We didn't talk for the longest time. I could feel all the heat slowly fading from the water, until eventually the only warmth I could feel was that radiating from Claude's skin. And even though he was pressed right up against me, that wasn't saying much.

Abruptly, without any warning, Claude grabbed my foot and yanked it up to face level.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demanded.

"I'm checking if you have frostbite," he informed me. "Which is very much a possibility considering you went outside in your Birkenstocks."

"Yeah, that was a pretty big mistake, wasn't it?" I was in no place to disagree with him, even if it was weird that my toes were three inches from his face and he was gawking very intently at them.

"I'll say! You could've die-"

"I mean, I will always regret losing my Birkenstocks," I told him. "My most faithful ally in this dark, twisted world of foot fetishes and avid fans of NPR."

Claude scowled at me from behind my foot. "Firstly, I don't have a foot fetish, I'm trying to check if you could have frost bite. And secondly, there is nothing wrong with loving a little NPR now and then."

"Claude, please tell me that you were referring to loving and NPR in the same sentence ironically," I pleaded.

He just looked up at me and smirked.

As horrifying as the thought was that he was inferring, I was still proud of his sass (maybe I was rubbing off on him).

"Now, the real question is: do you want the good news or the bad news first?" He questioned, placing my foot back down in the tub.

"Bad news," I said, instantly, knowing he was probably going to tell me that I was dying or something and afterwards, hopefully, he would inform me that he found my Birkenstocks as good news.

"Well, the good news is-" Suddenly, he scowled, sputtering to a stop like the little engine that just couldn't. "Wait, Bea, you're messing it up."

"What? You asked me if I wanted the good news or bad news first, and I made my decision," I argued.

Claude sighed. "Bea, everyone knows that's a trick question. It's practically rhetorical."

"If it practically was then I practically would've known it," I snapped. "And, besides, how does that make any sense? Wouldn't you want to know the bad news first so that the good news could possibly cheer you up?"

"That's not how they do it on television," he combated.

I almost face-palmed. "Claude, please don't tell me that you use television as a reference point for human interaction."

"I think you've already used that line," he informed me.

I scowled. "For the love of . . . Have I actually already had to give you the talk about the differences between reality and television shows? Clau-"

"No, I meant the format of the joke." He shocked his head. "Never mind. Do you even want to hear the news at all?"

I shrugged. "Can you tell me the bad news first?"

"No."

"Whatever."

"Well, you don't have frostbite," Claude informed me. "Isn't that just dandy?"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

He ignored me. "And I don't think I do either, s-"

"So that's the bad news," I concluded.

Claude's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond to my comment. "However, we could both be susceptible to diseases associated with the cold, like hypothermia. The best way to avoid that would be to, well . . ."

Claude Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was (it would actually be a good idea for me to find out, considering he saved my life and all) was blushing. I loved it.

I raised my eyebrows. "Yes?"

"We-well, as we d-do-don't want to g-g-get an-any col-colder, we may wan-want to . . . share body heat," he suggested, blushing enough to make his face indistinguishable next to a strawberry.

I could've smirked. "Are you trying to get me to sleep with you?"

So. Fucking. Red. I loved it. "N-n-n-no! I m-mean in a n-n-nonse-sexual so-sor-sort of wa-"

"Relax, Heinz, I'm just teasing you," I reassured him.

"Heinz?"

"Like the ketchup brand," I explained. "I'm referring to how red your cheeks are."

"Oh." His cheeks became impossibly redder. "Well, I am offended by tha-"

"Can I get out of this bath now?" I whined. "I want to get into my sweatpants and I'm worried that you've been able to see my nipples."

"Uh . . ."

"Don't look," I ordered. I snapped my fingers close to his face. "Look at me. I'm not bullshitting you. If you so much as look too long as my sexy ass body, which I know will be very tempting for you, castration would be merciful in comparisons to what I would do to you."

Claude gulped.

