petrichor [rosalie hale]

liii. paul and kiara

Bella's old truck grumbled to a halt outside the small cabin, its engine ticking as it cooled. The girl in the driver seat killed the ignition and sat for a moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel, while the gentle winter breeze played with strands of her black hair that had escaped her ponytail. The oak trees whispered secrets above the place, their leaves rustling like an impatient audience waiting for the show to start.

"Okay, Kiara, just breathe," she muttered to herself, her voice a low rumble that matched the distant sound of the La Push beach waves.

She hadn't been this close to Paul since their blow-up. Kiara knew she was short-tempered, but so was he, and their argument had been explosive. For the sake of the pack and their weird, extended family of fur and fangs, they needed to smooth things over. She'd planned on running over, feeling like she hadn't stretched her legs in a while, but Jacob had asked her if he could bring the truck round to theirs as Bella had asked him to replace a few parts. No run for her.

Stepping out of the truck, she slammed the door a little harder than necessary and began pacing on the gravel driveway, each step crunching underfoot like she was grinding her anxiety into the earth. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this anxious to just speak to someone. With everything moving so quickly with Renesmee's birth, she hadn't really had much time to feel... anything.

"Kiara?"

The voice cut through her internal debate, and she spun around, her heart thumping against her ribs. There stood Paul, leaning against the doorframe, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest - a human barricade of muscle and unreadable expressions. He had on a pair of khaki shorts, a black t-shirt resting on his usually bare torso.

"Hey, Paul," she managed, her voice steady despite the sudden dryness of her throat.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said, his tone guarded, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "What's up?"

"Can't I drop by an old friend's place without having an agenda?" she replied, trying to inject some of her natural sarcasm into the words. But the joke fell flat, landing between them with a thud.

Her attempt at light-heartedness couldn't mask the undercurrent of tension that rested between them. There was too much unspoken between them to brush her sudden appearance off, even if she had always been able to do so before. Paul's brow furrowed, his own anxiety almost palpable in the space that separated them.

"Kiara," he repeated, his voice softer now, a hint of the old warmth seeping through, "why are you really here?"

And for a moment, just a heartbeat, she wanted to turn tail and run back to the safety of that stupid, ugly truck and away from the vulnerability that eye contact with Paul always seemed to demand of her. He'd always been able to see right through her. Always.

Kiara shuffled her feet, scuffing the dirt with her worn converse as she sought for the nonchalance that always seemed to evade her at times like this.

"You know," she started, her voice steadier than she felt, "since the packs... look, we're all talking again. Figured you and I should probably do the same."

Paul's posture shifted ever so slightly, a subtle loosening of his shoulders that suggested his defences were coming down.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "I guess that makes sense."

She watched him, noting the way his eyes darted away for just a moment before meeting hers again. There was a vulnerability there that she hadn't seen in him since they were teenagers, sneaking out in the night to get drunk in his cabin before her father even realised she was gone. Long before their world had been upended by phases and imprints, before every emotion got magnified tenfold.