The radio was mocking her.

She knew that that sounded crazy, but it was. Every love struck, heart achy, crooning Christmas jingle that crackled through the speakers was another—very personal—jab at her life. She wasn't even listening to a Christmas station for crying out loud.

She jabbed the radio's power button with her finger, slamming it off. She didn't need to add the jolly tunes of the season to the list of things that the day ruined.

With the radio off, Clarke was left to her thoughts. Which was a place she absolutely did not want to be. It was a place her mother often frequented—oh god her mother. She had to tell her mother. Where else was she going to go? She wasn't just going to go back to her apartment and sit alone all Christmas break, but her mother?

No. No, that wasn't an option.

With one last check on the gas gauge, Clarke switched lanes and pulled off on the next exit.

Eventually she'd had to turn the radio back on though.

She needed it to block out the sound of a giggle that wasn't her own coming from his bedroom, and the memory of the thudding of her blood coursing through her veins because she knew exactly what she was walking into.

And the sound of the creaking of the door as she opened it slowly in order to give them time to make it look like it wasn't exactly what she knew it was,

And the sound of Finn calling after her to wait,

or the sound of her feet hitting the pavement as she ran, even though she hated that she was running because only cowards run and she should have stood tall as she turned on her heel and left but instead she bolted from the room as if she wasn't even worth a proper exit,

And the sound of her key as she shoved it into the ignition and her car as it scraped across the icy parking lot,

And the sound of her blasting the air conditioning in the middle of December because she suddenly felt like she was boiling, and she needed to cool off before she melted completely into a puddle.

So she'd turned the radio back on, and let the Christmas songs about love and happiness and being with people who give you love and happiness wash over her until her mind hardened enough for her to not even notice them anymore, because she couldn't notice anything anymore. Nothing except the road, that's all she could focus on because anything else would be too much. So she focused on the road.

And when her car went careening into a huge mound of snow before it sputtered and died she most definitely did not focus on the fact that the peppy yet whiny tune of Last Christmas was blaring through her speakers as her car made camp three miles from where she was planning on going. And she was absolutely not focusing on the fact that her cell phone had no signal.

Three miles was a lot farther than Clarke had ever imagined. Three miles in the snow and she felt as if she was hiking the Appalachian Trail. By the time she was halfway, she couldn't feel her hands anymore. Her feet were cold, but not quite numb because she could still feel the snow seeping into the tops of her boots, since the snow was higher than the length of her shoes. Her coat seemed to be more of a wind catcher than a wind breaker, and she was pretty sure about half the skin of her cheeks has peeled off from the incessant battery from the cutting wind.

Once she got to the cabin, at the end of the long white road, she raised her hand—covered by a glove which was completely soaked through—and pounded on the door. Then she collapsed her forehead onto it, and waited for Octavia to answer.

"How can I help—" she heard someone say as the door swung open and she toppled forward, landing on their chest. "Clarke?"

She looked up, bracing her hands on his chest—and how warm it felt against her frozen palms—and saw Octavia's brother Bellamy staring down at her, eyes wide, hands automatically moving to rub warmth up and down her own.

"Clarke what the hell?"

"Car—snow—crash—walked—three miles—" Clarke was shaking so hard, she couldn't put together full sentences before her jaw started snapping up and down, trying to generate some heat.

"Shit," Bellamy said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, ushering her through the doorway. "Let's get you inside, Clarke. Why the hell would you walk three miles in the snow? You should have called me."

Clarke just shook her head, and tried to focus on the warm air flowing through the house, and the heat crawling onto her back from Bellamy's arm.

"Phone had no signal," she whispered. "Octavia?"

Bellamy had walked away from her, moving past the mud room without saying anything. She moved to take off her shoes, and peel off her soaked gloves and jacket before he came back holding out a thick blanket. He wrapped it around her shoulders holding it closed in front of her as he stood staring at her, concern flooding his eyes.

"Octavia got stuck at school. Her flight was canceled. All the flights were cancelled actually," his expression turned playful. "Don't know if you noticed, but we're sort of in the middle of a blizzard."

"Ha—freaking—ha," she gasped out.

Bellamy had begun guiding her into the living room where she saw a downturned book on the coffee table alongside a mug. He started leading her over to the stairs and she pulled away from him in confusion.

"You need a hot shower and some clean clothes, princess." She pulled the blanket closer to herself and followed him to the master bedroom. He pushed open the door to the en suite bathroom and stood outside until she wandered in.

"I'll, um, I'll leave some clothes for you outside the door," he said.

"Thanks," she said, and shut the door and stripped out of the rest of her wet, sodden clothing.