You slip into Clementine’s room after checking the hall twice, shutting the door softly behind you.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, boots off, hair down for once — loose, messy, soft. She’s never looked more like a girl your age and less like the survivor she’s been forced to be.

When she sees you, something warm flickers in her expression, quiet but unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” she says, but she’s already shifting aside, leaving space for you to sit.

You close the gap anyway, your knee brushing hers. She sucks in a sharp breath at the contact — barely audible, but real. Her fingers hover near yours on the blanket, not touching, not yet.

Her voice is softer now. “Someone might hear.”

“Then we’ll keep our voices down.”

That earns you a look — surprised, flustered, a little helpless. The lantern light reflects in her eyes, making them look darker, deeper, like they’re pulling you in.

You place your hand over hers.

This time she doesn’t pull away.

Her fingers curl immediately around yours, holding tight, as if she’s been waiting for an excuse. Her heart is racing — you can feel it through the small, trembling shift of her body toward yours.

She whispers, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Her admission hangs in the air like a secret you’re both giving permission to breathe.

You tilt closer, close enough to feel her breath warm against your cheek. Her eyes flick to your lips before she can stop herself. Her free hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against your jaw with a tenderness that makes your pulse stutter.

“Clem…” you murmur, leaning in until your foreheads touch, shared breath mingling in the small, private space between you.

She swallows, her thumb brushing your cheek. “If you get any closer, I’m not gonna want you to leave.”

Your smile is slow, deliberate. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

The tension between you sharpens into something warm and undeniable. Clementine leans in first — only a breath, an inch — giving you just enough time to pull away if you wanted to.

You don’t.

Your lips meet hers softly at first, careful, almost shy, like she’s afraid the moment might break. The kiss deepens a little, the sweetness growing warmer, hungrier, her fingers tightening at your jaw as she pulls you closer.

The room spins in the best possible way.

When the kiss finally breaks, she rests her forehead against yours again, breathing you in like she’s trying to memorize the moment.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she whispers, voice trembling with honesty she’s never let anyone hear.

All she hopes is that AJ doesn’t wake up to go to the bathroom.