"Okay, but if you think about it, chocolate chip cookies would totally be your girl next door, high school sweetheart type of ex-girlfriend."

"If cookies were like your typical ex-girlfriends," Claude added.

"Certainly. And everyone knows chocolate chips cookies- they've baked them with their parents and brought them for school lunches," I agreed, before returning to the topic at hand. "And if they were personified as an ex-girlfriend, they'd be that girl you knew in high school who was a straight A student and president of the student council. She'd have dirty blonde hair and the sort of body that is always swimsuit ready. You probably thought she was the most interesting person you had ever met when you started dating here. She had big dreams to change the world, and you thought you were fortunate enough to be along for the ride. But then you went to college and realize that every high school had one exactly like her. And like you."

Claude sat behind the wheel, his gaze intent on the frozen road beyond him. The rest of his features sat unturned, showing no response to my explanation, leaving his face incomprehensible to any analysis. I sat next to him, my long empty coffee hand still resting in my hand because it was warm; I had long ago given up the realm of sleep, even when I had already taken the drowsiness-inducing cold medication that Claude got me. I had offered to trade places with him, but he turned my offer down, insisting that he enjoyed the steady silence of driving (whatever that meant- I mean, I was practically chatting his ear off, so I don't know what he meant about his so-called steady silence). Translation: he thought I'd pass out behind the wheel because of the cough syrup I took earlier. I had to admit that was a valid point.

"I think you're assuming a lot about how many people I've dated," Claude said, after a moment. "I mean, I was also a kid during high school. I wasn't dating any girl next door types. And I certainly didn't have a high school sweetheart."

"I had a high school sweetheart," I mused.

"What was it like?"

I shrugged, which was much harder sitting down than Claude made it appear. "It's a lot more than movies make it out to be. But, I mean, it wasn't exactly the poster child for good relationships either."

"How so?" Claude peeked over at me, quite briefly, as he asked his question. He probably worried about how I'd response to his prying into my own life.

But this wasn't something I minded sharing. "We were both in pretty bad places during high school. We didn't give a shit about the world and preparing ourselves for it. So most of our relationship was built on doing drugs and drinking and partying. We, uh, had sex a lot. And we bitched. About everything and anything there was to bitch about. It wasn't healthy."

"Why did you two breakup, if you don't mind my asking?" Claude's tone was even more hesitant with this question.

Eventually I realized that it wasn't just my relationship that was toxic, but also the lifestyle," I explained to him. "So we broke up. And I cleaned up my act, got good grades, went to a good college. I'm here now because of it. And, last I heard, Sonja's a total heroin junkie."

"Sonja?" He repeated, and now his tone was tinged with surprise. "I thought you said you were straight."

"Hetero-romantic bisexual," I informed him. "When I was in high school, I identified as strictly bisexual. But since then, I've discover that I'm pretty much only interested in having relationships with men. Sexually, I'm not limited by gender, however."

And Claude just nodded. "Interesting. I've never met anyone who's labelled in such a way. But, if you don't mind, I have another question for you."

Ugh. What was with Claude Martin and all of these questions? I was pumped full of cough syrup and also coffee and sugar. I didn't know if I wanted to sleep for the next three days or if I was ready to run a marathon (okay, probably not (and never will be) the latter). Did he really have to interrogate me now?

But Claude just smiled with that stupid smile of his. "What about sugar cookies?"

And I couldn't help but return his stupid smile. "Well, if sugar cookies were a type of typical ex-girlfriends they'd probably be the perfectionist."

"Okay. What else are they like?" He questioned.

"She's the one who has her dream job at the age of thirty and is just looking to settle down. The problem is: she's crazy. A lunatic. She has control issues," I answered.

"And she wants her relationships to be as perfect as she is," Claude remarked. "She sugarcoats everything because, well, she's a sugar cookie."

"Okay." I rolled my eyes at his terrible excuse of a joke. Only I was allowed to make jokes like that. "If you're such a smart little cookie, then what do you think about ... gingerbread cookies?"

