We used to be something. Now...

Clarke Griffin and Lexa Woods were once inseparable — high school sweethearts, a ride-or-die couple with a deep connection and an “us-against-the-world” kind of love. But everything began to unravel once college started at Polis University.

Lexa, the fiercely disciplined and emotionally guarded quarterback of the university's football team, found her time consumed by practice, leadership duties, and rising expectations. Clarke, an intensely creative and emotional art student, spent her days in the solitude of the art building, pouring herself into her work. The emotional distance between them grew slowly, quietly — until the breakup became inevitable.

But letting go was never truly an option for either of them.

Chapter Text

Clarke

The bass was already thumping through the floorboards when Clarke stepped into the house. It was one of those too-loud, too-crowded, too-sweaty college parties she swore she was done with. But here she was.

Her phone buzzed again in her jacket pocket, the screen lighting up with the same name she had stared at for the past twenty minutes in her car.

Lexa: come find me. upstairs or downstairs idc.

Clarke closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. God, she was so stupid. She shouldn’t have come. Not again. Not like this.

She slipped through the crowd, ignoring the press of bodies, the sloshing of half-empty solo cups, the heat of too many people packed into too small a space. Someone tried to pass her a drink. She waved it off. She wasn't here for that.

The house smelled like beer and smoke and too much cologne. Laughter echoed from the kitchen, and the living room lights pulsed in time with the music. Clarke pushed past a couple making out in the hallway and made her way deeper in.

She hadn’t seen Lexa in weeks.

Well—she had. Around campus. At practice. In the dining hall. But not like this. Not... alone.

The last time they'd talked, it ended with slammed doors and tears Clarke refused to cry until she was alone. Lexa always did that to her—made her feel like she was being held together by string, and Lexa had the scissors.

Clarke stepped into the den, and that’s when she saw her.

Lexa was glowing.

Laughing, smiling, basking in the attention of her teammates—the football team had just won a game, judging by the jerseys and the victorious energy thick in the air. She was at the center of it all, the calm at the eye of the storm. Hair tied back in that effortless way that drove Clarke crazy, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She looked so damn good.

Clarke froze.

Lexa hadn’t seen her yet.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should just turn around, leave, pretend the text never happened. Go home, delete her number—again—and try to get over her for real this time.

But Lexa looked up. Their eyes met.

And Clarke knew she was already in too deep.

Lexa winked.

Just a quick flash, subtle and practiced, but it hit Clarke like a sucker punch. Her stomach twisted. She hated how her body responded to it—how even after all this time, one look from Lexa could unravel her from the inside out.

A red solo cup found its way into Lexa’s hand, passed by one of her teammates. She took a long swig, eyes still on Clarke, then turned back to the circle of friends around her like nothing had happened.

Like it was all so normal.

And maybe it was.

This routine—Lexa sending a late-night text, Clarke showing up despite knowing better, the two of them slipping away like a dirty little secret—was becoming their new normal. Something Clarke had told herself she was going to end a dozen times before, but somehow never could.

It wasn’t just about sex. That would’ve been easier.

It was Lexa’s voice in her ear. The way her fingers always found the softest parts of Clarke’s skin. The way she looked at her—really looked at her—in those moments when no one else was watching.

Maybe it was muscle memory. Or maybe it was heartbreak that hadn’t quite scabbed over. Clarke wasn’t sure anymore.

All she knew was that when Lexa gestured toward the stairs, her body moved before her brain could argue.

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

The hallway was darker than the rest of the house. Quieter. Familiar.

She passed the same crooked picture on the wall, the one Lexa never bothered to straighten. The chipped baseboard she once tripped over freshman year. The scent of Lexa’s shampoo drifting from the room at the end of the hall—it was all the same, but everything had changed.

It used to be their space. Now it was just hers. And Clarke was the ghost who kept coming back.

She pushed open the door without knocking. The room was dimly lit, a soft glow from a salt lamp casting shadows across the bed, the desk, the open laundry basket in the corner. Same chaos. Same comfort.

She sat on the edge of the bed, phone in her hand, not really checking it. Just pretending she had something else to focus on. Something to keep her from thinking about what she was doing. Again.

Ten minutes passed. Then five more.

The party noise drifted in and out like waves. Laughter. A distant whoop. A bottle breaking somewhere downstairs.

Then footsteps.

Clarke looked up.

Lexa was coming down the hallway, weaving effortlessly past a couple pressed against the wall, laughing and slurring through their own haze of celebration. She didn’t look rushed. She never did. Just… calm. Confident. As if she knew Clarke would be here.

Because Clarke always was.

And Lexa knew it.

Clarke didn’t move.

The party thumped on downstairs, dim and distant like it belonged to another world. In this room, the air thickened the second Lexa stepped inside.

The door clicked shut.

Lexa stepped inside like she owned the space — like nothing had changed — but everything had. Clarke stood on the far side of the room, arms folded tightly across her chest, her body tense, her jaw set.

They didn’t speak.

The silence between them was loaded — not peaceful, not comfortable — but a storm waiting to break. Lexa’s eyes scanned Clarke, and there was no attempt to hide what she was looking for. There never had been. She looked at her like she always had — like she still belonged to her.

Clarke hated how her pulse reacted. How her hands trembled, not from fear or sadness, but from the same reckless pull that always brought them back here.

Lexa took a step forward.

Clarke didn’t move.

Another step. And then another.

Then, without warning, Lexa reached for her — her hand grabbing Clarke by the wrist, hard enough to make her breath catch. The contact was jarring. Familiar. Dangerous.

Clarke yanked her arm back. “Don’t—”

But Lexa didn’t listen.

She surged forward, her hand moving to Clarke’s neck, not in threat, but with that wild, desperate need that always sat just beneath Lexa’s calm surface. Their faces were inches apart. Clarke could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the way Lexa’s breath hitched as she stared down at her like she might combust if she didn’t touch her again.

“You don’t get to just look at me like that,” Clarke hissed, eyes burning.

Lexa didn’t flinch. “You came here.”

Clarke opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, Lexa pulled her in — a sudden, rough kiss that hit like a strike of lightning. No hesitation. No softness.

Clarke’s first instinct was to shove her back. Her hands flew to Lexa’s shoulders, nails digging in. She broke the kiss, breathing hard, but her hands didn’t let go. Lexa’s forehead rested against hers, both of them shaking from the impact of it all.

“I should hate you,” Clarke whispered.

Lexa closed her eyes. “You do.”

And still, they didn’t move apart.

The heat between them was feral. Clarke’s fingers tangled in Lexa’s hair, half pulling her closer, half daring herself to walk away — but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Lexa's hand slid to Clarke’s back, holding her like she still had the right. Her touch was firm, not tender. There was no gentleness here — only the truth of two people who had broken each other and still, somehow, wanted.

Not forgiveness. Not even love.

Just this.

The moment hung there — breathless and bruising.

Clarke could feel her pulse in her throat, her chest, her fingertips — everywhere Lexa touched, everywhere she hadn’t yet. The space between them had vanished, but it still felt like there was a canyon of unspoken words pressing in on both sides.

Lexa’s hand didn’t tremble. It slid up Clarke’s side like she still had every right to be there, like nothing had fractured between them. But it wasn’t soft. It was full of tension — fingers pressing harder than they should, like maybe if she held tight enough, it would anchor them both in the now and not the before.

Clarke didn’t pull away. Her hand was still in Lexa’s hair, her fingers twisted tight, like she wanted to hurt and hold all at once. There was no space for gentleness here, not when they were still bleeding from the same wounds they’d given each other.

“This is a mistake,” Clarke breathed, but she didn’t move.

Lexa’s eyes flicked up to hers. “Yeah,” she said, quiet. “That hasn’t stopped us before.”

They were already falling — not like lovers, not like people who had healed. But like two storms colliding, reckless and inevitable.

Clarke grabbed Lexa’s shirt, knuckles white with the grip, and pulled her in again. The second kiss was worse. Or maybe it was better — messier, hotter, fueled by months of restraint and years of history. Lexa responded with the same desperation, mouth moving like she was trying to erase every word they’d ever screamed at each other.

Clarke’s back hit the wall, and the impact barely registered. All she could feel was Lexa’s weight pressing into her, the quiet sound she made when Clarke pulled harder at her hair, the heat of their bodies meeting in rhythm, not tenderness.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say that wouldn’t ruin it.

Just breath. Hands. That aching, dangerous need.

Lexa’s forehead rested against Clarke’s again, both of them still, suspended in the tension that wrapped around them like a live wire.

Clarke finally exhaled, long and shaky. “This doesn’t fix anything.”

Lexa didn’t nod. Didn’t disagree.

But her hand found Clarke’s again, fingers sliding between hers like a muscle memory.

“I know,” Lexa whispered. “But it’s the only thing that still feels real.”

And Clarke — despite everything — couldn’t bring herself to let go.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

Clarke

Clarke woke up tangled in heat and limbs that didn’t belong to her anymore.

The light coming in through the half-closed blinds was soft, golden, and far too gentle for the knot twisting in her stomach. For a few long, quiet seconds, she didn’t move. Her cheek was pressed against bare skin. Lexa’s arm was draped over her waist like nothing had changed — like they hadn’t torn each other apart.

Like it was still them.

Clarke’s breath caught.

Then reality hit.

She untangled herself quietly, carefully, as if waking a sleeping dragon. Lexa barely stirred, just shifted and sighed, her body rolling toward the warm spot Clarke left behind. Clarke’s clothes were scattered around the room — familiar chaos. Her jeans were by the chair. Her shirt, half-inside-out, hanging off the corner of the desk. Her bra? She didn’t know. Her underwear?

Gone.

She didn’t ask questions.

Clarke dressed fast, pulling on the wrinkled remnants of the night before with practiced shame. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons on her shirt as she turned toward the bed one last time — and found Lexa watching her, barely awake.

Lexa’s voice was low and scratchy from sleep. “See you next time.”

The smirk that followed was slow and infuriating — the kind of lazy confidence that made Clarke want to throw something. Her jaw clenched.

“There won’t be a next time,” Clarke snapped.

Lexa just hummed, closing her eyes again like she didn’t believe her.

Clarke left before she could say something worse. Or stay.

The walk across campus was a blur. Morning sun, stale beer on the breeze, the distant sound of someone’s playlist still going from last night. Her shoes clicked too loudly on the sidewalk. She wished she could disappear into the concrete.

When she got back to her dorm, the door flung open before she could even knock.

“Where the hell have you been?” Raven demanded, eyes wide.

Octavia was behind her, arms crossed, but clearly relieved.

“We thought you got kidnapped,” she added. “Or passed out in a bush somewhere. We were about to start calling hospitals.”

“I’m fine,” Clarke muttered, brushing past them.

Raven wasn’t letting it go. “We looked everywhere. You ghosted.”

Clarke dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand down her face. “I didn’t plan on it.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “So, where did you go?”

Clarke didn’t answer right away. Her head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling, trying to find the right words. What was she supposed to say? I threw myself at my ex again and hated every second I loved it.

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed.

She glanced down at it — already dreading whatever it was — and felt her stomach drop.

A message from Lexa.
A photo.

Her underwear, casually draped over Lexa’s wrist. The caption read:

You forgot this.

Clarke stared at it, her jaw tightening as Raven leaned over to peek.

“Oof,” Raven said under her breath, “She’s bold.”

Clarke didn’t say anything.

Octavia whistled. “You went to Lexa’s.”

Clarke locked her phone and stood up too fast, pacing toward the kitchen and back like movement could undo the night.

“I made a mistake,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” Raven said. “You made that mistake for, like, a year and a half. Doesn’t mean it’s not hard to shake.”

Clarke stopped pacing and leaned her hands on the back of a chair. Her reflection in the dorm’s tiny window looked as tired as she felt.

“I said it wouldn’t happen again,” she said, almost to herself.

Octavia raised a brow. “Did you say it to her or to you?”

Clarke didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure she knew.

Flashback

It didn’t happen all at once.

It was gradual. Subtle. Like watching something precious crack along invisible fault lines.

The first semester at Polis University had started like a dream — new campus, new people, new routines. But the thread between Clarke and Lexa, once so taut and certain, began to stretch. Slowly. Quietly.

Lexa had football.

Clarke had art.

At first, they made time. Late-night coffee runs, early morning walks across the quad. They still fell asleep on FaceTime if they couldn’t be together, still sent stupid selfies in the middle of class. Still tried.

But as weeks turned into months, that thread began to fray.

Lexa became the quarterback. She was captain by the third game. Posters of her face were pinned all over campus. Practices stretched late. Coaches demanded more. Game film. Strength training. Interviews. Expectations.

Clarke, meanwhile, practically lived in the art building. Hours upon hours spent sketching, painting, revising — her studio space littered with canvas and charcoal smudges. It wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was her focus. Her escape.

They began missing each other. Literally and figuratively.

One night, Clarke waited for Lexa after practice. She stood outside the locker room, arms crossed, holding two paper cups of lukewarm coffee. Thirty minutes passed. Forty-five.

Lexa never came out.

When Clarke texted, Lexa answered two hours later.

Sorry. Extra film. Didn’t see my phone.

It wasn’t the first time. Or the last.

