The tile was cool underneath me. It was like lying on a thin sheet of ice— cold, white, like the world. Feeling so vulnerable beneath me, like it could shatter at any second, and the freezing water could pollute my body with a cold that could never be thawed.

"Am I dying?" I murmured.

"No," Claude answered, quickly. He had propped himself against the wall, his long legs lining my curled body. His hands were knotted in my hair, his warm fingers tracing the curve of my spine, trying to penetrate the ice that was my skin. "Most likely, it's the flu. Although, all that champagne you drank certainly didn't help. Plus, there's always a chance that it could be some sort of food poisoning-"

"The Mac 'n' Cheese grilled cheese sandwiches?"I demanded, sitting upright. Almost immediately, I knew that had been a bad idea. Multicolored stars burst before my eyes like a fireworks display, my stomach moaning in complaint. Claude's hands worked quickly to get me back lying down. "They betrayed me?"

"Most likely, no. If it was those, I would've gotten food poisoning as well," Claude reasoned.

"Good. I don't think I could've handled that sort of betrayal," I told him.

Claude laughed softly, like the cackling of a flame. "No, I don't think you could either."

He was so warm. He was like a freshly stoked fire at the best, dotted with the innocent white fluff of marshmallows being roasted on a summer's night. He was my newly made bed, sheets fresh from the dryer. Claude was the sun.

"Claude?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think I'll die if I fall asleep?" I questioned.

"No," he told me. "Do you want me to carry you into bed?"

"No, I'd probably break you."

"I'm really quite stronger than I look, thank you very much," he insisted. "I can carry you."

"What if I throw up again?" I asked.

"I'll get you a bowl."

"What if I'm comfortable here?" I inquired.

"Then I'll be worried by your psychopathic ability to lie," he reasoned.

I sighed, surrendering to him. "Fine, mortal, you may take me to bed."

Claude decided to ignore my comment (probably since he couldn't deny his morality (and if he could, then I needed to call Buffy) and it made him sad to dwell on it). He knelt next to me and I rolled over onto my back.

I grinned at him. "Yo."

His eyes were too blue to not be Photoshop-ed (if that's a verb). Claude didn't even bother trying to hide his rolling eyes from me as one of his arms slipped underneath my knees and the other curled up underneath my shoulders. As he pulled me up off of the floor, I wrapped my arms around his neck.

Already, I could see his knees buckling.

My eyebrows rose. "You okay?"

"Fine," he huffed.

It took many slow, dragging steps (accompanied by enough huffing and puffing to blow down the Three Little Piggies' houses), bur eventually Claude got me to my bed. While he went to fetch me a bowl, I rearranged myself under the blanket.

"Goodnight," I murmured, as my eyes fluttered shut.

*

"Anna."

I blinked, slowly. Between my eyelashes, I could see the room stained in various shades of black, white, and gray. Moonbeams stretched across my sheets, growing in width until the steady moonlight encompassed by bed. The very air felt cool, as if my breath would turn into a ghost upon escaping my lips. I pulled on my blankets, tugging them over my shoulders. That was better . . .

"An-Anna. No. No."

My eyelids were wrenched open by the agonized tone. I propped myself up on one elbow, scouring the room for the source of the voice. My eyes landed upon a hunched shadow curled up upon the couch near the other end of the room and my heart shrank in my chest.

"Anna, please," he murmured, his tone feverish, pleading. That I could tell, even from a distance.

I slipped out from beneath my covers. The cold air traced my bare skin and I fisted the material of my sweater over my bare hands, as if that could eliminate the chill. I crept towards him, moving swiftly between all the pieces of furniture in this room while also being cautious to not trip over my own feet.

Claude was lying underneath a thin blanket on the couch, his face buried between angled arms. Soft groans escaped his lips, his legs curling up against his chest.

I knelt down next to him, grabbing his shoulder. "Claude. Claude. Wake up."

With a jerk, Claude sat up, flinching away from my touch. He sat, gasping for air, back pressed against the back of the couch. His eyes were wide, locked on my own, appearing as the sky a moment after lightning had struck— confused how to handle devastation. Claude's shoulders trembling, as if he were Atlas and he could no longer bare the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked, softly, noting how rapidly he was hyperventilating.

His gaze broke away from mine. Claude's eyes twitched, breaking back and forth between every tiny component that made up the world around him. He still couldn't seem to catch his breath. "I . . . I was having the dream."

"What was it about?" I inquired, still trying to sound gentle.

"It's the same. It's always the same," he murmured. "I'm in my parent's house. I'm walking down the hall, heading towards the bathroom. I open the door a-and she's there, but . . . she isn't her. There isn't the shy smile. The overalls splattered in paint that she always wears. The messy long brown hair my mother always is nagging her about. No. It's always the same."

"How is it the same?" I questioned.

Now he was looking at me. "The water's running, it's always running. It floods the tub, spreading across the tiled floor. But none of that matters because . . . because . . ."

"Because?"

"Because she's in the tub," he whispered.

My stomach squirmed at his words, but I ignored my own discomfort. I locked my eyes on Claude's. "Anna isn't in the bathtub."

"Her skin is bloated, tinged green as if she ate something bad. But she didn't. She never just ate something bad," he told me, as if he didn't hear what I said. "Her brown eyes are open. I think she's looking at me because those eyes seem to see everything and nothing all at the same time."