I rose to my feet, stepping out of the tub. I reached for a towel from the allocated rack (the only of it sort, sorry (not sorry), Claude) and wrapped it around my mostly naked frame. Over my shoulder, turned to see a very dazed looking Claude. "You're going to count to one hundred. Meanwhile, I'm going to change in the other room and get into bed. After that one hundred seconds, you can get out of the bath, do whatever the hell you want really, and . . . And I guess I'll let you come to bed with me."

He nodded.

I shook my head. "Sweetie, this is the part where I get spoken confirmation, understand?"

"Um . . . I agree to the terms and agreements," he said.

"Huh." I smirked. "Only time you weren't lying when you said that, right?"

Claude scowled. "Wait, do people not read the copyright terms and agreements online?"

This face-palm moment is brought to you by the guy whose name sounds like cloud.

*

I counted to three hundred when I felt the mattress dip down next to me, even creaking slightly. I had rolled over onto my side, not facing him, but I could feel his warmth started to spread beneath the covers of the sheets. He was so close, but not close enough to touch me.

"Be-Bea?" He asked, hesitatingly, after a moment. Claude's spoke quietly, as if not to wake me up if I were sleeping.

"Yes?" I asked, not bothering to roll over.

"I know you . . ." I could sense him hesitating over his words. I could practically hear the gears working in his brain as he struggled to find the perfect balance of his mastered language skills. "Well, I've known you for less than twenty-four hours. But I know- hell, I don't know what I thought I knew. I'm just going to say it: were you trying to kill yourself out there?"

I froze underneath the sheets. There was that question. It wasn't the first time I heard it, and I doubted it would be the last. And I always had the same answer.

I faked a yawn, loud and dramatic. "Boy, I sure am tired, I think I should go to bed."

"Bea-"

"It's been a long day, hasn't it? Probably going to be longer tomorrow," I interrupted him.

"How so?" He asked, now easing from his initial question.

"Well, we'll be driving tomorrow, right?" I reasoned.

"But the storm-"

"Screw the storm." Even I could hear the hysteria rising in my voice, and I took a deep breath. But even when I spoke, my words were stumbling and shaking all over each other. "We got this, right?"

"Damn it, Bea," he cursed. I was startled by his tone, by the sharpness and the severity of it. "I'm not asking you to tell me your deepest and darkest secrets or anything. Look, I'm sorry about asking you about . . . about things, okay? I'm sorry that upset you. I won't make that mistake again. But I need to know if you're going to hurt yourself."

"Why do you even care?" I murmured, wrapping my arms tightly around my pillow. I could smell the cleaning detergent on the fabric, so impersonal and distant from anything real that I loved it.

"Ta gueule," he snapped, and I gulped. Just from the tone he used, I knew he wasn't saying anything nice when he used French. "You know what? Fuck you, Bea What's-Your-Face. Fuck you. Do I have to have some sort of personal stake in not wanting you to die? Or am I not capable of being a decent human being that doesn't wish you were trying to kill yourself? Goodness, Bea . . . why won't you look at me?"

He said the last part so gently, yet his words had the power to tug me over onto my back. My hair was falling all over my face, but I peeked up at him from behind my dark locks. I hoped he didn't know how close to crying I actually was. "I don't want to die."

Claude was lying on his side. I could see that he was wearing a gray long-sleeved shirt, a pair of boxy black glasses perched on his nose and squished against the pillow. His blonde hair had dried now, mostly, and it puffed up like duck fluff on top of his head. I imagined that his hair must've been as soft as his voice when he finally spoke. "You have a funny way of showing that."

I sighed, racing my hands through my hair and tugging on the ends, as if that someone could release the burden of having such a caring heart beating next to mine. "Look, I-I'm not always like this. I always get this way during the winter holidays, same time every year. And I know when I- when I have these depressed mood swings, that it really seems like I don't want to survive, but . . . The fact that you are here, with me, shows that I want to live."

"How so?" He questioned.

"When our flights were cancelled this morning, I think I subconsciously knew that if I continued travelling alone, I might . . . I might do bad things to myself. So I brought you with me, hoping you would protect me from myself," I explained. "And you very much literally did, so, um, thanks, I guess."

I muttered the last part and, instantly, I could see that funny little smirk shape Claude's lips. Like a puppy who had discovered the joy of chew toys, he seemed content with the world. "I'm sorry, what was that last part?"

