⋆·˚ ༘ * PAUL LAHOTE HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ
𐙚 paul x sunshine!reader
paul imprinting on you is… chaos. beautiful, confusing chaos.
you’re warm sunshine bottled into a girl. always smiling, always finding a silver lining, humming while making breakfast, waving at strangers.
and paul is the storm. loud. angry. intense. the second his eyes meet yours, he knows he’s screwed.
at first, he tries to stay away. he thinks he’s going to break you. you’re too soft, too good, too sweet.
the imprint drags him toward you like gravity, but he fights it. snapping at sam, pacing through the woods, snarling at embry when he teases him about his “angel girl.”
you notice him watching you. always at a distance. always with that unreadable look in his eyes. but whenever you smile or wave, he turns away like it hurts.
you start bringing muffins to the beach just in case he shows up. you bring extras for the guys too, laughing as you hand them out, and paul hates that they get your attention. he doesn’t speak, but one day you offer him one anyway.
“you don’t have to eat it,” you say gently, holding it out like peace. “i just wanted to make you smile.”
and something shatters in him.
after that, paul caves. the imprint drags him in, and he lets it. but he’s awkward at first. doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.
you’re too kind, too patient, and he keeps waiting for you to realize he doesn’t deserve you.
one night you find him sitting alone on a log after patrol, shirt torn, hands bruised, shaking. he won’t look at you. says you should leave. but you don’t.
“even storms have soft centers,” you whisper, brushing his knuckles gently. “i’m not scared of yours.”
that’s when he really falls.
you’re the type to greet the world with a smile, even when it doesn’t deserve it. paul is the type to snarl at the world for not treating you right.
you’re soft and sparkly. he’s sharp edges and heat. and he’s never been more certain of anything than this: you are his to protect.
paul is ridiculously protective. the guys joke about it, but he will growl at anyone who makes you even slightly uncomfortable.
you once tripped over your own feet and he nearly phased because he thought someone pushed you.
you’re the only person who can calm him down when he’s spiraling. you sit in his lap and hum under your breath, hands in his hair, and he just melts.
you always smell like vanilla and lemon and something safe, and he leans into you like he’s trying to crawl inside your warmth.
you surprise him with tiny love notes. stuffed in his pockets, tucked into his gloves, scribbled on napkins. they say things like:
“hope your day is full of good things!” and “thank you for everything you do for me, mwah!”
he keeps every single one in a shoebox under his bed. if he’s having a rough shift or a post-phase migraine, he’ll pull one out and just hold it in his hand for a while. sometimes he reads them out loud to calm himself down.
paul absolutely melts when you call him pet names. he pretends he’s annoyed “babe? really?”, but the minute you call him “honey” in that soft voice, he’s a goner.
the pack is shocked when they hear paul laugh. like, really laugh. it’s when you run up behind him and tackle him into the sand, squealing with delight, and he grabs you and spins you around, laughing so loud it echoes.
you’re always trying to cheer everyone up, and paul watches you do it with this stunned softness, like he doesn’t understand how someone like you exists in a world like this.
he’ll mutter, “you’re too good for this place,” under his breath while tucking your hair behind your ear.
he never thought he’d have something like this. something warm. something gentle. you show him love doesn’t have to be earned through pain, it can just be.
“you’re not a monster, paul,” you tell him one night as he stares at the scars on his hands. “you’re the safest place i’ve ever known.”
he doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it breaks you a little every time:
“i don’t know what i did to deserve you, but i swear i’ll never let you go.”
paul has a sixth sense for your moods. if you’re even slightly off, he notices. he’ll wordlessly pull you into his lap, bury his face in your shoulder, and grumble, “what happened?” like he’s ready to fight the universe on your behalf.
you are the little spoon. always. no debate. paul wraps around you like a human furnace, arms locked tight, chest against your back, face in your neck. if anyone walks in on it, he growls until they leave.
when he’s on patrol, you wait up for him, no matter how late. you sit on the couch in one of his hoodies, drowsy-eyed and soft, holding a blanket for him. he acts annoyed every time:
“i told you to sleep, baby.”
