☾

.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢.
𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒋𝒂

La Push, WA.
March

               "YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Paul Lahote's voice cracked like thunder through the early morning quiet, reverberating down the hallway of their La Push home. A bird outside startled from a tree branch. The walls shuddered with the force of his footsteps as he stomped toward her door.

Then—BAM. Her bedroom door slammed open so violently the hinges groaned. Paul's frame filled the doorway, dark eyes flashing with fire, fists clenched, chest heaving. He hadn't learned how to control the strength that came with phasing yet—hell, he barely understood what was happening to him—but patience had never been his virtue.

He stormed in and ripped the blanket off her in one smooth motion.

"Maija Awena Lahote," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm gonna fucking kill you."

A muffled voice answered from under a pillow. "Fuuuck off, Paul," Maija groaned, her voice gravelly and hoarse. She blindly grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at him. Paul snatched it midair without blinking.

"Get. Up." His tone left no room for negotiation.

When she didn't move fast enough, Paul bent, grabbed her by the ankle, and yanked her off the bed. Maija hit the carpet with a loud thud and a string of profanity.

"Jesus Christ, Paul!" she snapped, dragging herself upright, hair a tangled halo around her face. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"You know damn well what's wrong with me," Paul seethed, arms crossed, towering over her like he had when they were kids—but now it felt different. Like he was vibrating under his skin. Like something was barely being held back.

Maija blinked up at him through bloodshot eyes. Her head throbbed. "Oh my God. It's too early for this. What do you even want?"

"You already know what I want," he snapped, stepping toward her trash can.

Her stomach twisted, and she instinctively pulled her comforter over herself like a shield. "What, your fragile masculinity? Your undiagnosed anger issues? Be more specific."

Paul leaned over and started digging through her trash. A second later, he emerged holding up the evidence—an empty bottle of whiskey, the label peeling slightly from the condensation.

He held it like a crime scene prop. "You drank the whole goddamn bottle?"

Maija winced, both from the sound of his voice and the memory of last night's self-destruction. "Can you not shout? My brain is melting."

Paul threw the bottle back into the bin with a loud clunk and ran a hand through his buzzed hair. "What the actual fuck, Maija. That was Dad's bottle! I was saving that shit."

"You stole it from Dad," she reminded him, yawning. "So technically, I just stole it from you. Which means I'm only, like, half a criminal."

"That's not how this works!"

"That's literally exactly how it works."

Paul's jaw flexed. His hands were fists at his sides, but he didn't say anything—just stared at her. Really stared.

Her hoodie was still half on from the night before, her eyeliner smudged under her eyes. She looked pale. Hollow. Like she hadn't really slept. Like she'd cracked something open and didn't know how to seal it again.

His voice softened. "Is this about Quil?"

Maija flinched.

Or maybe that was just her heartbeat.

"Or is it... Mom?"

Her jaw tightened. "Paul. Don't."

He didn't stop. "You haven't been okay since she left. You think I don't see it, but I do. The drinking, the sneaking out, the attitude, the—"

"I said don't, Paul," she warned, voice sharp.

"And I said I'm worried about you!" he snapped back, volume rising with his frustration. "You're acting like a goddamn time bomb!"

"You think I don't know that?!" she shouted. "You think I wanted to get shitfaced alone in my room while you were out being God-knows-where pretending like everything's fine?!"

Paul stepped forward, his eyes dark and stormy. "Don't make this about me."

"Oh, fuck you. Everything's always about you. Paul the protector. Paul the golden boy. Paul who thinks he can bust into my room and throw a tantrum like he's not twenty minutes from spontaneously combusting."

His nostrils flared. "You don't know shit about what I'm dealing with."

"And you don't know shit about what I'm feeling!" she screamed, voice cracking. "Quil looked me in the face and said he didn't want to label us. Like I was asking him to cut off his damn arm. Like I haven't been in love with him since I was a kid."

Paul froze.

She hadn't said it out loud before. Not like that.

Maija swallowed hard and yanked her comforter tighter around herself like it would protect her from the words hanging in the air.

Paul looked away.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, Maija moved. She stormed toward her closet and yanked out a hoodie, shoving it over her head with more force than necessary.

"Where are you going?" Paul asked, brows knitting together.

"Out," she muttered, pulling her tangled hair into a messy bun.

"Maija. It's barely seven in the morning."

"Exactly. I need air before I lose my goddamn mind."

Paul stepped in front of the doorway. "You're not leaving like this."

"Try me," she hissed.

"I will drag your ass back to bed if I have to."

"Not until you stop shutting me out!"

That did it.

Maija spun on him like a storm breaking loose.

"Me? Shut you out?" she barked, voice cracking. "Don't act like some noble big brother when you've been ditching your family for weeks—disappearing without a word! You think I haven't noticed? You and Sam Uley and his creepy-ass gang of backwoods psychos? Jesus, Paul. You're not subtle."

Paul flinched. Actually flinched. Her words struck like iron across bone. He took a step back, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but hurt. Deep, real hurt.

He looked like he wanted to say something, to explain.

But he didn't.

Because he couldn't.

Sam's orders weren't suggestions. They were law. And Paul already felt like he was unraveling at the seams most days, hanging on by a thread that burned hot every time his temper flared. Every time she pushed.

His silence only fueled her fury.

"Exactly," Maija muttered, disgusted. "You've changed, Paul. And not in a 'growing up' way. In a 'joining a fucking cult and forgetting you have a family' way."

She turned her back to him and reached for her jacket. Her hands trembled as she shoved her arms through the sleeves.

Paul inhaled sharply. "Where are you going?"

She hesitated only a second too long. "Quil's," she lied, keeping her voice casual.

Paul blinked. "What? You just said—?"

"We made up," she said quickly, zipping her jacket and grabbing her keys from the nightstand. Her face was a mask of indifference, but her throat felt tight, like the lie had lodged there.

Paul tilted his head slightly, watching her like he used to when she was six and trying to sneak cookies before dinner. "Really."

She didn't look at him. "Yep."

But he knew her too well. He saw the tremble in her jaw, the slight hitch in her voice. She was lying—and lying badly. But before he could push, the weight of the pull hit him.

The command from Sam—distant, but demanding—landed heavy in his chest like a silent bell tolling deep inside. He had to go. Now. He could already feel the edges of his control fraying, his pulse quickening with heat.

He clenched his jaw and stepped back.

"Fine," he muttered, exhaling hard through his nose. "I was heading to Sam's anyway. Quil's place is on the way."

Maija looked up at him then, startled. "What?"

He was already halfway down the hall. "Get in. I'll drop you off. I'm done talking."

For now.

She stared at his back for a second, torn between relief and dread. She didn't want to lie to him. But if he knew the truth—that she wasn't okay, that she hadn't spoken to Quil in a month, that she'd cried herself stupid last night with half a bottle of whiskey in her gut—he'd never let her out the door.

Still, maybe showing up at Quil's place wasn't the worst idea. If he was even home. If he'd even look at her.

Her stomach twisted.

Outside, Paul was already in the truck, engine rumbling like a living thing. She hesitated with her hand on the passenger door.

He was watching her. Not impatient. Just watching.

Maija finally climbed in, slamming the door shut. She curled against the window, her forehead pressed to the cold glass, trying to settle her heartbeat.

They didn't speak as he backed out of the driveway. The silence hung thick between them—complicated, but familiar. Like too many things left unsaid.

After a minute, Paul broke it. Quietly. "I'm not trying to make your life harder, Mai."

She didn't turn. But she heard it—the regret in his voice.

"I just... I don't know how to fix anything anymore," he added.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

"Me neither," she said softly.

They didn't say anything else.