He tapped his fingers against wheel, creating a random melody that I didn't recognize. "Gingerbread cookies would be your starving artist ex-girlfriend. She was cool, creative and just mystery enough to keep you mystified. She only ate organic food, listened to obscure indie-slash-folk-alternative music, and was some sort of artist."

"Sounds like a real hipster," I commented.

"That's because she is," he confirmed.

"What's her flaw?" I asked.

Claude shrugged. "Does she have to have a flaw?"

"Everyone has flaws."

"Everyone has a cliche," he added.

Now he was getting it. "Exactly."

"But that doesn't mean her flaw is something we can generalize," Claude argued. "Maybe she drinks too much. Maybe her ex was just fed up she didn't take life seriously enough, or rather, she took it too seriously. Maybe she snores. Who knows?"

"Or maybe you need to remember that cookies and ex-girlfriends aren't the same thing," I retorted.

Claude's eyes snapped to meet mine briefly. They were blue and clear, his gaze as steady and strong as the beat of my heart. And then a goofy grin stretched across his lips. "That's true. What do you think about peanut butter cookies?"

"Well, she's probably the one that got away," I reasoned.

"I have a feeling peanut butter cookies are your favorite," Claude teased.

I rolled my eyes, even if Claude couldn't tell since he was driving. "Well, I'm sorry that they're the perfect cookie. So thus the perfect girlfriend."

"And how was she perfect?" Claude inquired. "What was her cliche?"

"She was your best friend. She ... shared your hobbies, had similar interests to you. She was easygoing and light-hearted, but still funny, interesting, thoughtful," I explained. "She was beautiful, but not in an intimidating sort of way. And you started to think, whoa, this girl might the One. The One they romanticize in the romantic comedies you hate. She's your happily ever after."

"But then why is she an ex-girlfriend?" Claude asked.

"Because sometimes things don't work out," I told him.

And he glanced over at me again. "You're cynical."

"And you're an optimist," I replied.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

I shrugged. "Everything is good in moderation."

Claude pursed his lips briefly, before agreeing. "Can't argue with that logic. But, Bea?"

"Yes?"

"What type of, uh, cookie do you think, um, Sonja was?" Claude asked, slowly. "I mean, if you're comfortable answering that."

"I don't know." And I genuinely didn't. "But I can tell you that she certainly wasn't a peanut butter cookie."

Claude nodded. "Well, of course not."

I scowled, perplexed by the certainty in his tone. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, not everyone can be peanut butter cookies," he explained. "After all, some people are allergic to peanuts. And based off what you said about Sonja, it sounds like you had quite a severe allergy."

I couldn't help but smile at how much of a dork he was. And Claude was smiling, too, just watching the road and driving and being too damn happy to be a real person.

"Claude?" I don't know why it was, I had spoken to this boy (this man) dozens upon dozens of times, but suddenly my own voice sounded uncertain to me. Shy.

"Yes?"

I refused to be shy. "What type of cookie do you think I am?"

"But you're not my ex-girlfriend," he concluded.

"Yeah, but we all know that we used ex-girlfriend as a grouping. We were really using female cliches," I reasoned.

He nodded. "That's true."

"So ... what type do you think I am?" I asked.

Claude considers my question for a moment before he answered. "A snickerdoodle."

"A snickerdoodle?" I repeated. A sense of disappointment bubbles in my stomach. Didn't only old people eat snickerdoodles? Wasn't it a-

"Snickerdoodles are my favorite cookie," he murmured. His cheeks became flush, and he shot me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. When he saw me staring at him, Claude became redder, if that was even possible.

"Claude, I-"

It all happened so fast.

I didn't know if it was because Claude wasn't paying enough attention or the world had something inherently against the pair of us (which seemed a more likely conclusion). But I heard the strangled gasp burst from Claude's lips, startled shock spreading across his whole face like the most contagious of diseases. The tires screeched hauntingly, and even as we veered off the road, the world outside was just a blur of blinding white snow.

