#ateara

quil ateara. 813 words.

You met Quil Ateara for the first time when you and a bunch of your friends from school decided to hit up La Push's famously cold beaches. He was there, too, with a lanky boy with chin-length black hair. He started to hit on you the moment he saw you, going from super cheesy pick-up lines to super dirty ones that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

His lanky friend, Embry, apologized as soon as Quil turned his attention from you to the hot-dogs you and your friends were planning to roast.

"I'd say he's a sucker for pretty girls, but you're really the only one I've ever seen him do this to," he said.

You didn't really mind it. Quil was harmless — at first.

You didn't know when it happened or how it happened, but suddenly, the flirting and the touching and the innuendos stopped being jokes and started taking on a whole new meaning. Somewhere along the way, you started feeling light and feathery whenever Quil wrapped his arm around you, or played with your hair, or laid his head in your lap. You started wondering what it would be like to have that dirty mouth of his whisper things in your ear that he actually meant.

It had started out as a game for the both of you, but you had broken every rule and fallen in love.

Which is why it was unbearably painful when, one day, everything stopped. No more calls late at night after your parents had fallen asleep; no more coming over to your place and spending hours laying on bed, doing absolutely nothing; no more picking you up from your school in Forks and taking you down to the res to hang out.

Instead, Quil started hanging out with Sam Uley's gang. Embry was there, too, having joined a while before Quil. It hurt you to no end. The boy had found better things to fill his time.

You stared at the ceiling above your bed, sprawled across your pillows in one of Quil's hoodies. He still had a bunch of clothes at your place — a very boyfriend thing of him — that he hadn't taken back. They still smelled of him, though very faintly, but it was enough to intoxicate you. If you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine him beside you.

Why you subjected yourself to that kind of torture was beside you. You should have thrown out his clothes instead of keeping them. That was the only way to move on.

Move on. You really didn't want to, but what else could you do? If Quil didn't want you, then there was nothing you could do about it.

Taking walks on the beach where the two of you had first met was the only comfort possible to you. That was the place where everything began — where he'd stolen your heart, though you hadn't realized it until much later. Quil Ateara, the dorkiest and weirdest person you've ever known. The boy you loved more than life itself. The boy who had forgotten you completely.

Which is why it came as a wrenching shock when, one day, you found Quil walking down the beach, too. He was bulkier than you remembered him, and there were dark circles under his eyes like he had missed entire nights of sleep. Though it was as cold as ever outside, he was wearing frayed shorts and a simple t-shirt that seemed to only accentuate the muscles he'd developed. His arms were even more toned than you remembered them — and you suddenly found yourself wishing they were wrapped around you again like before.

Quil stopped short. His eyes flickered onto every inch of your body, from your head down to your toes and then back to your eyes — and then his lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn't find the words. It struck him that you were still wearing his hoodie and that didn't give off a good impression. You looked like you needed him, and even though that was the truth, you wished he didn't have to know that. He'd done enough to hurt you already. It was humiliating.

You wanted to leave but you couldn't tear your eyes away from him either. There was something moving in the pit of your stomach, coiling in on itself like a snake. Chagrin, probably. Or fear of what he might say.

Then, Quil's mouth twisted into his impish grin, the one you'd fallen in love with over and over again. You shivered, though not from the cold.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew it'd be you."

What was he talking about? What did he mean? You frowned in confusion.

"You're it, (Y/N)," Quil continued, his voice bright and happy. "My imprint."