They stopped eating meals together. Stopped sharing mornings. Stopped having the energy to fight about it.

Then came Finn Collins.

Finn was a classmate in Clarke’s art history elective — all easy smiles, paint-stained hands, and comments that toed the line of friendly and flirty. Clarke laughed at his jokes. He carried her canvases once or twice. It wasn’t anything.

But Lexa noticed.

She noticed the way Finn lingered too close when Clarke was bent over her sketchbook. The way he complimented her work like he knew something Lexa didn’t. The way Clarke let it slide.

Lexa never said anything. Not at first.

But Clarke saw it in her eyes when they passed in the hallway one day and Finn waved a little too eagerly. Lexa didn’t wave back.

That same week, Clarke showed up to one of Lexa’s practices unannounced — something she hadn’t done in weeks. She wanted to remind herself how proud she was. How good Lexa looked when she was in her element.

What she didn’t expect to see was Costia.

A cheerleader. Bright smile. Effortlessly beautiful. She was leaning against Lexa’s locker, too close, talking with that kind of laugh that said I already know I’m allowed to be here.

Lexa didn’t pull away.

She didn’t lean in, either. But Clarke didn’t miss the way Costia’s fingers brushed Lexa’s arm. The way Lexa didn’t flinch.

It was subtle.

Just like the beginning of the end.

That night, when Lexa came over to Clarke’s dorm, she smelled like perfume that wasn’t Clarke’s.

Clarke didn’t ask. Not directly.

Lexa didn’t volunteer.

But the silence between them was louder than anything either of them could say.

And then, the fight.

The one they’d both been avoiding.

“You spend more time with your team than you do with me,” Clarke said, the words sharp-edged but cracked underneath. “I don’t even know if you’re still in this.”

Lexa had looked at her — tired, eyes heavy — and said, “I am in this. But it doesn’t feel like you are.”

“With Finn?” Clarke snapped. “Are you serious?”

“You think I haven’t seen it?” Lexa said. “The way you look at him?”

“And Costia?” Clarke countered, voice breaking. “She acts like she already replaced me.”

They stood across from each other like strangers.

Both hurt. Both angry.

Neither willing to be the first to say I’m scared. Or I miss you. Or I still love you.

In the end, they didn’t say much at all.

Just the final silence. And the slow, inevitable unraveling that followed.

Back in the present, that memory sat heavy on Clarke’s chest as she scrolled back to Lexa’s message — that smug little text and the photo attached. The reminder of how easily she let herself fall again.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

“You sure you’re done with me?”

Clarke stared at the screen.

She wished she had an answer.

Clarke stared at the message from Lexa for a full thirty seconds before her lips curled into a smirk.

“You sure you’re done with me?”

God, that was so Lexa. All quiet arrogance and subtle dare. Clarke could practically hear the low rasp of her voice in her head when she read it again. That little thread of confidence, laced with the kind of vulnerability Lexa never admitted out loud.

Clarke bit her bottom lip. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Before she could respond, Raven’s voice cut through the air.

“If you’re smiling at a text from Lexa, I’m confiscating your phone.”

Clarke glanced up to see both Raven and Octavia watching her from the other side of the dorm, arms crossed like disappointed parents.

“I wasn’t smiling,” Clarke lied.

“You were smirking,” Octavia corrected. “Worse.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and tossed her phone onto the couch cushion beside her. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing just sent you a picture of your missing underwear with a text like that,” Raven shot back, then narrowed her eyes. “You seriously gonna let her reel you back in again?”

Clarke sighed and slouched deeper into the couch. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“She’s still seeing Costia,” Octavia said, tone sharp.

“Is she, though?” Clarke muttered, not liking the edge in her own voice. “They’re not official.”

“She doesn’t need to be,” Octavia said. “Costia acts like she already won. Walks around campus like she’s Lexa’s trophy.”

“And Lexa lets her,” Raven added. “Just like you let Finn walk you to class and carry your supplies and do the whole ‘sad puppy with a sketchbook’ routine.”

Clarke winced. “That’s not fair. Finn’s been… nice.”

“Yeah,” Raven said, “he’s been here. Not playing emotional ping-pong with your feelings from across the field.”

Clarke looked away, jaw tightening.

Because the truth was, she did let Finn hang around. And Lexa did let Costia stay close. It was a silent cold war between them — jealousy served in petty slices. No winner. Just matching bruises.

“They’re just… there,” Clarke said, voice quieter now. “Like placeholders.”

Raven nodded slowly. “Until one of you caves. Again.”

Octavia’s tone softened. “You two don’t hurt each other because you stopped caring, Clarke. You do it because you still do.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Finally, Raven checked the time. “We’ve gotta get to class. Don’t text her.”

Clarke raised her hand like she was swearing an oath. “I won’t.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t look at her stories either.”

Clarke saluted with two fingers and watched them leave, the door clicking shut behind them.

She lasted three minutes.

Maybe four.

Her eyes drifted to her phone. The message was still there.

You sure you’re done with me?

Clarke shook her head and laughed under her breath. She picked up the phone, angled it toward herself, and flipped her hair back over one shoulder. Nothing too revealing. Just a flash of skin, a confident tilt of her chin, her oversized shirt hanging loose in a way that didn’t feel accidental.

She snapped the photo.

Then typed:

You wish I was.

Pause.

Then, a second message.

I’m home today. No class. Doors unlocked.

She stared at it. Thumb hovering. Her heart beat once, twice, hard.

Then she hit send.

Set the phone down on the bed beside her.

And waited.

Because she knew — just like always — Lexa wouldn’t be able to resist.

The minute Clarke hit send, she felt it — that familiar twist in her chest. Equal parts dread and anticipation. She stood in the middle of her room, arms wrapped around herself, the quiet pressing in like it always did right before the storm.

She hated herself for doing this. Again.

For wanting her. Again.

For opening the door wide to someone who had already broken her heart in more ways than she could count — and letting her walk right back in.

But Clarke had never been good at quitting Lexa.

It wasn’t a weakness. It was an inevitability.

They’d been playing this game for over a year now — ever since the official breakup that neither of them had ever fully honored. There were months where they wouldn’t speak. Weeks where they would pretend to move on. Texts that went unanswered. Glances that burned across campus. Jealousy in the form of other people’s hands.

And then, the fall.

Always the fall.

Always them.

Clarke ran her fingers through her hair, glancing at herself in the mirror. She didn’t fix much. Didn’t bother. Lexa would see through it. She always did.

Instead, Clarke sat back down on the edge of the bed, the phone beside her. She knew she’d get an earful from Octavia and Raven. Again. They had just left her dorm not even an hour ago — after giving her a half-hearted intervention about Lexa and telling her to let go.

And here she was. Inviting the hurricane back into her home.

If this was the only way I get her... then I’ll take the wreckage too.

Because even if it hurt — even if it tore her apart in pieces she couldn’t always name — Lexa was still the only thing that had ever felt real.

The knock came ten minutes later. Not loud. Just confident.

Clarke didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

She opened the door, and there she was.

Lexa.

Wearing a loose hoodie and joggers like she hadn’t just been summoned by a message dripping in suggestion. Hair pulled back. That same, maddening smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth — the one that always said: You want me. I know it. You hate it. I know that, too.

Lexa leaned against the doorway like she had all the time in the world.

“I’m surprised Finn isn’t here,” she said casually, eyes skating over Clarke’s frame. “Thought he’d be holding your sketchbooks or something.”

The air cracked.

Clarke didn’t hesitate.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, grabbing the front of Lexa’s hoodie and yanking her inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

Lexa barely had time to blink before Clarke’s mouth was on hers — rough, urgent, unapologetic.

It wasn’t soft.

It was claiming.

Lexa kissed her back instantly, hands moving to Clarke’s waist, gripping tight like she’d been waiting for permission she already knew she had.

They crashed into each other, mouths hungry and angry and full of all the things they wouldn’t say. Clarke’s hands tangled in the back of Lexa’s hoodie, pulling her closer, like if she held on hard enough, the distance wouldn’t come back.

She broke the kiss just enough to breathe.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Clarke whispered, out of breath.

Lexa’s smirk returned, lips brushing against hers.

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

And still — neither of them let go.

Clarke’s back hit the wall with a quiet thud, Lexa’s body pressing into hers a second later — not forceful, but unrelenting. Clarke’s hands were still bunched in the front of Lexa’s hoodie, their lips parted but breathing the same air.

“This isn’t going to keep working,” Clarke said, voice low, eyes burning into hers. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like this is yours just because I let you in.”

Lexa tilted her head slightly, the ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. “Pretty sure you didn’t let me in. You invited me.”

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lexa’s hand moved to Clarke’s jaw, her thumb brushing along her cheekbone in a way that was both infuriatingly gentle and grounding. “You sent me a picture, Clarke. I didn’t beg.”

Clarke scoffed, her voice sharp. “You never beg. That’s your problem.”

“And you never say what you mean,” Lexa snapped back, stepping just close enough that Clarke’s breath caught again. “That’s yours.”

They were nose to nose now. Neither giving an inch. Both daring the other to flinch first.

It was always like this — love dressed in war paint. Kisses that tasted like unsaid apologies. Touches that doubled as accusations.

“Costia’s not your type,” Clarke bit out, eyes flicking downward for a second before dragging back up. “Too soft.”

Lexa’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a snarl. “You don’t know what my type is anymore.”

“I knew it before anyone else did,” Clarke whispered. Her hand was still on Lexa’s chest, fingers curled into the fabric like she couldn’t decide whether to pull her closer or shove her away. “I still do.”

Lexa didn’t reply. She just pressed her body tighter into Clarke’s — not rough, but undeniable. Possessive in the way someone gets when they realize they’re losing something they never meant to let go.

Clarke’s hand slid up to the back of Lexa’s neck, pulling her in again. The kiss was messy — teeth and lips and breathless tension, not romance. They kissed like they were arguing. Like neither one of them wanted to give in first. A tug-of-war made of mouths and memories.

Lexa broke the kiss just enough to breathe against Clarke’s lips. “You say this doesn’t mean anything.”

Clarke’s hand tightened in her hair.

Lexa smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Clarke shoved her back half a step — just enough to look at her clearly. Her eyes were dark, unreadable.

“And you,” she said, voice low and dangerous, “are insufferable.”

Lexa leaned in, her forehead resting against Clarke’s like she couldn’t stand being separated for even a second.

“But you still want me.”

Clarke didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

Chapter 3 Chapter Text

Lexa

The worst part wasn’t the silence.

Lexa could handle silence.

It was the seeing that gutted her.

Every damn day since she’d left Clarke’s dorm—since she’d smirked her way out like she still had the upper hand—Lexa had caught glimpses of Clarke and Finn Collins walking together across campus like they were something out of a brochure. Sunlight. Laughter. His hand on the small of Clarke’s back like he belonged there.

Lexa wanted to break something every time.

This morning, it had been near the quad—Finn leaning in close to whisper something, Clarke tilting her head and smiling in that small, tired way that Lexa knew by heart. The kind of smile she used when she didn’t want anyone to worry about her. He touched her shoulder, too familiar, too easy. Clarke didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

Lexa’s stomach twisted like someone had grabbed her from the inside and wrenched hard.

By the time she got to practice, she was in no mood to pretend.

“Again!” she barked at her teammates, blowing the whistle.

Groans echoed across the field.

“Lex,” someone muttered, dragging out the word like a complaint.

“Again!” Lexa snapped, her voice cracking like a whip.

They obeyed. No one questioned her when she was like this. Quarterback. Captain. Storm.

By the third round of suicides, even Lexa could admit she was overdoing it. Shoulders were sagging. Hands were on knees. Sweat poured from every player like they’d just finished a full game.

And still—Lexa paced the field like it hadn’t been enough.

“Call it,” came a voice behind her.

Lexa turned, jaw clenched.

Anya stood there, arms crossed over her chest, dark braids pulled back, her gaze calm but sharp. Always sharp. She didn’t wear the captain’s badge, but she was the backbone of this team, and Lexa knew better than to brush her off.

“I said—call it.”

Lexa exhaled harshly and blew the whistle one final time. The rest of the team collapsed onto the grass like survivors of a battle.

Anya didn’t wait. She grabbed Lexa’s wrist and pulled her aside, away from the others.

“You trying to kill us?” she asked flatly.

Lexa didn’t answer.

Anya narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. You saw Clarke.”

Lexa didn’t respond, but her silence was loud enough.

Anya rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Lex.”

“She let him touch her,” Lexa muttered. “Like it was nothing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it was nothing,” Anya said. “Or maybe it’s something because you keep giving her every reason to believe you’re moving on.”

Lexa looked away.

Anya pressed. “Costia’s still hanging around, isn’t she? She’s at every practice, every game. Always smiling at you like she knows something the rest of us don’t.”

“She’s just… there,” Lexa said stiffly.

“She’s more than ‘there,’ Lex. You let her be close. You use her.”

Lexa flinched.

Anya didn’t stop. “And Clarke sees that. Same way you see her with Finn. You’re both using other people as bandages and acting surprised when the wounds keep bleeding.”

Lexa swallowed hard.

She hated when Anya was right.

“She’s not just someone to me,” Lexa said quietly, her voice low, almost reluctant. “Clarke. She’s…”

Anya’s gaze softened. “She was your whole world.”

