"Bea, you need to wake up."

Words trailed into my ears, bursting and bumbling through the blissful drowsiness that consumed my body. They stirred me to consciousness, drawing a series of blinks, until the events of last night washed over me- the grilled Mac 'n' Cheese sandwiches, throwing up, Claude. Claude, Claude, Claude. His hands sweeping through my hair as I hunched over a toilet. Him crying out in his sleep. His blush as he asked me if he could hold me as he slept, needing someone to protect him as he slept like a teddy bear would a child.

My eyes peeled open, slowly. The normally vertical world was flipped on one side, what I assumed was the curtains muting the vast array of colors that decorated the room. And, of course, there was Claude.

Claude's face was mere inches away from my own. From this angle, I saw every tiny blemish and detail that adorned his skin. His azure eyes, the exact shade of wounded blue cotton candy, glanced up at me from behind his glasses. "Bea?"

"Claude?" My voice was husky, due to lack of use while I was sleeping. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry to wake you up," he quickly apologized. "I know that you are sick and the last thing you probably want to do is get up. But we need to get up going, remember? I've packed everything up, all that's left to do is you getting ready and checking out. I figured I could check out while you got really."

Claude was saying a lot of things very fast. Since I just woke up, the last thing I was really prepared to do was actually listen to real instruction. Sitting up, I hid a yawn behind my palm as I nodded along to whatever it was that Claude was saying. "Sounds great."

His eyebrows raised, somewhat warily. "And you won't just fall back asleep? You'll actually get ready?"

Me? I was tempted to question. I would never break my word- "Does changing into a different pair of sweatpants and brushing my teeth count as getting ready?"

Claude consisted this for a moment. "I'll take it."

I swung my blanket-tangled legs over the side of the couch, almost hitting Claude in the process. It seemed so strange that as close as the last time my eyes were open before this, Claude had his arms around me. He had begged to hold me. And we snuggled all night.

My cheeks warned at the memory, and I looked up to his bright blue eyes. Claude's gaze held mine, steady and consistent. If he was thinking about the events of last night as much as I had in the two minutes I had been awake, he wasn't showing it. Claude Martin had one hell of a poker face.

"Hey," I murmured.

His voice was soft when he responded. Like the blanket that had kept us warm and pressed close together last night. "Hey."

I suppressed a smile. "Aren't you supposed to be checking out?"

His cheeks became pink in splotches, as if someone had dabbed him with a pink paintbrush across his face in the random manner of their choosing. "Right. I'll see you in about twenty minutes, and then we can head out of here. To New York."

Because that's the most interesting thing I had ever heard, I thought, as Claude arose and headed towards the door, eventually leaving. Que the sarcasm.

*

Leaving Cloud Nine was an endless period of trying (and failing) to not fall asleep through a speedy shower and brushing my teeth and packing my bag and biding the owners of the hotel (whose names I couldn't remember due to a lack of sleep) ado. When Claude and I finally made it outside, we noted that it was still incredibly cold. However, the storm subsided and there seemed to be less snow intent on eliminating our chance of getting to New York City by Christmas.

"You'll drive," I told Claude, retrieving the car keys from my jacket's pocket. "And I will sleep."

He chuckled. "Aye, aye, Captain."

Claude thought he was being funny. He wasn't.

*
When I woke up the next time, it was because the car had stopped moving. I was curled up in the passenger seat, my head leaning against one of the icy cool windows.

"Where are we?" I mumbled, blinking, stretching like a cat after a long nap, sitting up.

However, Claude wasn't sitting next to me. He was standing next to the car, door wide open, so I could hear the whistle of the wind and snow flakes twirling in the air, as if performing some elaborate ballet routine. Claude smiled apologetically at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You should be sorry," I told him, using my arms as a shield around my body to protect me from the cold. "I could kill you in your sleep-"

"I brought food."

I sat right up. "But I wouldn't do that because I love you."

Claude chuckled. "What can I say? I know the way to your heart."

"It's through my stomach," I verified. "Now, come on, hand it over. I'm starving over here."

He passed me a brown paper bag and a tray with two coffee cups, before climbing back into the car and buckling himself in securely. "You're welcome."

I took a sip of the cup with my name on it. The liquid was hot on my tongue, but instantly warmth shot through my entire body. It melted down my throat, soaking into my veins and seeping into my bones. I mused, "Who knew they had Starbucks this far out in the country?"

Claude smiled at me as he grabbed his own drink. "We're not exactly on the wilderness, Bees. This is a small town, known as Eagleton."

"Eagleton," I snarled. "I hate Eagleton."

"What do you have against Eagleton?"

Since Claude couldn't understand the complexity of the history here (or my Parks and Rec reference), I ignored him and took another sip of my drink. "What is this magical substance anyways? You aren't buying potions from people claiming they're wizards on the street again, are you?"

Claude scowled. "That was one time, and you weren't even there."

"But you told me about it, which is pretty much the same thing," I retorted, smiling at the story.

