? DISCONTINUED ? Between the Perennial Blooms || Paul Lahote

Twenty Two | Poppy

Successfully halted, Bailey lowered her gaze to the navy t-shirt adorning Paul's chest. In some ways, it was a surprise to find him actually wearing one, because -in much the same fashion as all of the other Quileute wolf-boys- he rarely ever bothered in putting one on. A pair of tattered cargo shorts was about all the clothing he busied himself with caring about, and if Bailey was being honest with herself, in that moment, she missed seeing his glowing russet skin in all of its uncovered perfection. It had become a sort of comfort, she realized, because she liked seeing all of the imperfections that adorned his chest and back. The little constellation of moles near his left shoulder blade and the scar along his right breastbone and the dark patch of hair that grew below his bellybutton before it trailed off somewhere she was much too bashful to think about all drew her attention in subtle ways that she had never realized prior to. But now, with his eyes blazing and his shirt covering, she realized just how much she longed to trace her eyes over said imperfections just to feel some semblance of comfort. After all, she just wanted reassurance. And when her eyes lowered ever-so-slightly to the bulky bandage covering her exposed left thigh, she decided she needed all the reassurance she could get.

"I'm sorry," Paul sighed after a moment of tense silence whilst he ran a hand through the mass of brown waves sitting atop his head. "Its just- fuck, I- I almost lost you, baby. Again. And all because I was too goddamn stupid to answer my own goddamn phone!"

In all honesty, Bailey had stopped listening to him the moment he called her 'baby'. Baby. Because the furthest he had ever strayed from her name before was 'Bay', and the only people who had ever called her baby were her Gran or Charlie. But unlike when they did so, when Paul said it, it made her heart flutter rapidly in her chest whilst a blush ran a race to explode across her cheeks like tomatoes tossed down onto a concrete floor. It made her head spin, made her breaths halt. It made her pulse elevate like a Mexican jumping bean because he called her baby in that rough, deep, dark grumble of his that sent her stomach turning and her gut clenching and her insides twisting with a warmth she had never felt before. Baby, he had said. Baby, baby, baby. And he had never called her that before.

But then reality checked in and the remainder of his words reverberated throughout her mind and suddenly, him calling her baby didn't matter because the only thing that did was reassuring him that it wasn't his fault. Because it wasn't. How could it be? She had known of the dangers, known of the warnings. But she had chosen not to heed them of her own volition, and now here she was with an I.V. in her arm and an ache in her head and a searing pain in her leg and it wasn't Paul's fault, it wasn't Paul's fault, it wasn't. Paul's. fault.

Because if it was anyone's, Bailey believed it solely to be her own.

"You couldn't have known," she tried to tell him softly, giving in to the urge to clasp both of his large hands between both tiny ones of her own. "You couldn't have known Quil was going to shift when he did; no one could've. I just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time is all," she murmured just loud enough for him to hear. "And now I have to face the consequences of that."

"I don't want you to see it," Paul whispered quietly, an air of silent defeat to his posture and his words. He squeezed her hands softly, unable to meet her eyes as he flickered his gaze about the wall behind her and the ceiling above her, and breathed in heavily through his nose. "It's gonna make you upset." His right hand broke gently from her own to brush lightly against the apple of her cheek as his gaze shot down to her leg before lifting back up to those wide cerulean eyes of hers. "And I don't like seeing you upset, baby."