Lexa nodded once.

“She still is.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Anya sighed. “Then stop dancing around it. If you want her, fight for her. If you don’t… let her go. For good.”

Lexa didn’t say anything. Because she couldn’t let go.

Not of the five years. Not of the way Clarke used to look at her like she could move mountains. Not of the girl who used to fall asleep with her hand pressed over Lexa’s chest, listening to her heartbeat like it was the only sound she needed.

Not of the pain. Not of the pull.

Because even when she hated Clarke…

She loved her more.

The locker room had long since emptied out, the last of her teammates trailing off with loud groans and breathless laughter. One by one, they had thrown towels into bins, slung bags over their shoulders, and called out to her—

“Later, Commander!”

“Don’t kill us next practice!”

“Try smiling sometime, Woods!”

Lexa didn’t answer. Just nodded silently, a towel around her neck, her shirt damp with sweat and the weight of thoughts she couldn't shake.

Now, the silence hummed around her like it always did after everything else fell away. Cleats echoing on tile. Water dripping from a faucet. The faint scent of grass, heat, and adrenaline clinging to her skin.

She sat alone on the bench, elbows resting on her knees, staring down at her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the message bar.

She hadn’t spoken to Clarke since that night.

Not a text. Not a call.

And yet… Clarke was everywhere. On campus. In her head. In her damn blood.

She could’ve sent a dozen different messages. Ones with bite. With sarcasm. With just enough vulnerability that Clarke might feel it and come running.

But no.

Tonight, she was typing one that sounded like confidence. Like ownership. Like they were still playing the game where neither of them admitted who was losing.

"You up?"

Three simple words.

An entire history.

She stared at it for what felt like forever. Just the blinking cursor waiting… waiting for her to decide if she was going to fall into this cycle again.

Of course you are, her mind whispered. You always do.

But before she could hit send, she heard footsteps.

Light ones.

Too careful to belong to a teammate.

Lexa looked up just as Costia stepped into the locker room doorway.

There was a brief flicker of annoyance, sharp and involuntary. Not because Costia had done anything wrong. But because she wasn’t the person Lexa wanted to see.

She straightened up.

Costia smiled like she always did — bright, a little eager, and laced with something more fragile than she let on.

“I figured you were still here,” she said, walking in with arms crossed, her cheer uniform traded for soft leggings and a jacket that looked two sizes too big.

Lexa forced a nod. “Yeah. Just cooling down.”

“You didn’t even shower.”

Lexa gave a small shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Costia sat down beside her, far enough not to crowd her but close enough to make her intention clear. “You okay?”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the message still sitting unsent on her screen.

Anya’s voice echoed in her head: If you don’t want Clarke, let her go. For good.

Costia had been there. From the beginning. Offering quiet support. Being patient when Lexa snapped or pulled away. She showed up. She cheered at every game, always front row. Never missed one.

And maybe that should’ve been enough.

Maybe Lexa should give her a real chance.

“Can you walk me to my dorm?” Costia asked gently, her eyes hopeful.

Lexa didn’t miss the unspoken invitation in her voice. She never did.

She also never accepted it.

But maybe tonight… maybe if Clarke was going to let Finn play boyfriend, then she didn’t have to keep pretending she was waiting for something that wasn’t hers anymore.

Lexa’s eyes flicked back to the message. The “You up?” was still there, waiting like a loaded gun.

She hit send.

Fast. Impulsive.

Then locked the phone before Costia could see what she’d done.

“Yeah,” Lexa said, finally standing. “I’ll walk you.”

Costia smiled, standing too.

Lexa didn’t take her hand. Didn’t even touch her as they exited the locker room. She couldn’t.

Because even with Costia by her side, her mind was already three steps ahead — picturing her phone lighting up with a response, picturing Clarke reading that message, knowing exactly what it meant.

It was wrong.

All of it.

But so was the way Clarke had looked at Finn like he was a possibility.

And if Clarke could have a boy toy on her arm, then Lexa could damn well have a cheerleader walking next to her.

All was fair in love and war.

And with Clarke… it was always both.

The walk to Costia’s dorm wasn’t long, but it felt like a mile stretched over regret.

Costia chatted beside her — about practice, about the upcoming game, about how the new routines the cheer squad was working on were brutal on the knees. Lexa gave the appropriate nods, made small, flat sounds of acknowledgment. But she wasn’t really listening.

She was listening for one thing.

The ping.

That soft vibration.

That quiet little sound that meant Clarke had answered.

But her phone remained still in her pocket. Silent. Heavy.

Her hand stayed there anyway, fingers brushing over the cold metal edge like she could will it to come to life. Like she could somehow pull Clarke closer by sheer force of want.

Clarke always responds.

Eventually.

Lexa’s jaw tensed.

They reached the steps of Costia’s dorm, and the air between them changed — grew more weighted, more charged with unspoken hope.

Costia stopped and turned to face her. “You coming in?”

It was said casually, like it didn’t mean everything.

Lexa paused. Looked at her. Really looked.

Costia was beautiful. Loyal. Kind. She never raised her voice, never pushed too hard, never made Lexa feel like she had to earn affection through war.

She was everything Lexa should want.

And for a split second, she almost convinced herself.

She almost took that step forward.

Almost let go of the memory of Clarke’s hands in her hoodie, of the taste of anger in a kiss that felt too much like home, of all the years they’d had — and the fight that was never over.

Lexa’s hand tightened in her jacket pocket.

Still nothing.

Still silence.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe Clarke wasn’t going to answer this time.

Maybe she really was moving on.

Lexa’s chest ached at the thought, but she didn’t move. She just looked up at the dorm door… then back at Costia.

She didn’t owe her this.

Not when her heart was miles away.

And just as she opened her mouth to say something — something vague and polite and false —

Buzz.

Lexa froze.

She didn’t need to check it.

She knew.

The timing, the sting in her throat, the sharp breath she took — it could only be one person.

Clarke.

Costia noticed the shift. “Everything okay?”

Lexa stepped back. Just one step.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

And then another step. Backward now.

“I gotta go.”

Costia blinked. “Right now?”

Lexa didn’t explain.

Didn’t offer a reason.

Didn’t say goodbye.

She just turned and walked.

Didn’t look back.

Because her phone had come to life, and she was already reaching for it — already drowning in everything she knew that message would mean. Already moving, like gravity had changed and the pull had shifted back toward the only place she’d ever belonged.

With her.

The echo of her own footsteps followed her down the walkway, fast and hollow in the quiet night.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

She could still feel the weight of Costia’s eyes on her back — the confusion, the disappointment, the silent question she hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear. Lexa had left her standing in the doorway without a word, without an explanation, without so much as a good night.

Because her phone had gone off.

Because it had to be Clarke.

Lexa ducked off the main path and slowed, finally pulling her phone from her pocket. Her thumb hovered for only a second before unlocking the screen.

There it was.

A message.

A photo.

Clarke. In bed. Sheets tangled lazily around her legs, one arm bent behind her head, the other holding the phone. Her expression unreadable — a little smug, a little tired, a little… something Lexa could never quite name. But she knew it. Intimately.

And underneath, the message:

“I won’t be in 10 minutes.”

Lexa’s stomach dropped and burned at the same time.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an invitation.

It was a challenge.

She stared at the screen for a moment longer, her heart already thudding against her ribs. Ten minutes. That was all Clarke was giving her. If Lexa didn’t show up, that door closed.

Maybe for good.

Lexa didn’t think. She moved.

Her legs carried her into a sprint, across the quad, past the field, over cracked sidewalks and worn steps. Breath caught in her throat, not from running, but from the sudden, crushing realization that she couldn’t lose Clarke. Not now. Not again.

And she didn’t care how self-destructive this was. How messy. How cruel they could be to each other with every stolen touch and bitter word.

Because Clarke still wanted her.

And Lexa would be damned if anyone else got to answer that message.

Not when it was meant for her.

Chapter 4 Chapter Text

Clarke

The charcoal smeared across her fingers before she even realized what she was drawing.

She blinked, her sketchpad tilted across her lap, the dim overhead lights of the art building casting long shadows across the paper. Her hand was still moving, automatic and precise, filling in the edges of a jawline she knew by memory, softening the corner of a mouth she'd kissed a thousand times.

Lexa.

Again.

Clarke sat back, her chest tightening as she stared at the half-finished sketch — the curve of Lexa’s neck, the sharpness in her eyes, the tension that always lived in her shoulders. It was her. Raw and unfiltered. Still taking up space in Clarke’s hands. In her thoughts. In the place where her anger lived, and her love still burned, low and unrelenting.

Her phone buzzed on the table next to her.

She didn’t even need to check it to know who it was.

Lexa had a timing for these things — always reaching out just as Clarke started to believe that maybe this time, maybe this silence would last. Maybe they were finally letting go.

Clarke picked it up.

“You up?”

Two words. Simple.

But not simple at all.

Not when they came from her.

Her eyes flicked to the sketch again. The charcoal smudging along Lexa’s cheekbone. She hadn’t even noticed she'd been drawing her. Again.

God, she hated this.

Hated that she still wanted this.

But she was already packing up.

Shoving supplies into her bag, snapping her sketchbook closed, wiping her hands on her jeans in quick, frantic motions. She told herself she was being stupid. That she'd last more than just a few days this time. That she wasn't still dancing to the rhythm of Lexa's pull.

And yet here she was — halfway out the door before she'd even locked her phone again.

Because something about that message didn’t feel like Lexa just wanting her in bed.

It felt like Lexa asking: Are you still mine? Are we still something?

Or maybe: Are you still fighting for this? Because I don’t know how to stop unless you do first.

And Clarke couldn’t let her think the answer was no.

Even if Lexa had probably just left Costia's side to send it.

Even if she knew this message came, like clockwork, whenever Lexa saw her with Finn. Like some twisted game of tug-of-war — one Clarke kept pretending she didn’t want to win, but couldn’t stand losing.

She knew the pattern.

Lexa and Costia. Clarke and Finn.

Neither relationship real enough to hold weight. Just… shields. Weapons.

A way to keep hurting each other without ever saying the words.

And yet…

Clarke still responded.

Still ran when called.

Still sent the photo — curled up in her bed, vulnerable but teasing, with the caption:
“I won’t be in 10 minutes.”

A timer. A warning. A choice.

She didn’t know what she was hoping for — to be held, or to be hurt — but she knew if Lexa didn’t show…

She’d feel something break.

And if she did…

Clarke wasn’t sure what that meant either.

Lexa

Her lungs were burning by the time she reached Clarke’s building.

She slowed at the corner, pulled in a breath, and rolled her shoulders back like she hadn’t just sprinted across campus in the dark. Like the pounding in her chest had more to do with cardio and less to do with the message she was answering.

Three minutes to spare.

She wouldn’t let Clarke know that, of course.

Lexa wiped a hand down her face, shook the sweat from her hair, and checked her reflection briefly in the dark window of the entryway. Cool, calm, composed — that’s what she had to be.

The Lexa Clarke used to love? She wore her heart on her sleeve.

But the Lexa Clarke left behind?

She learned how to hide it.

Lexa took the steps two at a time but stopped in front of the door.

Just for a second.

To make sure the smirk on her face was in place. Not too smug. Just enough to say you knew I’d come. That little tilt of her mouth she’d perfected — confident, unreadable, dangerous in all the ways Clarke always fell for.

She knocked once.

Then again — slower, softer.

Like she hadn’t run here. Like this wasn’t her undoing waiting on the other side of the door.

The handle clicked.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Clarke.

Hair a little messy. Expression guarded but not cold. That look in her eyes that Lexa could never quite name — like she was both furious and relieved to see her.

Lexa leaned against the doorframe, letting her eyes trail up and down Clarke slowly, purposefully.

“Didn’t think you meant ten minutes literally,” she said, voice casual, teasing.

Clarke crossed her arms, leaning on the door like she was trying not to let Lexa in too easily — physically or otherwise.

“You’re early,” Clarke said.

Lexa shrugged, letting her smirk curl a little more.

“I was already out.”

She didn’t say where.

Didn’t say with who.

Clarke didn’t ask.

But her eyes flicked toward Lexa’s face like she wanted to.

Like she always wanted to.

Lexa stepped forward a fraction — not enough to cross the threshold, but enough to close the space.

“So,” she said. “Still up?”

Clarke tilted her head. “Are you here to find out?”

Lexa didn’t answer that. She couldn’t. Not with the war inside her chest demanding too many things at once.

Instead, she held onto the persona — the one she’d built brick by brick after their breakup. The Lexa who didn’t get hurt. Who didn’t ask for second chances. Who never showed just how much she was still bleeding under the armor.

Because she remembered high school.

She remembered what it felt like to love Clarke openly — completely — like she was all in.

And she remembered what it felt like when the silence started between them in college… slow, creeping, impossible to stop.

She wasn’t going to be the first one to crack again.

Not this time.

So she smiled like this meant nothing.

Like she could take it or leave it.

But her heart was already inside that room.

And she was hoping Clarke would let the rest of her follow.

Clarke didn’t move to open the door further.

She didn’t need to.

Lexa pushed it open herself — slow, confident, like she’d been invited in, like she hadn’t just run here in a rush of desperation she refused to name.

