Chapter 2: Day After
The grey light of morning filtered through the single dusty window, revealing the cabin in all its intimate, accusing detail. The rumpled quilt on the bed. The abandoned t-shirt on the floor. The lingering, unspoken charge in the air, thick as the woodsmoke scent.
Clarke was already dressed, seated at the small kitchen table with her back to the bed, meticulously cleaning a camera lens that didn’t need cleaning. Every movement was precise, controlled. A fortress being rebuilt, brick by furious brick.
She heard him stir. The rustle of sheets, the soft pad of his feet on the plank floor. He stopped behind her. She could feel him there, a question hanging in the space between them.
“Coffee’s made,” she said, her voice unnaturally flat. She did not turn around.
He moved past her, the sleeve of his sweatshirt brushing her shoulder. A jolt, ruthlessly suppressed. He poured a mug, leaned against the counter. She kept her eyes on the lens, on the smudge that wasn’t there.
“Clarke.”
“We should check the road. I bet it’s clear.”
“The storm knocked a tree across the driveway. Micah’s texted. His cousin’s bringing a chainsaw, but not until tomorrow.”
Her hands stilled. Another night. Her stomach clenched, hollow and tight. “Fine.”
Silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. The easy camaraderie of shared soup last night was a distant country.
“You should eat something,” he said finally, gesturing to the loaf of bread, the jar of peanut butter he’d dug out of a cupboard.
“Not hungry.”
He took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. “You didn’t eat last night, either. Not really.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
She spent the morning outside, despite the drizzle, under the pretext of scouting for photographic opportunities. The forest was a dripping cathedral, green and somber. She framed shots of water-beaded spiderwebs, of lichen on bark, but her focus was shot. Her mind replayed the feel of his hands, the sound of her name in his mouth. Each memory was followed by a wave of scalding anger—at him, for being there, for being patient, for seeing her come apart. At herself, for letting it happen. For wanting, against all reason and history, for it to happen again.
By late afternoon, the hollow feeling in her gut had graduated to a sharp, gnawing ache. She came back in, soaked and shivering, to find him splitting logs out back with a ruthless, athletic efficiency. She ignored him, changed into dry clothes, and sat on the couch, scrolling through her shots with unseeing eyes.
He came in sometime later, bringing the scent of cold air and sweat. He built the fire up again. The cabin warmed. He made two grilled cheese sandwiches, the smell of butter and toasted bread filling the space. He set one on a plate and placed it on the arm of the couch next to her.
She ignored it.
He ate his by the fire, watching the flames. The sandwich beside her grew cold, the cheese congealing.
“Clarke.” His voice was quieter now, a low warning.
“I don’t want it.”
“You need to eat.”
“I’ll decide what I need.”
He stood up. The room felt smaller. He walked over and stood in front of her, blocking the firelight. “This is stupid. You’re being stubborn to prove a point. What point? That you can punish me? Punish yourself? For what?”
She finally looked up at him, her emerald eyes flashing. “For forgetting.”
“Forgetting what?”
“What you did.” The old betrayal, never named between them, lay suddenly bare on the floor.
His expression tightened, pain flickering in the amber depths. “That was years ago. And you never let me explain.”
“I don’t need an explanation. I need you to back off.”
He didn’t back off. He knelt, putting them at eye level. His gaze was intense, relentless. “Eat the damn sandwich, Clarke.”
“No.”
Something in him snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was a quiet, definitive click. In one fluid motion, his hands shot out. He gripped her wrists, pulled her up from the couch, and turned her, pinning her face-down into the cushions. His body came down over hers, one leg between hers, his weight immobilizing but not crushing.
She gasped, struggling, but he was pure, solid muscle, prepared by years on the ice. “Get off me!”
“You’re going to listen,” he growled, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was hot. “You can hate me. You can scream at me. But you are not going to starve yourself in some twisted protest over something that happened in that bed. That’s on both of us.”
She writhed, her hips arching against him, a futile attempt to buck him off. The friction was immediate, electric. A tremor ran through him. She felt it. Felt the hard line of him against her backside.
The struggle changed.
Her breathing hitched. His grip on her wrists loosened, shifted. His hands slid down, his fingers threading through hers, pinning her hands to the couch on either side of her head. His hips pressed down, a slow, deliberate roll.
