The rain poured down in heavy sheets, soaking the dirt beneath your feet, making every step feel sluggish. Clementine stood across from you, her amber eyes burning with something between rage and heartbreak.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice strained, knuckles white around the handle of her knife.
The argument had started hours ago. You wanted to leave—go off on your own, take a risk she wasn’t willing to let you take. She called it dangerous, and foolish. You called it freedom. The conversation spiralled, words turned sharp, and now here you were, fists clenched, breath coming fast, the tension between you thick as the storm around you.
Silence stretched. Then she lunged.
You barely dodged in time, the blade slicing through the air where your side had been. A punch to her shoulder made her stumble, but she recovered fast—too fast. Before you could react, she swept your legs out from under you, and you crashed into the mud.
“Stay down,” she warned, standing over you. Her knife hovered just inches from your chest, but her hands trembled.
You twisted, knocking her off balance, rolling on top of her. Pinning her arms, rain ran in rivulets down both your faces.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes—God, her eyes—held so much pain. She struggled against your hold, her breath coming fast, her body tense beneath yours. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t fighting anymore.
She kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or sweet—it was desperate, raw, filled with everything neither of you could say in words.
When she pulled back, her voice broke. "Please... don’t make me lose you."
Your grip on her loosened, the weight of her words heavier than any fight.
Maybe this wasn’t about winning. Maybe it never was.