Her boots crossed the threshold.

Familiar carpet under her feet. Familiar air — it even smelled like Clarke. Like charcoal and something soft. Clean. Lived-in.

Dangerous.

Lexa kept her expression easy, cool, the same mask she always wore these days. No hint of the storm in her chest. No sign of the sweat still drying on her palms.

She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, because they were still trembling slightly. From the sprint. From the nerves. From being here again.

From the fact that Clarke had let her come back.

Again.

She walked past Clarke like it didn’t matter. Like she belonged there. She let her eyes trail over the bed, the dimmed lamp, the open sketchbook still sitting on the desk.

Lexa wondered — for half a second — if it was another sketch of her.

God, she hoped not.

And yet… something in her hoped it was.

Clarke shut the door behind them with a soft click. Lexa didn’t turn. She heard it — felt it. That finality. That shift in the air. Like they’d sealed themselves into something they always returned to.

Lexa finally pulled her hands from her pockets. Wiped the dampness on her jeans. Subtle. Barely noticeable.

But still, she hated it.

Hated that she was still nervous.

Still… hopeful.

She turned toward Clarke, leaning her shoulder lazily against the edge of the desk. “So,” she said, her voice low, teasing, sharp at the edges. “Did Finn tuck you in before I got here, or did I beat him to it?”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?”

Lexa smirked, slow and crooked — the kind that used to make Clarke roll her eyes and kiss her anyway. “Not when I know exactly what kind of response I’ll get.”

Clarke scoffed, crossing the room to stand just out of reach. “You’re unbelievable.”

Lexa’s gaze dropped to Clarke’s bare feet, then back up, lingering. “You said ten minutes,” she said simply, with a shrug. “You knew I’d come.”

Clarke swallowed — something sharp and bitter behind her eyes. “I shouldn’t have sent it.”

“Probably not.”

“But you came anyway.”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. Instead, she moved toward the bed — slowly — sat on the edge like she owned the place. Like she wasn’t silently begging Clarke to close the distance.

Like she wasn’t hoping for something deeper to start… even if it would end in another mess.

“I always do,” she finally said, voice quieter now. Almost too honest.

It was the truth they both hated.

The gravity that existed only between them.

Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much they tore at each other with snide remarks and silences that lasted too long… Lexa always came back. Always would.

She lived for the moment before they broke again.

The in-between.

The kiss that tasted like fire and regret. The fight that felt like foreplay. The biting remarks that said you still get under my skin — you still matter — you still wreck me.

Lexa looked up at Clarke again, trying to read her — like always — and coming up short.

But that was fine.

This was the dance.

The storm they both chose.

And until one of them found the courage to break the cycle, she’d take this.

The sass. The sharpness. The anger.

Because it still meant Clarke cared.

And Lexa… Lexa would take anything she could get.

The silence stretched between them — not awkward, not hesitant.

It was electric.

Clarke hadn’t moved yet. Not really. But Lexa could feel the shift in her posture, the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way her hands dropped from crossed arms to rest loosely at her sides.

Like a panther stalking forward.

Measured. Calm. Lethal.

Lexa sat on the edge of the bed and watched her come alive in that quiet way — like something in Clarke had snapped into place. Like she had made a decision that Lexa wasn’t entirely privy to yet.

But Lexa didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

She just watched.

Like a wolf waiting at the edge of the trees, eyes sharp, body still, heart thrumming underneath practiced stillness.

She’d always watched Clarke this way — even before the fall-out, even before the quiet decay of them. When they still had something untouched. When the world hadn’t yet sunk its claws in.

Even now, Lexa could map every flicker of emotion in Clarke’s face.

The way her jaw clenched just a little too tight. The flicker of doubt behind her eyes. The hurt she wore like armor — and how quickly it cracked every time they got close like this.

Clarke was halfway across the room now.

Lexa didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Clarke was closing the distance — slow and deliberate — like she had every right to, like the ten minutes Lexa sprinted across campus for had always been a countdown for both of them.

Lexa let her eyes trail over her — the storm in her posture, the pull of something heavier than lust. There was still that ache underneath it all.

The ache that never left.

She straightened slightly on the bed but stayed grounded. Relaxed.

Outwardly.

Inside, she was bracing.

Because she knew what came next.

The spark.

The strike.

The same way it always played out — heat before ruin.

Clarke stopped in front of her, eyes locked with hers. Close enough now that Lexa could smell the faint scent of paint on her — and shampoo, and something uniquely Clarke. That scent Lexa used to bury her face into when the world got too loud.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Clarke murmured, voice low.

Lexa let a beat pass.

Let her gaze flick to Clarke’s lips, just for a second, before bringing it back up to her eyes.

“You’re awfully close.”

It was a challenge. An invitation. A game they both played too well.

Clarke didn’t step back.

Lexa didn’t blink.

There was no backing down in this room. Not between them.

Because they weren’t just two people anymore — they were history. They were unfinished conversations and choices made too late. They were a pattern neither one of them knew how to break.

And in this stillness, this quiet war of looks and breath and barely-there movement, Lexa felt more alive than she had in days.

Let her come closer, she thought.

Let her try and tear me down.

I’ll still reach for her anyway.

Clarke hadn’t stepped back.

Lexa hadn’t stood up.

They hovered in that narrow space — close enough to breathe the same air, far enough to still pretend this wasn’t going to happen again.

Lexa’s eyes flicked to Clarke’s mouth again before she caught herself.

Clarke noticed.

Of course she did.

“Still pretending this doesn’t mean anything?” Clarke’s voice was soft, sharp at the edges. “That this is just… whatever we keep calling it?”

Lexa tilted her head slightly, a quiet scoff slipping through her nose. “What would you call it?”

Clarke shrugged. “Toxic. Addictive. Comforting. Dangerous.”

“All accurate,” Lexa said evenly, but her throat tightened around the last word. “And yet… here we are.”

“Yeah,” Clarke murmured. Her eyes didn’t move from Lexa’s. “Here we are.”

Another silence. Not heavy — loud. Charged.

Clarke took another small step. Lexa could feel the heat of her now.

“You always do that,” Clarke said.

Lexa raised an eyebrow, still rooted to the bed. “Do what?”

“Deflect. When you’re scared.”

Lexa’s jaw flexed.

“I’m not scared.”

“You are,” Clarke said, with a softness that stung. “You’re terrified. Of what it would mean if you stopped pretending.”

Lexa stayed quiet.

She didn’t know how to answer that without admitting more than she was ready to.

Clarke’s voice dipped lower, barely above a whisper. “I think you still love me.”

Lexa’s eyes met hers, sharp and unblinking. “That would be a problem.”

“Why?”

Lexa stood.

Slow. Controlled. Her body barely inches from Clarke’s now.

“Because if I still do…” Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded. “Then I’ve spent a year lying to myself. And I’m not sure what’s worse — the lie, or that I’d do it all over again just to be here now.”

Clarke inhaled, but didn’t move.

Lexa saw it — the flicker of pain, of want, of recognition. She felt it too. That pull. That gravity. That impossibly stupid, impossibly strong thing between them that never went away.

Not even when they tried to poison it.

Not even when they tried to bury it under other people.

Lexa’s voice dropped, almost hoarse. “Say something.”

Clarke swallowed. “You’re a coward.”

Lexa nodded once. “I know.”

Clarke stepped in. Closed the final inch.

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“You’re hurting me right now.”

Lexa’s breath caught. “Then push me away.”

But Clarke didn’t.

She reached for her.

Fist curled in Lexa’s shirt. Jaw tight. Eyes full of something dangerous and familiar and real.

Lexa met her halfway.

Not gentle. Not easy.

A collision.

Of lips. Of breath. Of all the words they’d never said and all the ones they never could.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It was recognition.

A crash between forces that never learned how to pull back.

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

Clarke

The silence after the storm was deafening.

Not the cold kind — but the soft, heavy kind that settled into every corner of the room. Like the walls were holding their breath right alongside them.

Clarke lay tangled in the sheets, her head barely lifted off the pillow, watching Lexa in the dim, hazy light that spilled in from the streetlamp outside her window.

Lexa was on her side, facing her, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other stretched out between them — fingertips brushing the edge of Clarke’s wrist, like even now, she didn’t want to break the connection entirely.

Clarke’s heart felt too full. Too bare.

She reached out without thinking — hand ghosting along Lexa’s jawline. Her thumb brushed over the corner of Lexa’s mouth, catching a line of softness Lexa usually kept hidden behind biting sarcasm and silence.

Lexa didn’t move away.

Instead, she leaned into the touch just slightly — eyes closed, a breath caught in her throat.

Clarke tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, gentle and slow, like memorizing something she wasn’t sure she’d be allowed to keep.

“Lexa…” she whispered.

Green eyes opened.

Met hers.

And for a moment, neither of them were angry. Or guarded. Or broken.

They were just them.

The same eyes that used to find Clarke in a crowd. That used to look at her like she hung the stars. That still held something behind them — a thousand unsaid words and just as many regrets.

Clarke opened her mouth to speak. She didn’t even know what she was going to say — something about missing her, maybe. About not being able to keep doing this. Or maybe about wanting to try again, really try, before they destroyed each other for good.

But Lexa moved first.

She leaned in, kissed her — not rough, not hungry. Wounded.

It was a kiss that said I still love you, I don’t know how to fix this, and please don’t ask me to try right now, all at once.

Clarke’s breath hitched, and she kissed her back — afraid, even now, that letting go would mean she’d never get this Lexa again. The Lexa who let her in. The Lexa who didn’t pretend not to feel it too.

But all too soon, Lexa pulled away.

Quietly. Carefully.

She sat up without a word, reaching down to gather her shirt from the floor, pulling it over her head like armor.

Clarke didn’t stop her.

She watched from the bed as Lexa moved through the room — calm on the outside, distant again. Like the moment they'd just shared had already folded itself into memory.

Lexa paused at the door.

Clarke’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost pleading. “You don’t have to—”

“I should go,” Lexa said without turning around.

Clarke knew what that meant.

Lexa was leaving before the walls came back up. Before something between them snapped again. Before one of them said something cruel, or jealous, or tired. Before they remembered Costia or Finn. Before the love twisted again into something sharp.

Clarke didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t beg her to stay.

She just nodded once, slowly, and Lexa slipped out the door with the quiet grace she always had — like a ghost leaving the room. Like she hadn’t just broken Clarke open again.

The door clicked shut.

The weight of it settled over everything.

Clarke rolled onto her side and clutched the pillow to her chest — hard — like maybe she could hold herself together this time.

She couldn’t.

Her throat felt raw. Her chest hollow.

She hated that she wanted to cry. Hated that she still let herself hope, just a little.

Her phone buzzed.

She almost didn’t check it.

But when she reached over and lit up the screen, her stomach twisted.

Finn:
You weren’t in the Art building when I got there.
You okay, Princess?

Clarke stared at the message.

The guilt hit her like a wave — thick and immediate. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but she couldn’t bring herself to type anything.

She wasn’t okay.

And she didn’t know how to tell him that.

The morning came too soon.

Clarke didn’t sleep much — too many thoughts spinning, too much weight in her chest. She’d spent hours trying to erase the imprint Lexa left behind, but the room still smelled faintly like her. Still felt like her.

The campus was buzzing.

Game day always pulled the students out early — bright jerseys, body paint, and school chants echoing across the dorms and quads. Half the students were already marching toward the shuttles that would take them to the stadium, the other half fighting for spots in lounges, cafés, and common areas where the game would be broadcasted.

Clarke had no plans to go.

She usually didn’t.

Not anymore.

Not since everything.

But Raven had other ideas. And so did Octavia.

“I’m not letting you rot in your room today,” Raven had said, yanking open Clarke’s curtains and letting the sunlight assault her face. “Game days are tradition. You don’t get to hide.”

“Especially not when Lincoln’s playing,” Octavia added, already wearing his number on her hoodie like a badge of honor.

“And Anya’s starting wide receiver again,” Raven smirked. “Which means I’m morally obligated to scream inappropriately every time she scores.”

Clarke groaned, but didn’t argue.

And that’s how she found herself sandwiched between her two best friends on a worn-out couch in one of the dorm common areas, surrounded by snacks, screaming students, and a massive flat-screen tuned to the game.

Polis University vs. Arcadia Tech.

The energy in the room pulsed, and Clarke felt it crawl up her spine. Maybe it was the nostalgia. Maybe it was just Lexa.

The game kicked off, and the camera immediately cut to her — Lexa — standing tall at the 50-yard line, eye black streaked under sharp green eyes, chin high, shoulders squared.

Commander of the field.

Clarke’s breath caught.

She looked… good. Better than good. She looked like she belonged there, like she owned it. That crisp uniform fit like a second skin, dark smudges of turf already dusting her legs. Her movements were fluid, practiced — every command she called out rang with authority, every motion exact.

Clarke’s stomach twisted.

Lexa looked like someone she didn’t recognize. And yet… still hers.

She tried not to stare. Tried not to notice the way Lexa’s hair was pulled back tightly, or the way her voice sounded through the stadium speakers, echoing like it belonged to someone mythic.

The longer Clarke watched, the harder it was to pretend she didn’t feel anything.

