Disclaimer: Not mine! Enjoy!

With each knock, my heart skips an extra beat.

Oh god oh god oh god.

It occurs to me that I probably look no better than a drowned rat. I feel my bangs sticking to my cheeks and my dress clinging to me, making it tighter than before. The dirty rain water was seeping into my heels and making me shiver, so finally foregoing all proprieties, I shove the door open.

I did it for the shoes.

The air is blowing cold in Quil's house. My teeth begin to chatter and I put my arms around myself to keep myself warm. I'm still just standing here, waiting for him to realize I'm here and come say something, but nothing.

Ugh, what a frustrating boy.

I give up, and stomp my way down the hallway. Before I can pound on his door and beg him to let me in, he already opens it.

Quil. I internally sigh, in my freezing state, in anticipation, in just goddamn relief that this whole nightmare of not knowing and fighting with my best friend was finally over.

"You're shivering," he says, and pulls me into his room. His hand around my elbow lights a fire inside me, hot enough to warm me all over.

I was still shivering, but for different reasons.

He gives me a pair of my old jeans that I'd left here – I'd been looking for these! – and offers me a black sweatshirt that matches his muscle tee without looking at me.

I take them, but instead of putting them on, I just squeeze them against me. He waits, still not saying anything, still not looking at me. I have absolutely no idea what to do. Do I sit down? But then I'd make his bed wet. Do I say something? What do I say? Do I say how I feel? Do I wait for him to say something? What is he going to say? What if he decides he doesn't want me anymore? The thought makes me shudder.

"Claire, go change, you're freezing."

"I'm sorry." I blurt out, concentrating on the jewels in my heels as hard as I can.

"For freezing?" My head snaps up. He's not smiling yet, but his joke relaxes me. We're standing rather awkwardly. His hands are in his pockets and his eyes are everywhere but on mine. I'm on the other end of the room, dripping water everywhere and clutching onto his clothes for dear life.

"Quil I didn't know. I don't know how I could have ever thought something so horrible about you but I didn't mean it. Jake showed me your letters."

His eyes widen and he looks away.

"I'm sorry that he had to do that because I was too stubborn and scared to listen to anybody else. I'm sorry I ever thought that and hurt you...I…um...know everything now."

I don't know what else to say. He's still not looking at me.

"I'm sorry I came, I'll leave." The embarrassment courses through my veins. Why was he being like this? I didn't know anything, and I'd apologized, why was he doing this?

I fling the clothes onto his bed and walk towards his door. Before I can open it though, a hand grabs my wrist and stops me. I turn around.

Whoa.

He's closer than I'd thought he would be. I can sense the heat of his body on mine, can see the flecks of green in his eyes, can feel his breath on my forehead, on my cheek.

"Claire don't apologize. I didn't know. Your sister…"

I can barely concentrate on what he's saying, his closeness is intoxicating me.

I stutter something out, and tear my eyes away from his. He steps away, and I'm cold.

He notices. "Go change Claire, we can talk when you get out."

I oblige this time, as I feel the water drip from my hair down my back. He leaves the room, and I change as fast as I can. I braid my hair, leaving only my bangs out.

The sweatshirt smells like him.

When I walk to the kitchen, there's a mug of something steaming in his hands. He looks me up and down and I feel self-conscious, so I play with my hair. He puts the mug down.

"So you know everything."

We're standing on opposite sides of the kitchen counter, but at the end, so there isn't anything actually standing in our way.

I nod.

"You understand all of it."

I nod again.

"There's no questions, nothing you want to ask me?"

I shake my head this time.

"Claire. The last few hours of my life have been straight up torture. Worse than pulling my fingers off. Please say something and make this okay?"

It occurs to be that he's pleading. I still say nothing.

"You're my best friend and I love you. I've loved you since I've known you. And since I've known you, I know you can't shut up. And this is the one time you choose to stay silent?"

What do I say? Suddenly I can't take it anymore.

Enough of this nonsense.

"Quil do you like me? As more than a best friend?"

"Yes. A lot." He blurts out, before I have the chance to be embarrassed about my boldness.

I look down and smile.

Finally.

"Did you read all the letters?" He asks.

I shake my head. "I only got through 4 or 5. Why?"

"Don't read the rest of them," before I can protest, he adds a "yet." He comes closer to me, but not as close as before.

"Those feelings are from the past. They are still important, but I want now."

Wha?

He senses my confusion.

"Claire. I want to tell you how I feel now."

He's closer now, as close as before. I feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into my heart and soul.

My heart speeds up a little bit, and he whispers. Softly, but I hear him.

"Do you like me Claire? As more than a best friend?"

I swallow. He mistakes my hesitation and begins to step away, but I make a sound in protest.

Yes.

"Claire?"

"Yes," I say, out loud this time, and blush all over. I, for the life of me, cannot bring myself to look at him.

I bite my lip. He's quite for a while, and so I have to sneak a glance at his face.

He's smiling down at me, eyes light, dimples and everything.

Be still, my heart.

I feel like the heat from my cheeks has dried my hair all over. This whole shyness thing is new for us.

"Now what?" I ask. He moves me closer to the counter, and now it separates us. I can't see the green in his eyes anymore. He holds my hand across the counter, and his eyes lock dead onto mine. I feel like I'm going to melt into a puddle of joy onto the floor.

"You're still cold. Drink." He motions to the cup. I pick it up with my free hand and swallow a sip, keeping my eyes on his the whole time. Hot chocolate.

My favorite.

I keep drinking, and when I'm finished, he takes the cup from my hands and puts it down.

"I'd like to take you out. On a date. Next weekend."

I nod, the butterflies in my stomach multiplying.

"Friday night? I'll pick you up at 7."

I smile at the lack of originality.

"You don't get to say no. I've waited too long for this."

His fingers snake between mine, intertwining our hands.

"I'll pick you up at 7. Could you be any more cliché?" I ask, finally understanding the absurdity of the situation. This Friday night, I had a date with my best friend. A guy who'd been in love with me for 15 years.

He smiles too. "Fine, 7:30. Better?"

I laugh, and punch him with my free hand. At the mention of time, it occurs to me that I have to be home by midnight.

"Quil, what time is it?"

"11:45," he says, tearing his eyes away from mine to glance at the clock behind my head.

Shit.

"Shit."

He gives a nod of understanding, and runs into his room to grab my shoes and the car keys while I put the empty mug of hot chocolate into the sink.

"I'll drop your dress off tomorrow."

I squish into my soaking heels – sorry Evelyn – and wait for him to hand me the keys, but he doesn't.

"I'm driving," I say.

"Claire, its pouring."

"I drove here, didn't I?"

He still refuses to hand me the keys.

"Quil," I plead, getting my voice as desperate as possible.

"Not this time," he smiles, and puts the hood of the sweatshirt over my head. We run out the door and he carries me up into the truck before getting in himself.

We're on our way before I even buckle my seatbelt.