A choked sound escaped her. Not of protest.
“See?” His voice was rough, ragged at the edges. “You’re not just angry. You’re this.” He rocked against her again, the layers of their jeans doing little to mute the intense, promising pressure. “And so am I.”
She turned her head, her cheek against the cool leather. His face was inches away. Their eyes locked, a war of breath and heat. All the unsaid things, the years of tension, the shattered trust and the undeniable pull, condensed into this single, charged point of contact.
“I hate you,” she whispered, but it sounded like a plea.
“I know,” he breathed back.
And he kissed her. It wasn’t like the kiss in the dark. This was daylight and raw nerve. Messy, teeth clashing, a conduit for all the frustration. She kissed him back with equal fury, her body surging up against his.
He released her hands. She twisted, turning onto her back, and he followed, settling his weight between her thighs. They kissed like they were fighting, like they were trying to consume the other to end it. Her hands fisted in his hair. His pressed into the couch beside her head.
There was no undressing, no careful exploration. Just the frantic, desperate grind of denim on denim, building a friction that was agonizing and perfect. He buried his face in her neck, his breaths coming in harsh gasps. She hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him harder against the aching center of her. The world narrowed to the seam of their jeans, to the hot, slick ache, to the pounding of two hearts in sync.
It was fast, and brutal, and utterly necessary. Her climax tore through her with a silent, sharp cry, her body arching rigid beneath him. The feel of her pulsing around the pressure tipped him over the edge moments later. He shuddered, a long, low groan muffled against her skin.
Collapse. Weight. The roar of blood in her ears subsiding, replaced by the crackle of the fire and the ragged symphony of their breathing.
He rolled off her, onto his back on the floor, one arm flung over his eyes. She lay on the couch, staring at the weathered wooden beams of the ceiling. The cold grilled cheese sandwich sat untouched on the floor where it had fallen.
The silence this time was different. Not peaceful, but spent. A temporary ceasefire on a battlefield littered with confused desire and old wounds.
After a long while, he sat up. He picked up the cold sandwich, walked to the kitchen, and without a word, began making a new one. This time, he used more butter. He grilled it slowly, carefully. He placed it on a fresh plate, set it on the table, and pushed a chair out for her.
Then he went outside, closing the door softly behind him.
Clarke sat up. Her body felt used, alive, bewildered. She looked at the golden, perfectly crisped sandwich. The hollow ache in her stomach was now a different kind of hunger.
She got up. She sat at the table. She took a bite. It was the best thing she had ever tasted.
Outside, the first flakes of a new snow began to fall, silently burying the muddy tracks of the day.
Outside, the first flakes of a new snow began to fall, silently burying the muddy tracks of the day. Clarke finished the sandwich, every bite a quiet surrender. She washed the plate, her movements slow and deliberate in the quiet cabin. The empty space where Jake had been pulsed with his absence.
He came back in an hour later, dusted with snow, bringing a gust of cold air that smelled of impending winter. He didn't look at her, just stomped his boots and went to the fire. He added another log, the action methodical, his back rigid.
The silence was a living thing between them, swollen with everything they’d done and not said. Clarke finally broke it, her voice sounding alien in the hush.
“Micah’s cousin is still coming tomorrow?”
“That’s the update.” Jake poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.
“Good.” She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. The memory of his weight on her, the furious press of his jeans against hers, flashed hot behind her eyes. “So we’re stuck here playing house for another night.”
He turned then, his amber eyes catching the firelight. They were tired. “Is that what we’re playing?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know, Clarke. But ‘playing’ implies it’s fun.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “That wasn’t fun. That was… something else.”
Her throat tightened. “It was a mistake. Another one.”
“Was it?” He took a step closer, not threatening, just closing the distance. “Because it felt like the only real thing that’s happened in this cabin. The anger, the… that. It was honest.”
She looked away, out the window at the swirling snow. “Honest doesn’t make it right.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong.” His voice dropped, almost a plea. “Not the fight today. The real thing.From before. You keep throwing it between us like a wall, but you won’t even tell me what it is.”