I deadpanned him. "I said that the results have come back and you are indeed the father of Satan. Also known as the cast of Teen Wolf."

I don't know what Teen Wolf is, but I'm assuming it can't be any more awful than the title suggests." Claude was still smiling, however. "And you're welcome. Bea."

"Don't get sentimental on me," I ordered. "Or I may have to use some of your French against you."

"Oh, um, that would probably be the nicest thing you ever said to me. I am, uh, nothing but, um, charming and polite when speaking en français," he insisted.

I rolled my eyes. "You're the worst liar I have ever met."

"I'm not-"

"Spare me the theatrics," I insisted. "Where did you, uh, learn French anyways?"

"Are you asking me a personal question?" He asked, his tone one of surprise.

I scowled. "Is it really that shocking?"

"Yes."

"Well, then . . . I see how this relationship works." I bit my lower lip, hoping he wouldn't be able to see it, before rolling over. "Goodnight, Claude."

"Wait, Bea, that's isn't what I meant," he told me, instantly, his tone urgent. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

I closed my eyes, not responding and readying myself to fall asleep.

"My family is French," Claude continued, after a moment of silence, his tone much softer now. "Or at least my dad is. He grew up in France so, when he moved to New York, he spoke both English and French. He met my mom in one of his advanced French classes, but she had no reason to learn the language except that she liked the feel of it on her tongue. Either way, they got married, had kids, and forced them to learn French as well."

I nodded, not really having much to respond to his tale.

"Bea?" He said, softly. "Bea, are you still awake?"

"I'm listening," I told him.

"Oh." Silence again. "I don't use my French much, unless I'm at home."

"You seem to curse a lot in French," I observed, quietly.

"How can you even tell?"

"Context," I explained, still not rolling over to face him. "You're angry and your tone gets all mean and tough. Either you're cursing or insulting me."

Claude chuckled. "I like how you instantly decided that I must be cursing, since I wouldn't be insulting you."

"Well, of course not. And, just so you know, if I wasn't to lazy to lift my head right now, I would be doing a hair flip," I replied.

He laughed again. "Of course you would be."

"So why do you curse in French?" I questioned. "Why not English?"

"Mainly because when I was younger, and thought cussing was the coolest thing one could do, I liked being able to get away with cursing in public because no one else could understand me," he told me.

"Except your parents."

"Yeah, except them. They never seemed to mind, though, they thought it was funny. My dad liked to joke about it being my rebellious phase," he responded.

I rolled over onto my other side, facing him. He was now lying on his back, one hand now resting behind his head. His eyes were closed behind his glasses. "Please tell me you're joking. That couldn't have been your most rebellious phase."

I could practically hear the shrug in his voice. "I didn't really have time for one."

"What could've you been so busy with?"

"Well, uh . . . it's kind of embarrassing but-"

"President of the Backstreet Boy's Fan Club?" I offered. "Stage manager for the Broadway musical Rent? Leading a communist revolution?"

"No." Claude stuck his tongue out at me. "I was, uh . . . well, I graduated high school when I was eleven."

"What?" I demanded, sitting up before perching myself on my elbow so I could look down on his expression, try to determine if he was lying. He opening his eyes slightly, the blue knotted with his eyelashes. "That's an actual thing? I thought they only did that in movies."

"Nope, that was my life," he informed me.

"So you're like one of those child genius prodigy cliches?"

"I wouldn't say I'm a cliche," he reasoned.

"No one wants to say they're a cliche, but we all are in some way," I explained. "Everything in life is some sort of cliche, in one way or another. Every story that has ever been worth telling has already been told. There will never be another Romeo and Juliet, but there will always be another West Side Story or Bonnie and Clyde. And we live by these stupid cliches and structures and rules that have already been written long before we were born, but we trick ourselves into thinking that somehow we are still original and spontaneous. It's the worst sort of lie, really."

Claude was silent for a moment, then, "It's the nicest lie anyone ever told me."

"That's depressing," I told him.