"Well, it's a White Chocolate Macchiato," he informed me. "I have written a couple of articles about coffee, so I consider myself a sort of unofficial expert on it-"

"Of course you do," I muttered.

"-And I know that you love sweet and sugary things above all, but that you're tired and could really use the boost of caffeinated coffee," Claude continued explaining, ignoring my comment. "So when I arrived at this Starbucks, I tried to consider what would be the perfect blend to feed your endlessly hungry sugar tooth, but also energize you, I instinctively thought of the White Chocolate Macchiato."

"You're such a nerd," I told him, glancing down at the paper bag, not wanting to show him the smile that was threatening to spread across my lips. I liked hearing him rant. Unless he was being annoying.

"But it gets better."

"Better?"

"Look in the bag," he instructed, and now he was smirking.

I eyed him suspiciously, but I followed his orders. I pried open the thin flaps of the paper bag, which crinkled in response, and a wave of sugary goodness washed over me. I moaned, "I don't even care what is is, I need it in my body."

Claude laughed. "If it helps, I don't know what it is either. I just asked the lady at the counter for the food item with the most sugar. That's what she gave me."

I pulled it out of the bag. I had no idea what it was, but it was a cinnamon-colored loaf loaded with light pink frosting. And it was completely stuffed in my mouth within a matter of fifteen seconds, which was probably a new record.

"Careful, you don't want to choke," he warned, watching me as he took a sip of his own drink.

"Please, have you seen me lately?" I insisted. "I'm a walking container for disease. The last thing I need to worry about is choking."

"Or the first thing," Claude argued. "If you've survived all of those diseases, shouldn't the final stretch be well worth all the effort?"

I groaned. "Claude, now is not the time to logical. It's like six in the morning."

"It's actually closer to eleven," he informed me.

"What?" I demanded, surprised. "Really? How long have we been driving?"

"Long enough for you to occasionally glance at the clock if you wanted to know what time it was," he remarked, dryly.

I rolled my eyes. "So, sass-less translation would be . . . ?"

"Almost three hours," he told me.

"So we're over half way to New York, since we got about an additional four ways of driving when we were driving the other day," I concluded. "That's pretty good. We're almost there."

"Well, we still have another five hours to go, at least," he warned me. "Who knows what'll happen with the weather or how many breaks we'll need to take. Which reminds me. At the last gas station I filled up at, I picked you up some cold syrup. Hopefully, it'll help clear up your flulike symptoms, since no one should be allowed to feel crummy during the holiday season."

"You bought me cold syrup?" I clarified.

Claude verified that he had, indeed, bought me cold syrup.

I don't know why it made me feel so good that he did so. But it was like I had drank a thousand White Chocolate Macchiatos- like I was swimming in a pool of it. I could feel it's effect underneath my skin. It felt hot, like I was the exterior of a volcano that could explode any moment, any minute. The magma stirred beneath my skin, scorching my veins and melting my bones. "I . . ."

"You're welcome." He grinned at me, before placing his cup in the cup holder. "I put the bag with your medicine in it in the back seat. Do you mind if I started driving again?"

I shook my head, and he started up the car. "Thanks, Claude. For, um, driving us when I should be. For getting my medicine. And food. Always food."

He flashed me his grin. "You're welcome."

There was silence for a couple of moments as Claude drove through the snow, both of us slurping at our hot drinks that slowly made us feel more and more alert. And although we were heading to a city where he and I would inevitably be torn apart in the spirit of the holidays, there was no where else I'd rather be right now. But maybe that wasn't true for Claude.

"You, uh, excited to get home?" I asked him.

Claude shrugged one arm, still using the hand on the other to hold the wheel firmly. "To New York or my family? Because those are very different things."

"How so?" I questioned.

"I was raised in a sleepy suburban town just outside of New York," Claude explained. "And even though you can sometimes see the landscape of the city when the sky is clear enough, they seem to be from two entirely separate worlds. Ellsworth had small town, American Dream charm, but it was a dead city with dead dreams. Unlike New York, which is alive, you know? It may be dirty. It may be an abyss of shattered hopes and crime and a grime that can only be seen in one's blood, but it can be more. It has been so much more."

"Maybe to you," I said, and even I could hear the malice in my tone.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I grew up in New York City," I informed him.

I thought about the New York City, the Big Apple, I had grown up in. And I thought about it on the day that changed my life forever, for better or for worse- smoke coiling through a once perfect sky, ash trailing through the streets, the screams that broke through air and walls and skin until they were embedded in your flesh. Until they were a part of you. That wasn't a city that was alive.

"And you left it," Claude stated, but it wasn't a question. Just words. Words that charged the air, words whipped through the air as gray clouds formed before lightning flashed. "I thought you went to Chicago for school- you did say you went to the University of Chicago. And then I just assumed your stayed there because you found a job, but now ... that wasn't the only reason you left New York, was it?"