I saw Claude's hands, as I grasped anything I could to steady myself throughout the chaos, turning wildly at the wheel. The car teetered on its side wheels, but instead of it flipping, it just shifted violently off the side of the road. We sped downwards, passing the dark stalks of trees, before we were forced to a stop in a great cloud of white.

For a brief moment, there was silence. I could hear the wind wailing outside, hear both of us taking in shallow, ragged breaths. My heart pounded in my chest uncontrollably, and I saw Claude's chest rising and falling just as wildly. But that moment of silence faded away, quickly, and our eyes shifted to meet.

Suddenly, Claude's hands were reaching for me. His words were jumbled and frantic when he spoke. "Bees, are you okay? Are you hurt? I'm sorry, I'm so sorr-"

"I'm fine," I insisted impatiently, again and again, as his fingers clumsily traced my face.

Claude unbuckled his seatbelt, sliding closer to me. His face was so close to mine that I felt his cold breath against my cheeks. Claude's blue eyes, which were usually as pale as a winter's sky, had darkened. Through irises of indigo, of a growing starry night, of an endless sea, Claude's eyes drank me. He didn't just scan my body, searching for some sign of injury- he was memorizing me. Painting a picture of my face in his memories. Consuming this moment.

But I wasn't any less guilty. My own hands had animated, taken in a life of their own, and they wandered towards him instinctively. My fingers clawed through his hair, knotting in every silken tendril that twisted around my knuckles. I knew I was probably pulling his hair, that it probably hurt, but I didn't care. I couldn't care. I jerked his head up to meet mine, so our faces were close enough that we could kiss. I murmured, "Tell me you're okay, Claude."

And he did, again and again. Claude knelt his forehead against mine, his own fingers clumped into my sweater at my waist. He just kept mumbling a simple "I'm okay" over and over again, almost half-mindedly, as he scanned my face.

"We need to get out of here," he mumbled, his words hot against my mouth.

I nodded, and the movement sent both of our heads up and down. "We should try starting the car. If that doesn't work, maybe we could put it into neutral and then go out and push the car back onto the road."

Claude agreed, once again mindlessly (and perhaps a touch recklessly because what did I really know about cars?). He pried himself a away from me, but he slipped one of his hands to my knee. His fingers cupped the joint, squeezing tenderly on the skin covered by my sweatpants. I couldn't help but feel slightly comforted by that motion.

He tried turning the key a couple of times in the ignition, but to no avail. It seemed that even the battery was dead. And, worst of all, we couldn't find a way out of the car to push it back up. The snow had packed us in entirely, not even giving us enough space to kick a window open.

"I have my cell phone," I suggested, frantically, because we were running out of options and I had no idea what we were supposed to do.

Claude bit his lower lip. "But there's probably no service out here."

I brought my phone out. There wasn't much of a signal, but there was something. Claude and I were able to find a number for a national towing company through the car's manual. We were redirected to the closest branch through location services on my phone.

"Hello?" The other end of the line was buzzing with static, the voice being muffled by it. "My name is Eric. How can we help you today?"

"My, uh, partner and I were in an accident," I explained, casting a glance at Claude. The call was on speaker phone so he could hear as well, but he agreed that I could speak since I had better social skills (remember the airport that we met, anyone?). "We're stuck and we need help. We can't get out of the car and it won't start. I'm not sure exactly where we are, but I sent you a GPS pin from my cell phone."

"You're ... stuck?" The static hummed between his words, annoying like a song in the radio that never ceased to amaze me by how often it was played. "I got your GPS pin, but ... we are swamped with calls ... try to get someone out as quickly as possible."

Both Claude and I sighed in relief. They were coming for us. "Thank you so much, Eric."

But he didn't seem to hear my response. "It's scary... sounds like you guys classify as an ... emergency ... might not be able to come until morning, though ... do you have a way ... warm."