"Anna's okay," I insisted.

"And you want to know the worst part?"

"Claude," I snapped.

"My grandparents used to like to do treasure hunts with my sisters and me. They would put a bunch of candy in a box and hide it somewhere in the house," Claude continued, still ignoring me. "They didn't give us any clues or anything, but they wanted us to work together to find our treasure. Of course, for that reason, we never did. We couldn't work together. We hated each other."

Claude laughed, darkly. He was hysterical.

"Stop, Claude." Now I was begging.

"The only thing we knew is that x marked the spot. That's how all treasure is marked, right?" There was that laugh again, sounding like rush of storm clouds. Like the sweeping wave of a hurricane. "That's what she carved on her arms, in my dreams. Two bloody x's on two bloody arms. And I realize that all along that the real treasure was her and she's . . . and she's gone. I'm gone. We are all gone because it's too late. It's too fucking late."

I slapped him.

I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the crazy glimmer in his eyes or the frenzy of his tone. Either way, my hand flew through the air and flipped across his cheek. My palm stung, as I imagined his now red cheek must be.

Claude blinked at me. "What was that for?"

"You were acting crazy," I told him.

"Maird. You must be a great therapist," he concluded, dryly.

I glared at him. "It's different when you are dealing with people you ca- you know. When they are more than just a patient."

"Am I more than just a patient?" Claude inquired, raising his eyebrows at me amusingly.

I could tell that he was teasing me, but I couldn't find any humor in me at the moment. "You saved my life. You found me Mac 'n' Cheese grilled cheese sandwiches. You held my hair while I threw up. Of course you are more than just a patient to me."

Even in the nonexistent light in the room, I could see a blush overtaking his cheeks. He said something I didn't expect him to say. "I'm sorry I woke you up. You should be in bed, resting-"

"Shut up," I insisted, covering his mouth with my sweater-clad arm to keep him from talking. "This is about you, not me."

"Bea, I'm fine," he tried to tell me, struggling to move my arm. By the way his hands were shaking against my own, I knew he was lying.

"Scoot over," I ordered.

Claude scowled. "What?"

"Move," I repeated, climbing onto the couch. Claude apparently didn't comprehend the meaning of my words, since completely disobeyed me. I found myself sitting on top of his hip, my legs curled over his waist. "Well, now you just made this weird."

"You made this weird," Claude retorted, but he placed his head back down on the pillow. He looked quite comfortable. "You're kind of warm, though. Like a frumpy blanket."

"I'm not frumpy," I snapped.

"No, you're not," he agreed. Suddenly, I felt something warm touch my hand, and I knew it was his fingers. I let my fingers relax, allowing his own to tangle with my mine. "Bea?"

"I'm still not over this frumpy thing," I told him.

He sighed impatiently. "Then lay down next to me, okay? Then you'll be like a weird, human-sized stuffed animal, like the sort you probably used when you were a kid and scared off the dark. I certainly did."

"I think the adult version of that is called a sex doll," I told him, but I followed his suggestion. I scooted off of his side and lied down next to him, my back pressed against his chest. "Or a girlfriend. Or boyfriend."

Claude chuckled, and I could feel his chest vibrating against my back. "I'm not gay, Bea."

I don't know why that made me feel better.

"You must be cold," Claude concluded, without even asking me. I felt his body shifting behind mine and, after a moment, I felt the woven softness of a blanket wrap around me. "Here. Better?"

"Much better," I replied. "Except . . ."

"Except?"

I rolled over. We were so close that our chests brushed together and our breath mixed together in the spare inches between our lips. In the dim lighting, he was so beautiful, with his porcelain skin, dotted with freckles and acne scars, stretching over sharp cheekbones. "Claude?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me to shut up, if I'm crossing your boundaries, but . . ." I bit my lip, hesitating. "Your sister is alright, okay? You don't need to be scared."

Immediately, I saw his features harden. It was as if I had morphed into Medusa and staring into my eyes had turned him into a statue. Still, he surprised me when he spoke. "You can't know that."

"No," I confessed, finding consensus. "But neither can you. The future has been unwritten and you shouldn't worry about possibilities. You'll see Annalise in a couple days, okay?"

And, once again, he did something that surprised me. Because it was less than a day ago when he caught me eavesdropping on his conversation with his mother, less than a day ago that he chastised me for prying into his and his sister's privacy. And now, with two syllables, two letters, Claude was showing me that he trusted me. Claude was letting me in. His features softened as he spoke. "Okay."

"Now, we should both get some sleep," I told him. "We have a long drive tomorrow."

"Bea?"

"Yes?"

"Can I . . . can I hold you?" His cheeks were red and now his eyes didn't dare to meet my own.

"You want to . . . hold me." It wasn't a question, but I still felt puzzled.

"It was a stupid idea-"

"No," I insisted, quickly. I scooted closer until I was pressed flush against his body, tucking my head underneath his chin. Our knees bumped together, our ankles tangling, his arms finding their way around my waist. I could smell his skin, all woodsy and campfire. "This is a great idea."

"Goodnight, Bees," Claude murmured, cautiously.

"Goodnight, Claude," I replied.

I couldn't help but remember what he said about a stuffed animal, though. Children held them while they slept to protect them from the night. Maybe I was Claude's teddy bear as well.