"No, that wasn't the only reason," I told him, without telling him what the other reasons were. I couldn't help but think about how much he knew about me, without me specifically saying something. But Claude was analytical in that way- ever little thing that wandered through his senses, be it his eyes or nose or ears, he stored in the database of his mind for further study.

I saw his hand clench slightly on the wheel. "I'm not going to ask you what it was, Bea. I can tell you don't want to talk about it."

"Good," I said, because I didn't want to talk about my relationship with New York anymore.

"So, to answer your original question, yes," Claude digressed. "Yes, I'm excited to go back to my city. But being in Ellsworth will be a little more bittersweet. Not just because of the city, but because I'm worried about my sister."

I bit my lip. I didn't know if Claude was trying to be forthcoming with his secrets to make me more comfortable in revealing mine, or he just wanted to show his vulnerable side. If, like a knight, his shining armor was cracked and rusting and he was tired of the world viewing him as a hero. I wanted to believe the latter. "Annalise, right? Unless you have another sister to worry about."

I was surprised when a smirk shaped Claude's lips, although it was humorless. "I have another sister, who's a couple of years younger than me. Her name's Janine and she's the sort of person who expects the world to worry about her, so I wouldn't say that I do much."

"You don't sound too fond of her," I blurted out, before I could consider the ramifications of basically accusing someone of hating their sister.

But if Claude thought my comment was rude, he didn't show it. "She's a character."

"Are you close?" I asked.

Claude shook his head. "I'm not too close with either of my sisters. I mean, Annalise is still just a kid- she's finishing up her senior year in high school, you se-"

"Do you mean literally a kid?" In interrupted. "Because, I mean, you sort of were when you graduated high school."

The corners of his mouth twitched for a second, like he was trying not to smile. "She's seventeen, turning eighteen next April. While Janine is finishing a Bachelor's Degree in Anthropology."

I couldn't help the snort that flew past my lips. Glancing over at Claude, I saw his grin. And suddenly, we were both laughing.

"I didn't realize that people actually got anthropology degrees," I told Claude, between fits of laughter.

"Not a lot do," Claude told me, seemingly wiping a tear of laughter that leaked from the corner of one of his eyes. "It can be difficult finding a job within the field. But Janine was never interested in studying. She just wanted to find a rich husband to take care of her, even if he objectifies her into being his trophy wife. His name is Michael."

So apparently Janine was a gold digger (as my favorite Kanye West song would deem it). "So she's married?"

"Engaged."

"That makes me feel old," I murmured. "Like, your sister is getting married at twenty-three. And here we are both as single as the ladies Beyonce sings to."

His eyebrows rose. "How do you know I don't have a certain special somebody waiting at home for me?"

I mimicked his eyebrows. "Either you're single or you're a cheater, based off certain snuggling activities we were both present for last night. And let's just say, if you're the latter, you can be saying goodbye to your penis. Because I will cut it off with a fucking axe."

Claude flushed, gulping. "I am single. So fucking single it hurts."

I grinned, for more reasons than one. "Good."

"And I already know you're single. Except for Julian," Claude continued.

I almost snorted again. "Julian doesn't count for anything. We just have sex casually."

"How do you do that?" Claude muttered. "How can you make love to someone and not feel anything for them?"

Now my eyebrows rose again. I knew Claude was a lot of things, but I hadn't expected him to judge me for discussing my sex life (and I hadn't even started spilling the gory details yet). "I never said I didn't feel anything for Julian, but that doesn't mean I'm in love with him either. That doesn't mean we can't have sex-fucking and making love aren't the same thing."

"They aren't?" And with those two words, I realized that Claude didn't know the first thing about sex. I glanced over at him, only to meet his blue eyes. His cheeks became red, which would've made his appearance perfectly patriotic on the Fourth of July, and he quickly looked away.

"Clau-"

"Look, I know that it's ... weird," Claude stammered quickly, almost feverishly. "I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm still a virgin. I haven't ever seen a girl naked before-"

"You saw me in my bra and panties," I pointed out, remembering our evening in the bathtub. The night I tried to kill myself.

"I don't even know how to use my tongue when I'm kissing someone," Claude continued, evidently ignoring me. "How long am I supposed to wait? Do I just jab it between their lips, or do I lick them? Also, should I be swallowing my saliva or-"

"Shut up."

Instantly, it seemed like his lips were sealed together.

"You're overthinking the one thing that should never be overthought," I told him. "You can't think your way through sex. Sure, you should be able to openly communicate with your partner and plan to have safe, consensual sex. But once you've done that, you need to do what feels good, and that's something your body tells you. You can't think about it. So stop worrying, okay? You're going to give me an ulcer just thinking about it."

I shared a reassuring smile with him, and he returned it with a gracious one his own. "Thanks, Bea."

"No problem," I insisted. "But, goodness, you're so innocent. What is it- no sex, no drinking, probably no parties. What have you been doing with your life so far?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I've been subconsciously waiting for you all this time to stir up trouble. Goodness knows you already have."

I grinned. "Trouble is what I do best."

"That you do," Claude agreed.