When halftime came, the cheerleaders took the field, and Clarke’s heart sank a little.

Of course Costia was there. It made sense.

She was always there.

And it didn’t matter how perfect both cheer squads performed. It didn’t matter how high they flew or how clean their choreography was.

All Clarke saw was her.

The way Costia smiled too brightly. The way she moved like she was part of the performance and the audience. Like she knew exactly who was watching her.

Clarke’s fingers gripped the pencil in her lap until her knuckles turned white.

She shouldn’t be watching from here.

She should be there. In the stands. On her feet. Screaming until her voice gave out.

But instead, she was here — watching Lexa from a distance, like some ghost of a past life.

And then it happened.

Late in the third quarter, Lexa called the play.

The ball snapped.

Two steps back. A perfect throw down the line — clean, fast, straight into Anya’s waiting hands.

Anya took off, feet barely touching the ground as she dodged one defender, then another. Raven was already on her feet, shrieking like someone had proposed to her, and Octavia was pounding on Clarke’s leg in excitement.

Touchdown.

Clarke felt a jolt of joy — pure, unexpected joy — shoot through her chest.

Lexa had set it up perfectly. It was art in motion. Clarke almost smiled.

Almost.

Until the camera panned.

And she saw her.

Costia.

Running toward Lexa.

And then —

Arms around her.

A kiss.

Right there.

On live television.

The world stopped.

Clarke’s throat closed. Her fingers went slack. The pencil dropped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter that no one heard but her.

Raven was still cheering.

Octavia was grinning, eyes glued to the screen.

But Clarke… Clarke couldn’t move.

It wasn’t just the kiss.

It was the ease of it. The normalcy.

Like it wasn’t just a celebration. Like it was allowed. Like it was real.

Something sharp twisted in her chest, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was pain or something worse.

Jealousy.

Or grief.

Or the sinking, gut-wrenching fear that maybe she was too late. Maybe Lexa was moving on. And maybe Clarke had just been a stopgap — the leftover ache Lexa hadn’t wanted to feel alone.

The couch suddenly felt too small. Too loud.

And Clarke…?

She just sat there.

Frozen in place.

Staring at a screen that now felt like a window she wasn’t supposed to look through.

She didn’t remember leaving.

One minute Clarke was sitting on the couch, the world dropping out from under her, and the next she was bolting from the common area — the roar of the game and her friends’ voices fading behind her like static.

The air outside was sharp and cool, but it did nothing to stop the heat building in her face. Her legs moved on their own, fast and unthinking, carrying her across the campus green, dodging groups of laughing students in team colors and face paint. Her heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

By the time she reached her dorm, her hand was shaking as she unlocked the door. She barely made it inside before the tears broke loose.

She shut the door with more force than necessary and leaned against it like she was trying to hold herself together.

Her body slid down until she hit the floor.

Clarke didn't cry often.

Not like this.

But the tears came anyway — hot and angry and raw. She covered her mouth with one hand to muffle the sob that cracked through her throat.

It wasn’t the kiss, not entirely.

It was the confirmation.

The one thing Lexa had never done — never allowed — was for anyone to think someone else might have the space Clarke used to fill. There had always been distance. Even with Costia.

But on national television?

A kiss like that wasn’t casual. It wasn’t background noise. It was a statement.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh.

Clarke didn’t want to look.

But she did.

Lexa:
It's not what it seems.

Clarke let out a bitter, breathless laugh. Her fingers hovered over the screen, shaking.

"It’s not what it seems."

It was always that line. Always something just shy of the truth, never quite a lie — always just enough to keep Clarke tethered, unsure, waiting.

But she wasn't going to wait anymore.

She typed fast. Blunt. Final.

Clarke:
Don’t. Enjoy the win with her.

She hit send, then tossed the phone across the bed like it had burned her.

It bounced, landed face-down. Mercifully silent.

Clarke stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around herself, trying to breathe past the ache.

It was over.

She told herself that, again and again.

It’s over.

They weren’t together. They hadn’t been for a year and a half. No matter how many nights they found their way back to each other’s skin, they were not together.

Lexa owed her nothing.

So why did it feel like Clarke had just been left behind all over again?

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie and stared down at her phone, still sitting there like it was mocking her.

Maybe it was time she really moved on.

She’d been telling herself that for months — maybe even believed it once or twice. But every time she tried, Lexa was there again, pulling her back with a look or a touch or a single damn text.

But if Lexa was choosing Costia — publicly — then that was it.

There was nothing left to wait for.

Clarke walked back to her bed, sat down on the edge, and picked up her phone again.

She hesitated.

Her heart tugged — the same old ache, the same voice whispering what if. What if Lexa still loved her? What if this was all a misunderstanding? What if she just asked her to stay?

But she’d been living in those what ifs for too long.

Her thumb hovered over a different name.

Finn Collins.

He’d been there. Steady. Easy.

He never made her question her worth. Never gave her half-truths or disappearing acts. He made her feel safe.

And maybe… maybe that’s what she needed now.

Not fire. Not chaos.

Just someone to keep the pieces from falling apart again.

She opened their thread. Typed:

Clarke:
Hey. Are you around?

Three dots.

Then his response:

Finn:
For you? Always. Want me to come over?

Her heart clenched — guilt and relief battling it out. But she ignored both.

Clarke:
Yeah. Come over.

Chapter 6 Chapter Text

Lexa

The roar of the crowd still thundered in her ears.

Hands clapped her back. Arms wrapped around her shoulders. Teammates shouted her name, called her Commander, hoisted her helmet in the air like it was a trophy of war.

Lexa couldn’t hear any of it.

Not really.

Her eyes were locked on the jumbotron replaying that moment. A slow-motion shot of Costia throwing her arms around Lexa’s neck after the final touchdown — of Lexa standing still, stunned — of Costia kissing her like she had every right to.

And the camera lingered. Long enough for the entire campus — and whoever else had tuned in — to see it.

Lexa’s blood ran cold.

Not because of the kiss. But because of what it looked like.

Because of who might have seen it.

Clarke.

Her mind spiraled as her body moved on autopilot, half-listening to coaches, taking photos, shaking hands. But every beat of her heart pulsed with the same panicked refrain:

Did she see? Did Clarke see?

It shouldn’t matter. They weren’t together. Not officially. Not even unofficially in a way that made sense. But lately… something had felt different. Like they were circling back around. Getting closer to something real. Something honest.

They had barely talked, but the silences hadn’t felt empty — they had felt charged.

Lexa had let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe Clarke was willing to try again.

And now this.

As soon as she was able, Lexa slipped out of the crowd and pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking.

She typed fast, heart pounding in her throat.

Lexa:
It's not what it seems.

She stared at the screen.

No response.

She felt it — that horrible hollowness just beneath her ribs.

Then she saw her.

Costia.

Waiting near the side of the field, still in uniform, arms crossed like she had a right to be there. Like she was part of the team. Like she was Lexa’s.

Lexa’s jaw tightened.

She stormed toward her.

“Why the hell did you do that?” she snapped before Costia could say anything.

Costia blinked. “Do what?”

“You kissed me.”

“You looked happy,” Costia said defensively, chin tilting up. “It was a celebration. Everyone was watching.”

Lexa laughed — short and sharp. “Exactly. Everyone was watching. That wasn't yours to do.”

Costia’s expression hardened. “We’ve been dancing around this for months, Lexa. You let me stay close. You never say anything when people assume we're together.”

Lexa didn’t deny it.

But she didn’t agree either.

“I never gave you permission,” she said instead. “And that kiss? That was not okay.”

There was silence. Tense. Heavy.

Costia’s voice came out small. “Are you still in love with her?”

Lexa looked away, jaw working. That wasn’t a question she had the capacity to answer right now. Maybe not ever.

She didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked off, leaving Costia standing there — confused, humiliated, maybe even heartbroken.

Lexa didn’t care.

All she could think about was Clarke.

And what that kiss must’ve looked like to her.

She checked her phone again.

Still no reply.

Until it lit up.

Clarke:
Don’t. Enjoy the win with her.

Lexa stood frozen. Windless. Like she’d been punched in the chest.

No. No, no, no—

Clarke had seen it.

And she believed what it looked like.

Lexa’s fingers hovered over her phone. She wanted to call. She wanted to run to her. She wanted to rip the air apart with a scream because this — this — wasn’t what she wanted. Not like this. Not with someone else. Not while Clarke was still in her life, even if only at the edges.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the post-game noise becoming a distant hum. The win didn’t matter. The celebration didn’t matter.

It didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like loss.

She shouldn't be here.

Lexa knew that.

She knew it as she jogged across campus, still in her game hoodie, the night chill clinging to her sweat-damp skin. She knew it with every step she took closer to Clarke’s dorm — with every breath that burned in her lungs.

But logic never really stood a chance where Clarke Griffin was concerned.

Not when everything’s crashing.

Not when one kiss she didn't want just shattered the fragile thing they’d almost started rebuilding.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she walked the final hallway, heart in her throat, preparing for whatever was waiting on the other side of that door.

But what she wasn’t prepared for… was him.

Finn.

Coming up the hallway from the opposite direction.

Heading straight for Clarke’s door.

Lexa stopped dead.

And watched.

Clarke opened it, already in sweats, hair pulled into a loose, tired knot, face red and blotchy like she’d been crying. That alone made something inside Lexa clench.

Finn stepped into the room. Clarke didn’t even smile — didn’t touch him, didn’t even look at him for more than a second — but none of that mattered.

Lexa saw him walk in.

And she saw red.

She didn’t even realize her legs were moving until her hand hit the door and shoved it open so hard it banged against the wall.

Clarke and Finn both jumped at the noise.

Lexa stood in the doorway, framed in darkness, her jaw tight, chest rising and falling with thinly veiled fury.

Clarke’s eyes widened. “Lexa—?”

Lexa didn’t look at her. Her eyes were locked on Finn.

“Out,” she said, voice cold enough to freeze the air between them.

Finn straightened, looking from her to Clarke, confused. “What—?”

“I said get the hell out.”

There was no shouting. No dramatic gesture. Just steel in her voice and a storm building in her eyes. Her entire body was coiled, tense — dangerous.

Finn glanced at Clarke again, like maybe he expected her to say something — to tell Lexa off or stop her.

But Clarke didn’t speak.

Lexa’s lips twitched into something between a glare and a smirk.

“You’ve got five seconds before I make you regret staying.”

Finn wasn’t a coward. But he wasn’t stupid either.

Especially not when it came to the quarterback of Polis University looking like she was one blink away from putting someone through a wall.

He backed up. “I—I’ll talk to you later, Clarke,” he said quickly, hands raised as he slipped past Lexa and down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Lexa turned to face her.

Clarke hadn’t moved.

“Was that your plan?” Lexa asked, voice still quiet, but sharp. “To let him crawl into your bed five minutes after telling me we’re done?”

Clarke stared back at her. “You don’t get to ask that.”

Lexa’s jaw flexed. “No? Because I watched you let him in. I watched him walk into our space.”

Clarke scoffed, the sound dry and bitter. “Our space? This stopped being ours the moment she kissed you on live TV.”

Lexa looked like she'd been slapped. But she didn't flinch.

“I didn’t ask her to,” she said.

Clarke crossed her arms. “But you let her. You didn’t push her away.”

“I was stunned, Clarke. I—” She paused, voice trembling with restraint. “I texted you. I left the celebration. I came here because I didn’t want her. I never did.”

Clarke’s lips parted like she wanted to speak — wanted to scream — but nothing came out.

So Lexa filled the silence.

“Did you really think Finn could replace me?” Her voice softened just enough to make the words hurt. “That you could fill the space I left with him?”

Clarke’s eyes burned. “I thought I could at least try. After everything… after the way we keep tearing each other apart—”

“But we don’t stay apart,” Lexa interrupted. “You call. I show up. I breathe and suddenly you're right there.”

They stood there, both of them trembling with too many words, too much pain, too much history to contain.

Clarke stepped forward.

Lexa didn’t move.

They were standing so close now, heat crackling between them, rage and love tangled so tightly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

“What are we doing, Lexa?” Clarke whispered, voice thick with exhaustion.

Lexa shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I know I can’t walk away from you.”

A pause.

Then:

“Even when I should.”

Their eyes locked — green into blue, lightning into ocean.

The fire between them didn’t explode this time.

It simmered.

Burning quiet. Controlled. But no less consuming.

Lexa didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between them pulsed like a second heartbeat—one they shared, even when everything else was fractured.

She took a step forward.

Clarke tensed.

Another step. Then another. Lexa’s gaze never wavered. There was something wild behind it—hurt, anger, and that familiar desperation. That ache to fix something neither of them really knew how to repair.

“Don’t,” Clarke warned, voice low. “Don’t come any closer.”

But her arms remained at her sides. Her feet didn’t move.

Lexa tilted her head slightly, still watching her. “If you really wanted me to stop… I think you’d have said it differently.”

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t smug either. Just… honest.

Brutally so.

Clarke swallowed hard, her throat dry and tight.

“You think I want this?” she whispered.

Lexa’s jaw tensed. “I think you don’t know how not to want this.”

Clarke flinched like the words hit a nerve. Because they did. Of course they did.

“I saw it, Lexa,” Clarke murmured, stepping back just enough to lean against the wall. Her hands curled into fists. “Everyone saw it.”

