Avalon
Clarke’s eyes widened like saucers before narrowing into sharp slits.
“Were they?” I cut in, trying to retrace the night. I hadn’t noticed her hair. I hadn’t noticed anything except the burning ache in my stomach—the one I’d been trying so hard to drown or fill with meaningless sex. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She scoffed, laughing out of the side of her mouth. “Seriously? They were hard to miss. I’m surprised you—”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t really focused on her hair when she was kissing me,” I snapped.
Clarke snorted and rolled her eyes. “What did you notice about her then?”
Her tone wasn’t mocking—it was curious.
Like she was trying to understand why I’d chosen someone else.
Why it hadn’t been her.
She must’ve realized I caught the subtext, because she quickly added, dripping sarcasm, “Was it her eyes? Or were you dazzled by her smile?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t remember anything about that girl — not her name, not her eyes, not her smile, and definitely not her terrible tape-ins.
The whole time I’d been with her, something felt wrong. Off. Like I was in the wrong place with the wrong person.
“No. None of that.”
I lifted my gaze to Clarke’s. Her lips parted slightly.
“The only thing I remember about her… was that she wasn’t you.”
Silence fell — thick, heavy, suffocating.
For a moment, I regretted saying it out loud.
Clarke’s face twisted into disbelief, then darkened. Her brows pinched together.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, shaking her head and dragging her hands over her face. “God, why did you have to do that?”
She pushed away from her stool so abruptly it nearly toppled.
“I can’t believe you just—”
She turned, heading for her room — away from me.
I followed. “I just what, Clarke? Admitted what we’ve both been denying for weeks?”
I caught her wrist. She jumped at the contact.
“The entire time I was with that girl — hell, I don’t even remember her name — the entire time, I could only think about you. About what you were doing—”
“Stop,” she pleaded, pressing her back to the wall as if she could melt into it. “Stop.”
She tugged at her wrist, but I held on.
“Please stop, Avalon. I don’t want to hear this. So what if you were thinking of me? You were still kissing her.”
Her voice cracked.
Her eyes shimmered.
Was she about to cry?
“It does matter,” I insisted. “I only went in that room because I saw you with—”
“With what, Avalon?” she snapped. “If you saw me, why didn’t you stop? Why wasn’t that enough to make you change your mind?”
I shook my head and stepped back, releasing her wrist.
“No. I didn’t go through with it. I saw you under the lights and—and you had lipstick on your mouth…”
Clarke frowned, fingers lifting to her lips. Her tongue darted out, as if remembering a taste.
“Now you’re not making any sense. If you’re implying I kissed someone tonight, you’re mistaken.”
But I had seen it.
The smeared red stain across her mouth — too messy for Clarke King, perfectionist extraordinaire.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull the memory forward. I knew what I’d seen. I knew.
Otherwise, I’d ruined everything for nothing.
“But I was so sure,” I whispered, shame crawling over my skin. “I wouldn’t have gone into that room if I hadn’t been.”
If I hadn’t thought she’d kissed someone else, I would’ve used whatever confidence I had left and thrown Jonas’ stupid idea out the window.
I didn’t need meaningless sex with strangers.
I needed to get Clarke out of my head — and if sleeping with her was the only way to do that, then fine.
The sooner the better.
“It’s been torture, Clarke,” I said, pressing my palms to my temples. “Being around you and not being able to touch you or—or kiss you.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed.
“You’ve been a constant thought in my head. Everywhere I go, something reminds me of you, and I hate it.”
Clarke’s lips parted, confusion washing over her face.
“I’m confused… you’re saying one thing but contradicting yourself by saying you hate it—”
“Yes, because this is what you do to me, Clarke!”
My voice rose—not anger, but desperation. A force of habit when I was frustrated and at my wits end. “Can’t you see that?”
I stepped closer, my voice softer now. “It’s confusing because I can’t read you. I don’t know what you want.”
She pressed back against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast.
“I want…”
Her voice faltered, the rest swallowed by fear.
“Tell me what you want, Clarke,” I whispered. “Or at least put me out of my misery. Tell me what you need.”
Her lips parted again, her eyes dropping to mine.
She was seconds away from giving in — I could see it.
Want and defiance warring across her face.
“I need—” Her breath hitched. “God, I need you.”
The words had barely left her mouth before she surged forward, crushing her lips to mine and pinning me against the wall.
Her teeth tugged at my lips, her hands pulling me closer, erasing every inch of space between us.
Pleasure and relief crashed over me in equal measure.
It hadn’t just been weeks of pent-up frustration.
It had been almost four months.
Four months of trying — and failing — to want anyone else.
Finally, kissing Clarke was nothing like the half-hearted kiss I’d endured earlier.
I hadn’t been present then.
I hadn’t wanted it.
But I’d tried anyway.
Stupid me.
Silly, stupid me.