"Lot's of things are depressing," he said. "You have to let that motivate you, though. So you can make the world a better place."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

"How are you a cliche, then?" He asked.

"Ah, Claude, but if I told you, where would be the fun of guessing?"

"I don't like guessing," he told me. "I like knowing."

"Which is exactly why you are a child genius prodigy cliche," I said. "Speaking of which, how did that work? Tell me."

"Well, there really isn't much to tell-"

"I still want to know," i interrupted.

He smiled that little funny smile. "It all started in elementary school. Ironically enough, I was failing all of my classes. My teachers thought that there was something wrong with me, but the truth of the matter was that I was bored. I wasn't learning anything so I didn't even bother with any of the class required assignments or tests. The person who figured this all out was my dad."

"Your French dad?"

"Only Dad I have," he told me.

I rose my middle finger and he laughed.

"When I was little, it seemed that my dad was the smartest person in the world," he mused, his eyes fluttering shut again. "He used to keep all of his college textbooks in his office and I would go read them. I fell in love with the world of physics and advanced calculus as Moby Dick. But maybe that's because I've always felt a little bit like the whale."

"Like a metaphor?" I teased, remembering the book from college.

"A little," he replied, but there was no humor in his voice. "I was actually reading Moby Dick when my dad came into his office. He started asking me what I was reading and, thinking I couldn't understand such a complex text, he started asking me questions. He was surprised when I told him the whale was more than a whale, but a reflection of each of the character's identities, which I could identify and explain. He was so shocked that he started asking me what else I was reading. I told him about all of the books I had read, thinking that I was going to get in trouble, but . . ."

"But what?"

"He started crying," Claude murmured. "I had never seen my father cry, but there they were, tears streaming down his face. I thought I had done something so wrong, bu-but then he grabbed me. My dad just wrapped his arms around me. Usually, I would've been embarrassed by such outwardly acts of affection, but my dad never acted like that and . . . it was one of the best moments of my life."

"Then what happened?" I asked, gently.

"The next day, my dad talked to the school," he told me. "I had to do some testing, which I had to study for several weeks to take. But I passed them all with flying colors. It took them awhile to figure out where I belonged, but eventually I started taking some high school classes. A couple of years later, I graduated. Then I went to college."

"How did you even do that, though?" I questioned. "When I was eleven, well . . . I didn't want the things that I do now. I wouldn't have ever wanted to be a grief counselor. How did you decide to be a journalist?"

"I didn't know at first. I thought, well . . . I thought I wanted to be a physicist. And, I mean, I still do love physics, bu-"

"But you loved English, too?" I guessed.

He opened his eyes, glancing up from behind his glasses and endlessly long eyelashes. "How did you know?"

"Only English-y kids like Moby Dick," I explained.

"That's true." Claude laughed. "I had to take one English class in university to fulfill some requirements, but I ended up falling in love with it. So I started taking some more and, eventually, that lead to me taking an interest in journalism."

"And you're probably amazing at it if you're writing for the New York Times," I concluded.

He smiled. "Maybe a little."

"You're an asshole." I told him, but I was smiling.

I lied down on my back, staring at the ceiling. Claude was silent, too. I could hear him breathing, though, just the stirring of air from his mouth.

"I'm tired," I realized out loud.

"Then you should sleep," Claude replied.

"That's too logical for me," I responded.

"True," he agreed.

"I could strangle you," I said, yawning.

"You could. But I trust you."

My eyelids were getting so heavy. "Even after everything that happened today?"

"Especially then," he said. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be sleeping in this bed with you."

"Even with the threat of hypothermia?" I questioned.

"Even then."

I hadn't had someone trust me in a really long time. I could feel his words stirring in my chest, fluttering throughout my stomach, filling my entire body with a warmth I hadn't felt . . . ever. I didn't know who I felt about it. I wanted to thank him for trusting me, but the words got stuck in the back of my throat. So instead I said, "You probably just wanted to get close to this smoking hot body. I understand. I would too if I were you."

He laughed, but the sound was drier, brittle. Artificial, even. "Goodnight, Bea."

"Goodnight, Claude."

I closed my eyes.