Lexa exhaled sharply, finally letting her shoulders sag a little. “I told you. I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” Clarke fired back. “You just stood there. Let her do it. And now—”

“Now the whole world thinks I’ve moved on,” Lexa finished bitterly.

Silence.

Clarke bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to crumble. “Haven’t you?”

Lexa moved again—close enough now that Clarke could feel her breath. “No.”

Her voice cracked.

“I haven’t. I tried. But I haven’t. You know that.”

Clarke didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Because everything in her chest was squeezing too tightly for words to pass.

They were standing too close again, that small, dangerous space between them vibrating with all the things they never say.

Lexa raised a hand slowly. Not touching—just hovering. Waiting for permission.

Clarke didn’t move away.

Her own hand twitched at her side, betraying her resolve.

“I hate that this is who we are now,” Clarke whispered, blinking back tears she didn’t even realize had welled.

“I do too.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know that too.”

The confession hung between them like an open wound.

And still, Clarke leaned in.

She let Lexa brush a piece of hair behind her ear with careful fingers. Let her fingers graze her cheek like something sacred. Let herself breathe her in — even if it hurt.

Because it always hurt.

“I wanted to be angry,” Clarke said softly, eyes still locked on Lexa’s. “When I saw her kiss you. I was angry. I am.”

Lexa’s hand dropped back to her side, her expression tight.

“But then I just…” Clarke’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you showing up here. About how it felt the last time you kissed me. And suddenly being mad felt like... just another way to need you.”

Lexa stepped forward until there was no space left.

But neither reached for the other.

Not yet.

“We’re broken,” Lexa said.

Clarke nodded. “Yeah.”

“But I still want this,” Lexa breathed, her voice almost breaking. “Even if we don’t know how to fix it.”

Clarke blinked away the burning in her eyes. “So do I.”

Another long pause.

And then, like gravity pulling planets, they leaned in — slow, aching — their foreheads pressing together gently.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

Just breathing.

Existing.

Together.

But the pain didn’t leave. It just shifted.

Because they both knew the truth: nothing was healed. Nothing had changed. The kiss that would come next—because it always did—wouldn’t mend the damage. It would only cover it for another night.

Like duct tape over a shattered window.

Still, when Clarke’s lips brushed against Lexa’s, it was soft this time. Not desperate or angry. Just honest. A quiet plea.

Lexa kissed her back like it was the only language they still spoke fluently.

And when they finally pulled apart, neither said anything.

They didn’t need to.

They both knew.

This wasn’t love the way it used to be. This was the echo of it. The ruin. The rubble they kept building and tearing down again.

But they stayed. Wrapped in silence.

Together, but not fixed.

Flashback — One Year Earlier
Polis University, Late Fall Semester

The sky had been grey that day.

Not stormy—just heavy. Like the clouds were holding their breath. Much like Clarke had been doing for weeks.

She sat alone in the art building, the massive windows casting long, cold shadows across the scattered charcoal sketches and paint-streaked canvases. Her fingers were stained with blue and ochre, dragging lazily across a piece she hadn’t been able to finish.

A half-done portrait.

Lexa’s eyes stared up at her from the paper. Green. Focused. Unapologetically intense.

Even in charcoal, Clarke had gotten the furrow between her brows just right.

And that damn jawline.

She heard the creak of the studio door before she saw her.

Lexa slipped inside like she didn’t want to be seen. Her hair was tied up, still damp from practice. She looked tired. Like she hadn’t slept in days.

Clarke didn’t look up.

“You skipped dinner again.”

Clarke pressed the edge of her eraser into the paper. “I was working.”

“You haven’t texted me back all day.”

“I was working,” Clarke repeated.

A pause. Then a quiet, bitter laugh.

“Right.”

Clarke finally looked at her, something sour twisting in her stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lexa leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms. Her practice jersey was clinging to her like it had been rained on, even though it hadn’t.

“It means I’m starting to feel like your boyfriend is a sketchbook,” she muttered.

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “And I’m starting to feel like yours is a football.”

Silence.

There it was. The beginning of the end. Subtle. Inevitable.

“We don’t talk anymore,” Clarke said after a moment, quieter now. “Not like we used to.”

Lexa ran a hand over her face. “You think I don’t want to? Clarke, I’m either in class, training, in meetings, or trying to—”

“Be everything for everyone but me?” Clarke stood now. The studio light framed her in a golden outline, like she was trying to outshine the sadness in her voice. “You don’t even come here anymore.”

“You never come to the games.”

“I can’t,” Clarke snapped. “I can’t sit in those stands and pretend it doesn’t kill me to watch all those people cheer for you while you barely remember I exist.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is watching Costia hang off you like she belongs there.”

Lexa flinched, jaw tightening. “And Finn? I see him. I see the way he looks at you.”

“He’s just—”

“He’s waiting,” Lexa said bitterly. “And you’re letting him.”

“You’re the one pulling away from me!” Clarke yelled, stepping forward. “You think I want Finn? I want you! But you’re not here anymore, Lexa! You’re on the field. You’re in the gym. You’re everywhere but with me!”

Lexa’s eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t cry. She never cried.

“I’m trying to be someone you can be proud of,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t mess this up. School. Football. Us.”

“But you already have,” Clarke whispered, more to herself than to Lexa.

They stood there. Two people holding the frayed ends of something that had once been strong. Golden. Beautiful.

And now it was unraveling in their hands.

Lexa didn’t say another word. She turned, quietly walking away from Clarke and out of the studio.

She didn’t hear Clarke whisper her name. Didn’t see Clarke chase after her.

And Clarke didn’t say it again.

Present — Clarke’s Dorm Room

The room was dim, cloaked in the soft amber of Clarke’s bedside lamp. The silence between them was dense—not angry, not cold—just… fragile. Like the moments after a storm, when the world hasn’t yet decided if the sky will clear or break open again.

Lexa lay beside her, eyes closed but not asleep. Her breathing was even, but Clarke could feel the tightness in her posture. Like she was pretending to rest because if she didn’t, the weight of everything unsaid might crush her.

Clarke didn’t move at first. She just looked at her.

Lexa’s face in the half-light was something sacred. Strong and soft all at once. The slight crease between her brows. The long lashes that only few got to see this close. The faint scar just above her right cheekbone that Clarke had always traced without asking.

Now, she did it again—quietly, gently. Her fingers moved over Lexa’s jaw, her temple, brushing a piece of hair back behind her ear.

Like she was trying to memorize her.

Even though Clarke already had every detail carved into her.

“I used to draw you,” Clarke said quietly.

Lexa’s eyes opened slowly. She didn’t say anything at first, just turned her face slightly toward Clarke’s hand, letting herself feel it.

“In the studio,” Clarke continued. “Late at night. You were never there… but you were always there. You know?”

Lexa nodded faintly, the tiniest motion.

“I drew you so much that the professors started asking if I’d consider doing a full series on you,” Clarke said with a dry, humorless laugh. “I told them it was just practice. But it wasn’t.”

Her hand fell back onto the bed between them.

“I was trying to hold onto you.”

Lexa finally spoke, voice hoarse with something deeper than exhaustion. “You still draw me now?”

Clarke hesitated.

“When I miss you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy with shared pain, mutual knowing, and the ache of what could’ve been.

Lexa closed her eyes again, just for a moment, but this time, her hand reached for Clarke’s under the covers. Their fingers brushed—then laced.

Still no answers. No solutions.

But for tonight, they were still here. In the same bed. On the same page, if only in silence.

And for Clarke, that would have to be enough.

Chapter 7 Chapter Text

Lexa

Flashback — Senior Year, Behind the Bleachers

It was their secret place.
Tucked away behind the old bleachers at their high school field, where time slowed down, and the world stopped demanding things from them.

The buzz of a distant football practice could be heard in the background, but here, there was only the sound of the wind pushing through the slats of rusting metal and the quiet rhythm of their breathing.

Clarke sat close, her head resting gently on Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa’s chin balanced on top of Clarke’s golden hair, breathing her in like she was the calm before a storm. Their fingers were intertwined—lazy and sure—Clarke tracing idle shapes along the back of Lexa’s hand.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Clarke murmured, her voice barely above the wind.

Lexa smiled faintly. “I know.”

But she shifted slightly, pulling her other hand out of her hoodie pocket. “But I have something for us.”

Clarke tilted her head to look up at her, curious.

Lexa opened her palm. Inside were two small silver rings—simple, understated, but beautiful in their meaning.

“Promise rings,” Lexa said. “I know it’s cheesy, but I thought…”

Her voice faltered for the first time in a while. Clarke stared at the rings like they held the universe.

“We’re going to different parts of the same world,” Lexa said quietly. “You, with your art. Me, with football. There’s gonna be pressure. Distance. People pulling us in different directions.”

Clarke’s eyes softened, lips parted as she watched Lexa’s face.

Lexa turned slightly to face her, holding one of the rings out. “So when it gets hard—when it feels like everything’s too much—I want you to have something that reminds you of this. Of us. Of how much I love you.”

Clarke didn’t speak. She took the ring with trembling fingers and stared at it like it was more sacred than anything she’d ever drawn.

Lexa slid hers on first. Clarke followed.

And then Clarke kissed her. Slow, deep, trembling with feeling. Like a vow etched into the air between them.

Present — Lexa’s Dorm Room

Lexa lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The shadows from the moonlight stretched across her walls like reminders. Her room was quiet. Still.

But she didn’t feel still. She felt like a storm that never passed.

She sat up, running a hand through her hair. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from weakness, but from remembering.

Getting up, she crossed the room slowly. She knew exactly what she was looking for, even though she hadn’t opened that drawer in months.

The top drawer of her desk creaked as she pulled it open. And there it was.

The ring.

Silver. Slightly tarnished. Untouched since the night she took it off in a fit of heartbreak.

That night she'd seen Clarke with Finn—laughing, close. And she’d noticed the bare spot on Clarke’s finger where the ring used to sit.

She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t said anything. She just went home, slid her own ring off, and placed it here.

Out of sight. But never out of mind.

Lexa stared at it now, resting in the center of the drawer like it was waiting for her.

Does she still have hers?
The thought burned through her like a quiet ache.
Or did she throw it away? Did she think we were beyond the promise?

Lexa reached out and picked it up, the cool metal pressing into her palm.

She didn't put it back on.

Not yet.

But she closed her hand around it and held it tightly. Because it was the only part of Clarke she could still hold without fear of being pushed away.

The ring sat in her palm like it had been waiting.

Lexa stared at it for a long time. Her thumb brushing along the edge. Once, she thought this ring meant forever. Now, it just felt like a memory she couldn’t put down — not yet. Maybe not ever.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and slowly placed the ring back in the drawer.

Her hands stayed on the wood for a moment, bracing her weight. Her head dropped between her shoulders.

And that’s when the tears came.

They weren’t loud. Lexa didn’t sob — she never had, not really. But her breath hitched, and her shoulders trembled as the tears slid down her cheeks silently, splashing softly against the drawer.

I hope she still has hers.

The thought landed like a whisper in the middle of her chest.

Not because it changed anything. Not because it erased the months of pain, the mistakes, the quiet stabs they threw at each other like routine. But because it still meant something.

And that something was all she had.

Lexa wiped at her face quickly, dragging the sleeves of her hoodie under her eyes before pushing off the desk. She moved like something had just clicked into place — not resolved, not healed, but steady enough to carry the weight again.

She started digging through her room.

Drawers opened. Old boxes pulled down from the top shelf of her closet. Tangled cords. Journals. Polaroids she couldn’t bring herself to throw out. Her hands were fast but not frantic — like she knew what she was looking for and she just had to reach it.

Finally, in the back of an old shoebox, she found it.

A necklace.

The chain was thin but strong. The birthstone charm attached to it meant nothing now — probably a gift from a well-meaning aunt or an ex-friend.

Lexa tugged the charm off without hesitation and walked back to her desk.

She opened the drawer again. Her fingers wrapped around the ring.

And without hesitation, she slid the ring onto the chain.

A quiet breath left her. She stared at the necklace, her thumb brushing over the silver like a promise being made all over again. She fastened it around her neck, slipping the ring beneath her shirt, close to her skin.

It’s not on my finger.
But I know what it means.

It didn’t have to be for show anymore. It didn’t have to be a banner to the world. Clarke wasn’t wearing hers, and maybe she never would again.

But Lexa would carry it anyway.

Because she remembered the promise. And even now—especially now—when things were a mess and everything was too loud and too painful to sort through, she refused to let go of what they’d built. What they could still fix.

Lexa sat back on the edge of her bed, her hand pressing lightly to the necklace hidden beneath her hoodie.

She closed her eyes.

Clarke was trying to save them the only way she knew how—by running.
By pretending they didn’t matter anymore.
By keeping Finn close even though she only ever looked like she was waiting for Lexa to show up.

And Lexa? She was tired of the war.
But she wasn’t tired of her.

So if Clarke still had her ring tucked away somewhere…
If she still looked at it the way Lexa did—like it still held weight, still held love—
Then Lexa would wait.
Not forever.
But long enough for both of them to remember who they were behind the bleachers.

Her phone buzzed beside her on the desk. Lexa almost didn’t check it.

