Thank you so much for your lovely reviews - it really means a lot to me to read them :). For the Narla fans - I am debating writing a Narla fanfic although I have never done one before. At the moment it's between Narla or going back to my roots and writing an AU Liarla fic, or maybe both, eventually! :)

Cln9 - it's as if you read my mind ;).

Thanks again for your comments, please keep them coming as I really do want to take your views into account. Hope you like it.

Chloe xoxo

The drive to Devon had been painstaking. Sure, it was nowhere near the same distance as it would have been to go back home to Weatherfield, but what made the almost-three hour drive even more nerve-wracking was the expectation of the unwanted welcome that he was bound to receive. As Peter listened to the harrowing words of Amy Winehouse's 'You Know I'm No Good', he snorted, shaking his head and turning the radio off in irritation. The last thing he needed was a reminder of how spectacularly he had managed to screw up his life. He didn't know why he'd thought that it'd be a good idea to see her. He'd found out Carla's new address a few weeks prior, but so far he hadn't managed to pluck up the courage to use it. Until this morning. He'd woken up, showered, dressed, and caught a glimpse of a beautiful photo of her that was propped up on his coffee table reflected in the mirror. It had sent a stabbing pain of regret through his chest, and suddenly, he'd felt the urge to see her in the flesh. And there he was. In his car, driving almost 150 miles to see her. Despite the fact that he was probably the last person that she would want to see. Penetrating his thoughts, his satnav beeped cheerily, alerting him that he had 'reached his destination'. Pulling up beside the pavement, he hesitated and drew in a deep breath, his heart racing with nerves.

"Pull yourself together," he scolded himself, twisting his car key and slipping it into his jacket pocket. He was acting like a teenager, but that was how Carla made him feel. Like he was young, and like his feelings for her were the only thing that mattered. His lecture was of no help, however, as he anxiously glanced along the row of houses, searching for Number 17. There it was, a rather large terraced house painted stark white, which was typical for the houses in this area, surrounded by others which were painted pastel shades of pink, blue and yellow. It was early August, and Peter could feel the bright coastal sun blazing down on the back of his leather jacket as he sauntered up the front garden path, which was seamless in itself. The paving slabs were lined with neat rows of flowerbeds decorating either side, and beside them freshly-trimmed grass. He smiled to himself. Trust Carla to take such care in her garden, the first she'd had in a long time. As he reached the front door, he paused for a brief second to gather his emotions before knocking, but before he could lift his hand to do so, the door flung open, and his breath caught in his throat. Carla froze. Dressed in a grey pencil skirt and a v-neck sleeveless blouse, a thin jacket flung over her shoulder due to her rushed state, she was evidently late for work, but had been sure that she'd be able to make the time up if she put her foot down. Until she saw her ex-husband, stood on her doorstep with his hands sheepishly tucked in the pockets of his jeans and a stupid grin plastered across his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she breathed, overcome by the sudden increase in her heart rate. She put it down to her panic that she would be late. That was all it could be. Peter merely shrugged his shoulders, a coy smile still playing on his lips.

"I was in the area, thought I'd pop by and say hello." Amazed, Carla shook her head.

"You have got to be joking…" she scoffed, before stepping past him and pulling her front door closed behind her, acting as though his presence did not affect her whatsoever. "Nice to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Where are you going?" Peter asked, moving to follow her as she started to head up the street towards where her expensive new motor was parked.

"Er, to work? The world doesn't stop and fall to its knees just because you want it to, Peter," came Carla's bitter response. Without another word, she climbed into the driver's seat of her car and switched on the ignition. As Peter stopped short beside her door, she reluctantly rolled down her window, unable to resist one last catty remark to her ex. Though they had parted on amicable terms eventually, she had still never forgiven him for destroying her, and was not about to let him rock the steady little life that she had built for herself in Devon. "You'll have cleared off and gone scurrying back to Portsmouth by the time I get back if you know what's good for you. You're well practiced at that now." Before he could respond, she lifted her foot off of the clutch and carefully weaved her car out of its tight spot, closing her window once again. Once out of sight, she turned a corner and parked up at the end of the next street, a few tears escaping and coursing down her cheeks. Her heart was still pounding, and she felt like pinching herself because it felt as though she were stuck in a nightmare.

"Bastard," she hissed to herself, furiously wiping away her frustrated tears. It had taken her a long time to rebuild herself after what had happened with Nick. And Johnny, and Peter, and… Frank Foster. She'd spent the past ten years trapped in a tumultuous life, and she'd finally started to get used to the peaceful sanctity of Devon, the calming countryside walks and weekends spent lounging around on the beach in a bikini – when weather permitted. Why did Peter Barlow feel the need to swan back into her life and knock her down again? Carla's grip tensed around the steering wheel as her chest grew tight with panic, her lungs feeling like they were going to explode. She wasn't prone to panic attacks, but since the Frank incident, they had become more commonplace. And seeing Peter stood there in her own peaceful hometown brought all of her horrendous memories flooding back to her, including those that she had pushed to the very back of her mind. Her attack, Peter's affair, the loss of her unborn baby; the things that Carla Connor had suffered were enough to trigger even the hardest of people. As she struggled to regain control of her breathing, Carla squeezed her eyes shut, tears stinging her eyes and threatening to spill down her cheeks and smudge her mascara. She'd been so content since moving to Devon. Now Peter was here and reminding her of all of the horrors that she'd desperately tried to forget.