“then stop being worth waiting for,” you whisper, and he just melts.
you decorate his room with little plants, fairy lights, and photos of the two of you. he pretends to grumble about it but secretly stares at the pictures when you’re not looking.
on bad days, you surprise him with his favorite snacks and pull him into a pillow fort you made in your room. you put on movies and crawl into his lap with that sunny grin. paul doesn’t even like most movies, but he’ll sit through five hours of them just to hold you.
you call him “my grump,” “wolf boy,” and “sunburn baby” when he scowls in the sun. he pretends he hates it. he doesn’t.
when you’re cold, he literally radiates heat, so you cling to him like a space heater. he’ll cock an eyebrow like “oh, now you want me?” but then tuck you under his arm with a satisfied smirk.
the pack always teases him about how soft he is around you. he threatens to rip their faces off, but when you giggle and say, “aww, paul, you’re my softie,” he shrugs and kisses your forehead like, “yeah, i am.”
you give him little doodles and crafts you make. like a friendship bracelet made of yarn and glitter. he wears it under his cuff and doesn’t take it off. ever.
paul grumbles every time you drag him to the farmers market or local craft fair, but he loves watching you light up over fresh honey, handmade earrings, or tiny potted succulents. he always ends up carrying the bags without complaint.
you sit on the kitchen counter while paul cooks shirtless because he runs hot and “it’s too damn warm in here”. you keep stealing pieces of food before they’re done, and paul keeps smacking your hand with the spatula. gently, of course.
you’re always slipping your cold hands under paul’s shirt, just to hear him yelp. he glares at you every time, but the glare never lasts. instead, he grabs your hands and warms them with his own, muttering, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”
when you’re lying in bed together, wrapped up in each other, you trace the lines of his chest with your fingers and whisper things like:
“i hope you know how loved you are.”
and he swallows hard and says, “i know, baby. ‘cause you show me.”
he tells you he loves you in his own way. by cooking for you, fixing your car, rubbing your feet, making sure you lock your doors, and standing between you and any threat. but sometimes, when the world is still, and you’re curled into his chest, he says it out loud:
“i love you so much it’s stupid.”
he’s incredibly possessive but in a quiet way. like resting his hand on the small of your back in public, pulling you into his side when someone stares too long, or throwing an arm over your lap when you sit with the pack.
you make him flower crowns once. jokingly. paul sits there, arms crossed, deadpan expression, wearing the damn daisy crown like a war medal. the pack never lets him live it down. he doesn’t care.
“she made it,” he says simply. “i’m wearing it.”
he loves when you play with his hair. you’ll sit behind him on the couch and run your fingers through it while he leans into your touch like a literal golden retriever with rage issues.
you randomly climb onto his lap while he’s watching tv or doing absolutely anything. he never complains, just opens his arms like “of course you belong here.”
you always doodle on his arm in pen. little suns, flowers, your initials, and he never washes them off until they fade. he even glances at them during patrol, tracing over the lines with a smile.
when you’re brushing your teeth, he always comes in behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. you try to keep brushing, but he keeps kissing your neck until you’re squealing and spitting toothpaste everywhere.
you tried to teach paul how to bake once. it was an adorable disaster. the cookies were burnt, flour was everywhere, and paul insisted the baking soda was “a scam.” but he kissed you with a flour-smudged face and said:
“you’re the only sweet thing i need anyway.”
when you wear his oversized hoodie, paul physically malfunctions. he stares. you catch him doing it, and he just shrugs like:
“can’t blame me, baby. you look too damn good.”
paul has a very specific smirk reserved just for you. the kind that makes your stomach flip before he even opens his mouth. he’ll lean down next to your ear, voice low and husky, and say something like:
“you gonna keep looking at me like that, or are you gonna kiss me, sunshine?”
when you’re excited, you ramble and wave and talk with your whole face. paul watches you with this soft, dazed smile like he’s being baptized in sunlight. and the second you stop to ask, “am i annoying you?”—he genuinely looks offended.
“the only thing that’s annoying is that i can’t kiss you every time you start talking.”
when you tell him “i love you,” he looks at you like you’re the sun. like you just saved his life. and he doesn’t always say it back right away. sometimes he just kisses your forehead and breathes it in like a prayer.
he’s not good with words, but he’s terrifyingly good at loyalty. you’re crying once because someone you trusted let you down, and paul holds you with this quiet ferocity, arms locked around you, whispering:
“you don’t need anyone else, alright? you’ve got me. i’ll never let anything happen to you.”
you don’t even have to ask him to walk you to your car or stand between you and a crowd. he just does it. every time. like his body has been reprogrammed to shield you on instinct.
he always says “be careful” when you leave the house. always. even if you’re just going to the store. it’s always “text me when you get there” or “don’t talk to creeps.” it’s never controlling. it’s that raw, fierce love that says please come back to me safe.
you think paul’s the one protecting you. but what you don’t see is how much you protect him, too. from himself. from his anger. from the part of him that thought he didn’t deserve good things. you smile at him like he’s worthy of every ounce of love you give. and it undoes him.