But then she saw the name.

Anya.

I know why you bailed. You okay? Want me to come over with beer?

Lexa exhaled slowly through her nose, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Of course Anya would know. She always did. Anya never pressed — not at first — but she had this uncanny ability to sense when Lexa was barely holding things together, even through a screen.

She didn’t reply right away. Just let the soft glow of the message warm her chest for a moment. A little ember of gratitude. A reminder that not everything in her life was fractured.

Then, predictably, another text came through.

Actually, screw permission. I’m already on my way.
Lincoln’s coming too. He’s still high off the win and needs someone to celebrate with who won’t roll their eyes at his stories.

Lexa snorted softly.

Anya always waited at least a day before checking in after Clarke.

It was their unspoken deal. Anya never barged in on Lexa’s emotional chaos. Not unless Lexa was too far in the storm and didn’t know how to find her way back. She’d waited this time too. Because they both knew where Lexa had gone after the game. Or where she tried to go.

Lexa grabbed her phone and finally responded:

Bring a lot of beer. Like… unhealthy amounts.

The reply came instantly:
You bet

Lexa stood from her chair, looking around her room — the scattered papers, the closet door still cracked open, the shoebox half out of place. The chaos from her earlier search for the necklace still lingered.

She rolled up her sleeves and started putting things back together.

She wasn’t going to let Anya walk in and think she’d fully lost her mind — even though, if she was being honest, she’d probably already lost it sometime last fall. Somewhere between seeing Clarke with Finn for the first time and finding Clarke’s ring missing from her finger.

Lexa shoved the box back into the closet, smoothed the sheets on her bed, and straightened the pile of textbooks on her desk just as the knock came at her door.

She opened it to find exactly what she expected.

Anya, already grinning like she owned the place, with two packs of beer held high like a trophy. Lincoln behind her with that quiet, grounded confidence he always carried — except tonight, his calmness was replaced with something brighter. Lighter.

“Look at our Commander,” Anya beamed, stepping in without waiting for an invite. “Winning against Arkadia like a damn legend and hiding away like a cryptid. Unacceptable.”

Lexa laughed and shook her head as Anya slung an arm around her shoulder, tugging her inside.

“Let me guess,” Lexa said, deadpan. “First thing you did after the win was find Raven.”

Anya’s grin widened like she’d just been complimented. “Hell yeah, I did. My girl deserved a celebration.”

Lincoln gave a low chuckle as he stepped past them, placing the beer on the desk like a peace offering.

“Congrats, Commander,” he said genuinely. “You played like it was a championship. You carried us.”

Lexa nodded, appreciating the words more than she let show. “Couldn’t have done it without you both.”

Lincoln passed out three beers — two to Lexa and Anya, one for himself — and they clinked bottles before settling into Lexa’s space like it was theirs too.

And maybe it was. After everything they’d been through, all the years of growing up together, surviving each other’s worst moods and dumbest choices, this was more than a room.

This was safe.

The tension began to melt from Lexa’s shoulders. The win, the ache, the still-lingering sting of seeing Finn at Clarke’s dorm — all of it settled under the noise of laughter and shared stories.

They joked about the game — about Arkadia’s failed trick play that Lexa had sniffed out before the ball even moved. Anya recounted how Raven screamed so loud at the touchdown, she scared three freshmen off their bench. Lincoln proudly claimed he’d seen the fear in the Arkadia defense’s eyes before the opening snap.

And slowly, their memories turned to before.

“Remember the first time you threw a ball?” Anya smirked, raising an eyebrow at Lexa. “The one that nailed Gustus in the back of the head?”

Lexa groaned, head falling back with a laugh. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh no, we must remind you,” Lincoln said with mock seriousness. “Because I swear he chased us for twenty minutes straight.”

“I thought he was gonna ban football from the yard,” Anya added, grinning. “And you cried.”

“I did not cry.”

“You definitely cried,” they both said in unison.

Lexa rolled her eyes and took another drink, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the beer. These moments — they grounded her. They reminded her of who she used to be before everything got tangled in heartbreak and unsaid things.

And for the first time in what felt like days, she let herself breathe.

But somewhere, under the laughter and comfort and warmth of her best friends, the ring still sat quietly against her skin — hidden beneath her shirt.

A weight.
A promise.
Still kept.

The night stretched on the way it always did with the three of them — the kind of late that crept past two a.m. without anyone noticing. The desk was cluttered with empty bottles, Anya half-asleep on Lexa’s bed, still muttering insults about Arkadia’s defense between yawns.

Lincoln sat in her desk chair, long legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest. He had that calm, steady look he always wore, like nothing in the world could shake him.

Lexa was on the floor, back against the bedframe, beer dangling loosely in her hand. She wasn’t drunk — not really. She never let herself get there. But the edge of the day had softened, just enough for her shoulders to unclench.

It was Lincoln who finally cut through the quiet.
“You gonna tell us what’s really on your mind, Commander?”

Her head lifted, instinct sharp. But Lincoln didn’t push, didn’t narrow his eyes or lean forward. He just said it like an offer.

“Win like that, and you disappear? Doesn’t add up.”

Anya stirred, blinking awake at the sound of his voice. Her gaze found Lexa, and for once there was no smirk, no teasing — just quiet understanding.
“Clarke,” she said simply.

The name hit like it always did. Not a blade, not anymore, but a stone in her chest. Heavy. Immovable.

Lexa didn’t answer right away. She tipped her head back against the frame and stared up at the ceiling, at the familiar cracks that had seen her through more long nights than she could count.

“I went by her dorm after the game,” she admitted, her voice low.

Anya pushed herself up onto her elbows. Lincoln’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“She wasn’t alone.” The words scraped their way out, rougher than she wanted them to sound.

Anya muttered something sharp under her breath. Lincoln exhaled slowly, steady but heavy, like he’d been bracing for it.

The silence stretched, weighted but not suffocating.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Lex,” Anya said finally, her tone firm but not cruel. “Not if she’s already moved on.”

Lexa dragged a hand through her hair, forcing her expression blank. She couldn’t tell them about the ring, about what it meant that she’d found it again. About how she still wore it, tucked safe against her skin like a wound she refused to let close.

Instead, she gave them the same thing she always did — a nod, quiet, controlled, nothing more.

Anya sighed, leaning back onto the bed. Lincoln didn’t press. The noise in the room dulled again until all that was left was their breathing, the faint hum of the city outside, and the steady weight of metal against Lexa’s collarbone — unseen, unknown, hers alone.

Lexa twisted the bottle cap in her fingers, metal biting faint crescents into her skin as she spoke.
“I kicked him out.”

Lincoln looked up, steady. Anya’s eyebrows shot high.

“Finn,” Lexa clarified. “He was in her room when I got there. Clarke didn’t try to stop me, didn’t say anything. Just… let him leave.”

Anya scoffed, sharp and immediate. “Of course she did. She’s still dragging you along, Lex. Playing hot and cold like it’s a sport she invented.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened. She shook her head, slow, deliberate.
“She’s not the only one pulling the strings here, Anya.”

That stilled the room for a beat. Anya blinked, caught off guard by the correction, but said nothing. Lincoln leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming lightly on his armrest.

“Funny you say that,” he said thoughtfully. “Because Octavia mentioned something to me the other day.”

Both women turned toward him.

“She said Clarke’s been… different. Ever since you two stopped seeing each other. Barely leaves her room, shuts herself off. And Finn—” Lincoln paused, choosing his words. “She ignores him. Constantly. Like he isn’t even there half the time, even when he’s right beside her. O told me it’s like he’s just… a body. Taking up space. Clarke lets him hover, but she doesn’t actually see him.”

Lexa’s fingers froze on the bottle cap.

Lincoln shrugged, leaning back again. “Octavia doesn’t like the guy. Says something about him rubs her wrong. But that’s all I’ve got.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and jagged in Lexa’s chest. She stared at Lincoln, caught in a silence that felt too wide to cross.

Anya finally cut through it, her voice sharp. “Doesn’t matter if Clarke notices him or not. Doesn’t matter if she ignores him. She’s not pushing him back either. And not saying no? That’s still giving him room. That’s still permission.”

Lexa’s throat felt tight, but her reply came out clear.
“She hasn’t said yes either.”

For a moment, that landed between them, fragile and stubborn all at once.

Then Anya leaned forward, pinning her with a look that was equal parts sister and soldier.
“She didn’t have to. She said it already — in her own way. She invited him in, didn’t she? Right after she saw you and Costia on TV?”

The breath Lexa pulled in was sharp, cold. The memory slammed back like a door kicked open — Clarke’s eyes, hurt and shuttered, the way she’d folded in on herself. The way Finn had slid into the space Lexa hadn’t been fast enough to fill.

Her chest ached. Her grip on the bottle cap tightened until the metal gave with a soft snap.

Lexa’s hands stilled in her lap. She didn’t look at them when she spoke, her voice quieter than before.
“We spent the night together.”

That snapped Anya fully upright again. Lincoln’s eyebrows lifted, though he stayed calm.

Lexa swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling. “We talked. About… things. About us. Neither of us want it to be over. Not really. But—” She trailed off, the rest sticking in her throat, heavy and unspoken.

Lincoln shifted in the chair, sitting forward now, the air around him suddenly sharper, more deliberate. His voice carried a weight that left no room for debate.
“Then stop whatever it is you’re doing with Costia.”

Lexa’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t flinch. He pressed on, steady and clear.
“Even if Clarke doesn’t end things with Finn, you don’t get to balance the scale by hurting her the way she’s hurt you. If you want her, if you actually want to be with her, then prove it. Don’t hand her the same pain you’re carrying.”

The words landed like a hit straight to the chest.

Anya groaned and let herself fall backward onto the bed again, throwing an arm over her eyes. “As much as I hate to admit it, Boy Scout’s right. If that’s what you want, Lex, then stop making it messier.”

Lexa’s mouth opened, ready with some rebuttal, but nothing came out. Because the truth was, they weren’t wrong.

For a moment, the room went still, the hum of the city outside the only sound filling the silence.

Lexa sat with it, the weight of their words pressing against her ribs.

Anya eventually sat up again, her expression softer now but still protective. “Look… you know I don’t hate Clarke. Hell, we were actually good before you two broke up. She’s smart, funny, stubborn as hell. But when it comes to you, Lex, I don’t care if it’s Clarke or the President of Polis University — I’m always gonna be protective first.”

Lexa nodded slowly, something tight unwinding in her chest. She knew that about Anya. She always had.

The quiet stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable.

And then Anya broke it, her voice sharp but laced with something almost exasperated.
“Honestly? If the two of you would just sit down and actually talk — like, really talk — and admit you’ve both been stupid, none of this would even be happening. You’re letting stress and school and all the outside crap make decisions for you. That’s the real problem.”

Lincoln let out a low hum, not disagreeing.

Lexa sat back, her mind turning over everything — the night with Clarke, the ring hidden at her collarbone, the sharp sting of Finn’s presence, the dull comfort of Costia’s.

And in the middle of it all, one relentless truth: they weren’t wrong.

Lexa dragged her palms down her face, fingers tugging lightly at her jaw before she let her hands drop. The bottle cap sat broken between her knuckles, edges sharp.
“I just… I can’t jump at this. Not yet.”

Anya arched a brow. “You already did, apparently.”

Lexa shot her a look, but her mouth curved faintly in spite of herself. The humor slipped away quickly, though, her voice dipping low. “I need more than one night. I need to know if it meant what I think it did. If she actually wants me there, or if I’m just a habit she hasn’t shaken.”

Her eyes flicked between them, searching for something she couldn’t name. “Because if I throw myself at her again and I’m wrong? It’s fire, Anya. I’ll either get burned, or maybe…” She trailed off, her throat tight, “…maybe I walk out alive. But I can’t know until I’m sure.”

The words settled, heavy as lead.

Lincoln leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. “Then feel it out. Watch. Listen. Just don’t wait forever. Chances like that don’t circle back a hundred times.”

Anya made a frustrated noise and threw herself back onto the bed with a dramatic flop. “Gods, you two are exhausting. She’s exhausting. It’s exhausting watching you dance around each other like a bad soap opera.” She tugged her arm over her eyes but her voice softened, grudgingly: “Fine. Play it cautious. Just… don’t let her string you along forever, Lex. Promise me that.”

Lexa’s lips twitched, a tiny smile tugging as she nodded. “I promise.”

The room quieted after that, the buzz of the city through the window filling the gaps where words didn’t fit. Lincoln leaned back, his calm presence a counterweight to Anya’s restless energy. Lexa breathed easier in that balance — it was why she trusted them with the things she didn’t say aloud.

Eventually Anya pushed upright again, rubbing her face. “Alright, I’ve hit my emotional limit for the night. Raven will murder me if I show up tomorrow looking like I got run over.” She grabbed her sweatshirt from the chair and tugged it on with a grumble.

Lincoln gathered up a few empty bottles, stacking them into a neat row on the desk. He moved with the same steady precision he played with — methodical, dependable. At the door, he paused and clapped a firm hand on Lexa’s shoulder. His grin was warm, unshakable.
“Good night. And good luck.”

Lexa met his eyes, her chest easing at the weight of his presence. She let herself smile, small but real. “Night.”