The old wound, ached, fresh as yesterday. She hugged herself tighter. “Homecoming. Junior year. You told Scott Miller I said he was a conceited jerk.”
Jake stared, confusion knitting his brow. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Clarke, I never said that. To Scott or anyone.” He took another step, his expression open, bewildered. “Why would you think I did?”
“Because he came up to me after the game, red-faced, and said, ‘Thanks for the review, Thompson. Hunter told me all about your opinion.’ Then he poured his beer on my shoes.” The memory stung, childish and sharp. “You were the only one I’d said that to. The only one.”
Jake’s face went through a series of shifts: confusion, dawning realization, then a sharp, pained understanding. He let out a long, slow breath. “Oh, god. Clarke.”
“What?”
“I told him I thought he was a conceited jerk. For how he was talking about you, about your photos in the yearbook. He asked what I thought of him. I told him.” He met her gaze, unwavering. “He must have twisted it. Made it seem like it came from you to save his own ego. He was an asshole.”
The foundation of her grudge, the bedrock of her coldness towards him, shifted. Cracks appeared. “You never said anything.”
“You froze me out! The next day, you looked at me like I was something you’d scraped off your boot. I tried to talk to you, and you told me to lose your number.” He spread his hands. “What was I supposed to do? Chase you down and plead my case? You’d already convicted me.”
The logic of it, the sheer, banal cruelty of Scott Miller, settled over her. It was so stupid. So high school. And she had carried it for years, letting it color every interaction. She felt dizzy, her anger deflating, leaving a hollow, shameful space.
“All this time,” she whispered, mostly to herself.
“Yeah.” He sounded weary. “All this time, you hated me for a betrayal I didn’t commit. And I just… took it. Because I figured I’d done something to deserve it, or you wouldn’t look at me that way.”
“Why would you just take it?” The question burst from her.
His answer was simple, direct, and it landed like a physical blow. “Because I liked you. Even when you were glaring daggers at me, I liked you. I thought maybe if I was just patient, just… there, you’d see.”
The confession hung in the air, more intimate than anything they’d done on the couch.The fire popped. The snow fell in silent, relentless waves against the window.
Clarke pushed off the counter. She walked to the couch, the scene of their earlier conflict, and sat on the edge. She stared at her hands. “I’m an idiot.”
“A little,” he agreed, a tentative, almost imperceptible thread of lightness in his voice. He didn’t move closer.
“I built a whole… personality around hating Jake Harding.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “It was a good part of my thing. Fiery, opinionated Clarke, who holds a grudge like a champion.”
“You are those things,” he said. “You don’t need the grudge to be you.”
She looked up at him. He was still by the fire, watching her, waiting. The patient boy from high school, now a man in a cabin in the snow. “So what now? We just… erase four years?”
“No.” He finally moved, sitting on the hearth, keeping the space between them. “We start from now.Right here. With the facts. I didn’t betray you. You’re not an idiot, you were a hurt kid. And…” He paused, weighing his words. “And whatever this is between us, it’s not just anger or shared body heat. It’s something else. Something that survived you thinking I was a traitor for four years. That’s kind of stubborn.”
A genuine smile, small and unsure, touched her lips. “Stubborn is my brand.”
“I know.” He smiled back, just a flicker. “It’s annoying. I like it.”
The quiet that followed was new. Not a ceasefire, but a clearing. The air felt lighter, breathable for the first time since they’d arrived. The weight was gone, replaced by a terrifying, wide-open possibility.
“We should play cards or something,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Since we’re stuck. Unless you’ve got another bizarre survival skill. Can you identify edible moss?”
He stood up, heading to a small cupboard. “I’ve got Uno. And I’m ruthless.”
“You’re on, Harding.” She curled her legs under her on the couch as he brought the battered box over. He sat on the floor, his back against the couch near her feet. He dealt the cards with a practiced flick of his wrist.
They played. He dropped a Draw Four on her with a smirk. She retaliated with a skilfully timed Reverse. They argued over rules. He accused her of cheating. She called him a sore loser. The lighthearted, teasing dialogue felt like a first language they were both remembering.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, wrapping the cabin in a deep, soundproof hush. The world beyond the windows faded to a blur of white, leaving only the warm, lit square of their sanctuary. The past was finally, truly, outside.