Claude's hand squeezed my knee.

"We can't wait until morning," I told Eric. "Our battery isn't working, so our heating isn't on. We can try to stay warm in other ways, but there's a fucking blizzard out there. We need help as soon as you can send it, probably even sooner than that."

But then the line went dead.

I groaned, frustrated, throwing my phone away from me. As I buried my face in my hands, I noticed that Claude picked it up, sliding it into his pockets. If it were anyone else, I'd accuse them of stealing. But it was Claude.

But I felt his cool fingers wrap around my wrists, gently drawing my hands away from my face. "Look, we're going to be fine, Bees."

"They said they might not be able to come until morning," I argued. "We might freeze to death before that happens."

"We're not going to die," he insisted, and I was startled by the ferocity in his tone.

"You can't know that."

"I'm an optimist, remember? I do know things. I know good things," he told me. "Why don't you let me do the thinking right now? You're too cynicism isn't exactly helpful."

I scowled. "I'm trying to be realistic. And don't tell me not to think the way I do. Just because it isn't your way, doesn't make it the wrong way."

"Well, I'm sorry that I can't exactly align myself with your way of thinking. It's sort of difficult when you keep insinuating that we're going to die," he snapped.

I tried to pull away from him, but his grip on my arms was too tight. Claude ignored my struggle, my attempt to get away from him.

"Why don't you care about your life?" Claude whispered. "What made you stop fighting for it?"

His tone was gentle. Warm. Melting the ice that clung to my skin like a protective second layer, like the ice I fell through the night I tried to loll myself. I couldn't look at him, now now, not when he was talking like this. In a shaky voice, I asked, "Then what am I supposed to do? What are we supposed to do right now?"

"It's simple: we're going to share and preserve our body heat," he explained.

I thought about last time we did that. Even though it was barely a couple of days ago, it was a time where things were ... less complicated, between Claude and me. And the thought of him seeing me, of touching me, while we were completely alone and partially naked-

"We have a blanket in the car," he continued. "And we can reach our suitcases and unpack the clothes, stack in on top of us. It might not very comfortable, but it'll probably keep us warm until help comes."

Claude was still holding my wrists. He had long fingers which tangled all over each other over my thin wrists, but his touch felt so hot and smooth and gentle. And he was looking at me with that intensity in his eyes, the type that made me want to trust him no matter what I thought the outcome could be.

"Okay," I found myself saying. Whatever you want, I thought. "Good idea."

Claude's face broke out into a grin. "Thanks. Now maybe we should get into the back seat, and we could start finding the blanket and scourging through our suitcases an- wait. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I asked, curious where the question arose from. I shook my head, realizing the error in my answer. "Never mind, don't answer that. Let's just get moving."

Concern was etched across his face, but he it subsided. In a hesitant voice, he agreed, "Okay. Let's do that, then."

I tried to smile reassuringly up at him. "You know, you're going to have to let me go."

"Bea," Claude groaned, frustration ringing through his voice. "I'm not voice to give up on you. I don't care how you fe-"

"I meant physically," I interrupted, unable to help my smile from growing. I raised my wrists, dragging his hands along with them. "You're holding onto me. We can't go anywhere."

"Oh, right." Claude blushed and glanced away. His hands immediately snapped free from my wrists. "I'm sorry."

I patted the back of his hand. This was too good. "It's okay, Jack."

Now he looked up at me. "Jack?"

I put on my best heart-wrenched expression, placing a clumped hand against my chest and pretending the reach for him with the other. "Never let go, Jack, never let go!"

"Shut up," Claude growled. "And the Titanic sucks."

I laughed. Messing with Claude would never get old (like Jack (or is that joke too soon?)).

Claude climbed between the seats to the back, grumbling under his breaths about something that sounded a lot like "that pretty boy Leonardo." I followed him as he started fishing our suitcases out from the backseat.

