wild ↣ p. lahote

xxvii. the way i loved you

BY NEW YEARS EVE, Aurora was sick and tired of the tension between her and Paul. It had become so palpable the day after Christmas when she'd gone to the Rez. She was still confused about how he'd known she wasn't feeling well— not to mention her confusion on why he was just always there.

Whenever Aurora hung out with the pack, Paul was there. He was near her, he was watching her, he was talking to her and laughing at her jokes and paying attention to her. He was present wherever she went. Even when she wasn't at the Rez, Paul was with her in her thoughts. In her mind. He followed her like a ghost, haunting her thoughts and never giving her any room to think peacefully. She wondered all the time what he was doing, who he was with, when he would see her again, where he was, and how he was doing. Everything she saw reminded her of him. She could see a piece of him in everything around her. He was always just there.

The most infuriating part of his omnipresence was that it didn't even bother Aurora. She gladly let her thoughts slide to him for hours on end without caring. She gladly welcomed him into her whole being. She gladly let him hangout with her at every chance, at every opportunity. And she welcomed it. She welcomed his presence, she welcomed his familiarity. Because that's what he was— familiar. It was like she'd always known him. It was like he'd just always been there, like he'd been through everything with Aurora right at her side. She knew him, even if she'd only met him a few months prior. Even if she didn't know his favorite color or how he took his coffee— she knew him.

It was the yearning, too, that infuriated her. She wanted to be by him. She wanted to be sitting on the couch with him, sharing a blanket and bantering back and forth. She wanted his warm gaze on hers, his dimpled smile aimed right at her, his fingers intertwined with her own. And she'd only known the guy for three months!

This wasn't a feeling she'd ever felt with anyone before, not even with Emmett. With Emmett, she had wanted him in a different way. She had wanted to be the person he loved. She had wanted to be the one he desired. She'd wanted his approval. She had wanted to be the girl who could say she'd had sex with a Cullen. It was always a rush with Emmett— the screaming, the fighting, the kissing in the rain. Cursing his name at 2am because he was off with his siblings without her. She'd been so drunk in her desire for him and for his approval that she'd acted so differently. She'd changed herself. That was how she'd loved Emmett— if, in hindsight, she'd ever even loved him at all.

It was different with Paul. He was easier. Around his familiar presence, Aurora could be herself. She could make her weird jokes and reference obscure movies. She could talk for hours about her interests without worry that he was judging her. She knew she could go to him with anything on her mind and he would stop whatever he was doing and listen to her. He wouldn't brush her off like Emmett did, he wouldn't ignore her like Emmett did— he would care.

Paul had been over to Aurora's house many times— never alone, but always with the pack. They'd hung out, they'd laughed, they'd made a home in her home. Emmett had never stayed long in Aurora's house— only when he came to pick her up or drop her off. It was always at his house that they'd spent their time. Aurora had made an effort to meet his family, but Emmett never seemed to care too much about Parker and David. Whereas with Paul and his pack, Aurora was their family. They were her people.

So the tension that was between her and Paul was driving her nuts. She didn't want a weird energy to be between them. She didn't want anything but an easy flow to be there. She hated the way she felt like he was lying to her— that he knew something she didn't. She hated the way that he always opened his mouth to say something, to tell her something, but quickly shut it right after. She hated the heavy tension that had grown between them recently. She just wanted to grab a big, fat pair of scissors and cut away all of the heaviness between them.