or to arrange her constantly tangled mane, the smell of it hit him. He paces his room a few times, nothing had happened yet, besides sitting beside him.

Paul had spoken to Quill's grandfather and Billy Black, unwilling to ask some of the questions that rang through his mind to Sam, at least not directly. Imprinting did not have to be romantic, he knew that. It was to be whatever the imprintee needed or wanted, a friend, a confidant, a brother figure. Was he wrong that all of those possibilities now disappointed him?

Jared hadn't been surprised when he'd picked up on these thoughts three nights ago. Instead, his wolvish face practically grinned. It hadn't settled Pauls gut,”But what if she doesn't? If she only wants me to be a friend...”

Jared had put him straight. Whatever Florence wanted was what Paul would provide. But, surely if that was the case, if this impenetrable connection was true, he wouldn't want her. Not like he thinks he does. If the universe is messed up enough to connect them like this, surely it's only fair it makes them both on the same page.

Time is moving and he needs to get to Sam's. They are friends, he can use that word confidently now. Not best friends, but definitely friends. If friends is all it is, then he can live with that. That will be fine.

He's grabbing stuff from the kitchen when they arrive. He'd heard the car but kept his cool. No need in seeming too desperate. He wasn't Sam. He snorts at his own jokes, knows he'll pay for it later when it echoes through the packs share conscientious. Florence comes to him, dawdles whilst he gathers cutlery, shredding a napkin in what he assumes is a nervous gesture.

If he making her nervous or is that just wishful thinking? It could be her essays, one of which she's sent off, although not fully satisfied. He asks, she shrugs, keeps looking at him when she thinks he isn't. When Paul turns to ask her to grab what's left of the napkin pile she surprises him, his hands are full so when she pushes up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his he can't grab her as his instincts scream. The shock stings but passes so suddenly he has a chance to reciprocate before she pulls away. She still tastes slightly like mint, and he's glad she isn't wearing that awful lipgloss she has before so he can properly feel her lips.

She retracts, shrinks back down on to her heels. She mutters something so lowly, that he misses it, his heartbeat is thundering much too loud. A little bit of pink forms in her upper cheeks, and she glances straight at his collar bones, avoids his eyes. He's trying to remember how to speak, to force words to leave his tongue. He needs to say something smooth, come on Paul, you know how to speak to girls!

But then, there were girls and there was Florence.

He finally feels like he can formulate syllables when another voice rings loud, asking where on earth their cutlery is. The spell breaks, and she snatches up the napkins, shoots him a look. Tests him, that this was okay. He hopes his smile is enough, and Mrs Uley appears, her sharp features softening when she reads the scene. “No worry, I'll get them.” She frees his hands, empties Florence's and vanishes with a speed he didn't realise she could reach.

Those lips, still a tinted pink, drag under her upper teeth. Teeth she has disclosed she thinks are too large. They're as perfect as the rest of her.

Paul takes his chance, catches her softly to make sure she doesn't flinch, that this isn't all some mistake. Her fingers are so much colder than his, and his free hand pushes aside some hair, catching under her chin.

She presses up as he leans down.

Fine.