Together, we made a small little clothes and blanket fort. We arranged our belongings in such a way that they'd wrap over and around us snuggly. Hopefully, combined with our own shared body heat, it would be able to keep us warm.

"I must say, we're top of the class fort constructors," I told Claude, inspecting our masterpiece.

He shrugged. "I've seen better."

I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess- you wrote an article about it?"

"Maybe."

I shoved his shoulder. "Fuck you."

"So ..." He trailed off, ignoring my comment. "I guess this is the moment where we sort of start getting naked."

"Um, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not getting naked," I told him. "I apologize to your poor, virgin eyes, but I don't want you seeing my boobs. We wear undergarments or no deal."

He was blushing, and he cast his eyes away from me. Claude didn't even have it in him to be irritated by my teasing him. "O-of course. I didn't want you to see my penis, either."

I rolled my eyes, but decided not to respond. I turn my attention to my own clothing, hoping that I wouldn't get my head stuck while pulling it out of my sweat-shirt. Thankfully, I was able to do that, and slip off my sweatpants gracefully all while Claude struggled with rolling is jeans off.

I snorted. "I hope you aren't going to be this awkward when you have sex for the first time."

"I'm sorry that we can't all look as sexy as you do when we undress," he muttered, using his hands to roll his jeans down and over his ankles. I could see that his cheeks were still red.

Did Claude think I'm...? I turned off the thought before it had the opportunity to develop. I glanced down at myself. Even though I was wearing a plain black bra and the dingy orange panties adorned with giraffes that I had owned since high school, I was still big enough to admit that I found myself attractive. I would totally date me.

I grinned at him. "Well, that's true. No one is quite the animal as I am."

I laughed at my own pun (thanks, underwear for giving me a joke). Claude glanced up, his glasses crooked on his nose and his eyebrows furrowed together. "Anima-? Oh. Are those giraffes on your, um, panties?"

"You know it," I confirmed. "Now, are we going to spoon or not?"

Honestly, I had a magical ability to make Claude blush. I may or may not have accidentally permanently stained his cheeks red. If I were him, I'd accuse me of witchcraft.

Nevertheless, he crawled into our blanket fort and raised the walls so I could squirm in comfortably next to him. It was a bit difficult to fit in, because but eventually I settled down on my side facing him, and we pulled the fort down around ourselves tightly.

We were pressed right against each other. Our stomachs aligned so I could feel the smooth expanse of his skin again my own, the light tickle of chest and leg hair rubbing up against me. His heart beat murmured at the same rate as mine.

"Well, this is certainly cozy," I muttered.

He smiled. Our faces were level, but since he was taller than me, that meant my toes reached his calves, near his ankles. "It's weird to be able to feel you breathing."

"And hear it," I agreed.

"I've never been this close to someone," he murmured.

I couldn't help but grin. "Am I the only girl who has ever seen you in your underwear?"

"N-"

"Family doesn't count."

He fell silent.

"Well, I'm honored." But I knew I was probably wearing the cockiest smirk I possibly could.

Claude groaned. "What have I gotten myself into?"

I shrugged. "Probably the best time of your life."

Claude looked very concerned.

*
Hey Reader!

Notice: so, sorry for the slight anticlimactic ending to this chapter, but I promise the next update will be extra juicy ... so I've just finished Camp NaNoWriMo (basically, My goal was to write 40,000 words in one month and I did it). Since my other story was more of my focus for Camp Nano, I wasn't paying this one as much attention, but I will be focusing in on this one since j finally feel like I know exactly where this story is going. However, bad news: I'm going away for vacation for the next three weeks, so I'll work on the next update, but I might not be posting anything until I get back. Until then, I'd love to hear from all of you about what you're thinking so far- also, thanks to those who have been commenting because it means the world to and keeps me motivated to keep writing. Thank you for reading and I'll try to have something new for you as soon as I can :)

Love Your Favorite Liar <3