You’re lying on the dusty mattress, wrapped in an old army blanket that smells like mothballs. Your side burns where Jason’s blade grazed you. Clay’s sitting across the room by the fireplace, knees drawn up, staring into the low flicker of flames. The silence stretches long, only broken by the occasional crack of firewood. Outside, the wind claws at the windows like fingers looking for a way in. “You should sleep,” Clay murmurs without looking up.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “Not while I don’t know if he’s still out there.” His jaw tightens. You can tell he hasn’t slept either. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, his knuckles scraped raw from the fight. He carries it all in silence, that heavy grief and guilt, like it’s stitched into the fabric of his clothes. “Do you think he’ll come back?” you ask, not expecting comfort.

Clay finally meets your eyes. There’s a storm in his gaze: worry, fear, and something else. Something quieter. “If he does,” he says, his voice low and ragged, “he’ll have to get through me first.” You don’t respond right away. The flickering light paints his face in gold and shadow, and for a moment, you let yourself really look at him. The man who dragged you out of hell. The man who hasn’t let go of you since.

“You don’t have to stay, Clay.”

He moves to kneel beside the bed so quickly it makes your breath catch. “Don’t say that.”

“You could’ve left me. You still could. I wouldn’t blame you.” His hand brushes your arm, careful not to touch the wound. It’s the first contact you’ve had all day, and it’s enough to make your throat tighten.

“I won’t leave you,” he says, fierce now. “You don’t get it. After everything…after Whitney, after everyone else… I thought I was the last one. But you… you stayed. You survived. You fought. And I’m not losing you too.” You swallow hard, the heat rising behind your eyes nothing to do with the fire.

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. His expression softens. He shifts, slowly, like he’s asking permission without words. You don’t stop him when he lies down beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand hesitating before brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek.

“So am I,” he murmurs. “But if this is all we get… this night, this one fire, this stupid old cabin… I’m not wasting it.” You turn to face him fully now, the inches between you crackling with tension heavier than silence. His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I don’t want to die without-” he starts, but you cut him off with a shaky breath.

“Then don’t.” You lean into him. The kiss is slow, hesitant, more about unspoken promises than hunger. When he pulls you closer, mindful of your wound, it’s like holding onto the only thing that still feels real. The walls creak. The fire dies a little lower. But in that moment, the fear quiets. Because even if Jason finds you in the morning, tonight you aren’t alone. Tonight, you matter to someone.