The door shut softly behind them. The quiet that followed was different than before — not empty, exactly, but thick. Heavy with everything left unsaid.

Lexa leaned her back against the door, arms folding tight across her chest. Her heart beat in a rhythm she couldn’t slow. For a long moment, she just stood there, listening to the silence, forcing her lungs to pull in air, to let it go again.

When she finally turned, her brows lifted at the sight of what they’d left: bottles scattered over her desk, crumbs smudged on the nightstand, Anya’s socks kicked off beside her bed. A small, messy echo of their presence.

She huffed out a quiet laugh through her nose, shaking her head. Then she sighed, long and heavy, and began to gather the bottles one by one, the clink of glass breaking the stillness.

The rhythm of cleaning steadied her. She stacked the empties in the recycling bin, wiped crumbs from the surface of her nightstand with the heel of her hand. But her mind… her mind was loud.

Every word replayed — Lincoln’s steady push, Anya’s sharp bite, her own confession about needing to feel Clarke out before she jumped.

Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the chain beneath her shirt. Her fingers brushed the outline of the ring, cool against her skin. She let herself touch it for only a second before forcing her hand away.

Not yet.

She needed more. She needed Clarke to show her — in words, in action, in something — that she wasn’t walking back into fire blind.

By the time her desk was cleared, her bed straightened, and Anya’s abandoned socks tossed into the hamper, the room looked whole again. But Lexa didn’t feel whole. Not yet.

She sat at the edge of her mattress, elbows on her knees, staring down at her hands like they might have the answers. The weight of the ring pressed against her collarbone, steady and unyielding.

Lexa exhaled, the sound almost a whisper.
“Alive or burned,” she murmured to herself.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t sure which one she feared more.

Clarke

Clarke hadn’t moved from her bed since the door slammed behind Lexa.

The room was still thick with her. The faint trace of her cologne in the sheets, the warmth she left behind, the way silence now pressed heavy against Clarke’s chest, louder than any shouting match could’ve been.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand until it finally died. Every message before the screen went dark was Finn’s: Are you okay? What just happened? Please answer me. I just want to help. Clarke hadn’t opened a single one.

She didn’t want Finn’s concern. She didn’t want Finn at all. Not when her veins still thrummed with Lexa’s presence, not when the echo of her calm, commanding voice telling him to leave still rang in her ears.

The knock at her door startled her, sharp in the silence. Clarke didn’t move. She thought maybe if she kept still, whoever it was would go away. But the knock became a shove, and then Octavia slipped inside with Raven right behind her.

Both froze just a second, their eyes sweeping over the room with the kind of sharpness Clarke had learned not to underestimate. Raven’s gaze landed on the rumpled sheets, Octavia’s on the corner by her desk.

“Wow,” Raven said dryly, “you’ve had company.”

Before Clarke could protest, Octavia bent down and pulled something from the floor. She held it up with a grim sort of triumph. Black boxer briefs. Clarke’s pulse jumped, hot and guilty.

“Lexa’s,” Octavia said flatly.

Clarke groaned and dragged her hands over her face. “Can we not—”

“Oh, we’re absolutely gonna,” Raven cut in, crossing her arms. “So. Care to explain, Princess? Or do you want us to fill in the blanks? Because I’m real good at Mad Libs.”

There was no point trying to dodge. Clarke exhaled heavily and let her hands fall. “Fine. I’ll start from the beginning.”

Raven perched at the edge of her bed, Octavia claimed her desk chair, both of them waiting like judges at a trial. Clarke felt the weight of their stares pressing her into place.

“After the game,” she started, carefully, “after seeing—after watching that kiss—”

Raven rolled her eyes with a sharp sound in her throat. “Don’t remind me. I nearly threw my shoe at the TV.”

Clarke powered through the sting. “I couldn’t stay there. Not with you two cheering like nothing was wrong. Not with Lexa on the screen, looking like—” Her voice cracked and she stopped herself, pulling in a steadying breath. “I couldn’t. So I invited Finn over.”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed, disappointment flickering across her face. “Finn. Clarke, why? Why him?”

Clarke bristled, defensive heat rising in her chest. “Because he’s been here. Because he’s been good to me, O. He’s—he’s steady. And he cares. More than anyone else has, in a long time.”

“Except you don’t care back,” Octavia shot back, sharp but not cruel. “Not like that. Don’t pretend you do. You barely even notice him.”

Clarke stiffened, offended. “That’s not true.”

Raven’s bark of laughter was sharp enough to sting. “It’s so true. He trails after you like a lost puppy, Clarke. And you don’t even realize how much. Did you know he followed you into three classes last semester that he wasn’t even signed up for? Just to sit near you? Did you know he cornered Lincoln in the gym to ask what flowers you liked? That he hovers outside your studio when you’re working late?”

Clarke blinked, her stomach dropping. “What—no, I—”

“Yeah,” Raven said bluntly. “You didn’t know. Because you don’t notice him. Because he doesn’t matter to you the way he wants to.”

The weight of it settled in Clarke’s chest like a stone. For a moment, she looked almost defeated, but she gathered herself enough to keep talking.

“I told myself I was going to start paying attention. To Finn. To really give him a chance. And then…” She stopped, her throat tightening, her pulse racing as the memory washed through her. “And then Lexa showed up.”

Octavia leaned forward, sharp-eyed. Raven stayed still, but her gaze softened just slightly.

“She was all rage and fury, but calm. Cold. She didn’t yell, she didn’t flinch. She just… looked at him. Told him to leave. Like he didn’t belong here, like he didn’t even exist.” Clarke’s lips parted, breath unsteady. “And gods, it—” she cut herself off, shaking her head, heat rising to her cheeks.

But Raven and Octavia were already exchanging looks. Knowing, smug, unspoken. Clarke’s face burned.

“I didn’t even stand up for Finn,” she confessed at last, her voice cracking. “Didn’t try to stop her, didn’t try to defend him. Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t think about anything but her.”

The room was silent for a moment, heavy and unyielding.

Raven broke it with a sigh, her tone sharp but not cruel. “Clarke, this isn’t right. You and Lexa — you can’t do this. You can’t have other people on your arms in public and then sneak around with each other like it doesn’t count. Rumors or not, it’s cheating. It’s cruel. To them, and to yourselves.”

Clarke’s chest ached. Her stomach twisted. The truth of Raven’s words hit hard, scraping across every raw edge inside her.

Octavia hadn’t spoken in a while. She studied Clarke, her gaze steady, her silence weightier than any words. Finally, she asked the one question that mattered.

“Do you still love her?”

The words landed like a blow. Clarke’s breath caught. Her throat closed. Her hands twisted in the sheets, knuckles white.

Because yes. Of course yes. She had never stopped.

But with it came the fear, thick and paralyzing. The agony of the kiss, the betrayal she couldn’t unsee. The endless ache of what if.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her chest rose and fell, sharp, shallow.

“Yes,” her heart screamed.
“No,” her fear whispered.

Of course she still loved Lexa. All she wanted was Lexa. All she had ever wanted.

But love wasn’t trust. And she was terrified that Lexa’s assurances — that the kiss was nothing, that it didn’t mean what Clarke thought it did — were lies she couldn’t survive believing again.

Her eyes stung as she finally met Octavia’s gaze, her voice barely a whisper.
“I don’t know if it’s enough anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Clarke sat there, her hands trembling where they twisted in her sheets, her chest heavy from the weight of everything she had just admitted. The silence in the room wasn’t empty — it was thick, pulsing with the gravity of what her friends had just heard.

And then Octavia moved. Not away, not with judgment — but toward her. She slid onto the bed without hesitation, looping an arm around Clarke’s shoulders and tugging her close. Raven followed almost immediately, throwing herself down on Clarke’s other side, warm and solid and unflinching.

The dam broke. Clarke didn’t sob, not exactly — but the first shudder that wracked her body cracked the brittle hold she’d had on her emotions. She leaned into them, into Octavia’s steady squeeze and Raven’s familiar warmth, her forehead pressing against Raven’s shoulder as Octavia rubbed circles against her arm.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Octavia said, her voice low but firm, as if Clarke could anchor herself to those words. “No one’s asking you to.”

“Yeah,” Raven chimed in, leaning her cheek against Clarke’s shoulder with exaggerated weight until Clarke huffed a small laugh through her tears. “It’s been more than a year, Clarke. You think there’s some deadline stamped on your heart? Sometimes shit like this takes time. And honestly? With you and Lexa? I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t take years for you to untangle yourselves.”

Clarke let out a shaky breath, relief and ache mixing in her chest. She leaned into both of them, soaking in their warmth. Their presence felt like a fortress against the chaos inside her head.

But Octavia wasn’t done. She pulled back enough to meet Clarke’s gaze, her expression steady and searching. “Do you still have the ring? The one she gave you senior year?”

Clarke froze, her whole body going still. She tried to avoid Octavia’s eyes, but the question hung there, heavy and insistent.

Wordlessly, Clarke slipped from the bed. She crossed the room to her desk, pulled open the top drawer, and reached all the way to the back. Her fingers curled around the small velvet box that had never left her side, no matter how much she’d tried to bury the memories attached to it.

She returned to the bed and sat back down, the box trembling in her hand. When she opened it, the silver band gleamed under the dim light — simple, unadorned, but carrying the weight of a thousand promises.

“Of course I still have it,” Clarke whispered. “How could I get rid of it? It’s a promise we made each other.” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, frustration sparking hot in her chest. “I just didn’t think we’d forget how to talk to each other once we hit college. It’s like we… reverted. Took ten steps back and became strangers.”

Raven reached out and brushed her thumb over Clarke’s knuckles, grounding her.

“But not strangers,” Clarke continued, her voice raw. “Because I know her. Better than anyone. And she knows me. Sometimes it feels like we share the same soul. But right now she feels like someone I don’t know how to reach. And that scares the hell out of me. Because the only way I still do know how to reach her is through touch. Through being with her. And in those moments, it’s like seeing the Lexa I knew. The Lexa who was mine.”

Her confession hung heavy in the room. Raven and Octavia exchanged a look over her head — sympathy, yes, but also something sharper. Determination.

Raven was the first to move. She slid off the bed, planting her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver orders. “Okay, then. Enough moping. You need time with her — real time. Not stolen hours, not this… sneaking around. I know exactly how to make that happen.”

Clarke blinked at her warily. “Raven…”

Raven smirked, though her eyes were soft. “Cabin trip. You remember. Every winter. Anya’s family’s place up in the woods. Sledding, drinking, nights by the fire. Our tradition.”

Clarke’s stomach flipped. Of course she remembered. Those trips had been a cornerstone of their little family for years. But last year she and Lexa had both skipped out — and the gap had been obvious, even from afar.

Octavia’s face lit with the same resolve Raven carried. “You should come this year, Clarke. Both of you should. It’s not just fun — it’s where we always remember who we are to each other. Maybe it’s exactly what you and Lexa need.”

Clarke shook her head quickly, panic rising. “No. No, O. That’s a terrible idea. Putting us in a cabin together isn’t going to fix anything. We’ll just… we’ll argue until everyone else hates us.”

“Or,” Raven cut in, “you’ll actually talk for once. Or fight. Or whatever. At least you’ll deal with it.”

Octavia nodded. “You two avoided it last year, and look where that got you. Maybe facing it is better than running.”

Clarke stared at them, torn between dread and a flicker of desperate hope. “And you want to drag everyone else into the middle of that?”

Raven rolled her eyes. “Everyone else is already in the middle of it. Anya practically lives in Lexa’s head. Lincoln hears everything through Octavia. And me? I’ve been your personal therapist for months. You two act like you’re the only ones carrying this mess, but newsflash — we’re all already tangled in it.”

Octavia’s hand closed over Clarke’s, squeezing gently. “Clarke… you don’t have to know what you’re going to do. But maybe being there will help you figure it out. With all of us there. With her there.”

Clarke’s throat tightened as she looked down at the ring, still cradled in her palm. The promise of who they’d been. The question of who they could still be.

The idea of the cabin — of snow, firelight, and days without escape from Lexa’s presence — both terrified and thrilled her.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what she needed.

The room felt cavernous after they left.

Clarke leaned back against her pillows, the quiet ringing in her ears. The warmth of Raven’s shoulder, Octavia’s hand in hers — it all lingered, but the moment the door clicked shut, the weight of solitude pressed in like a storm.

The box sat open on her lap, the silver band glinting in the soft lamplight. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it free, the cool metal settling into her palm like it belonged there. Like it always had.

She pressed it against her chest, just over her heart. The sharp edges dug into her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt, and she welcomed the sting. It grounded her.

This is all I have left, she thought bitterly, clutching it tight. The last thread of us. The last promise we made before everything fell apart.

Her breath hitched. It wasn’t just a piece of jewelry. It was senior year, the night Lexa had slipped it onto her finger with such unshakable certainty, her green eyes steady even as Clarke’s had welled with tears. We’re forever, Clarke. This doesn’t have to be a question.

And Clarke had believed her. She’d let that promise hold her together through college applications, through long nights of sketching until her hands cramped, through the creeping fear that maybe she’d never be enough for Lexa’s fire.

But somewhere along the way, forever had faltered.

Clarke turned the ring over and over between her fingers, the motion hypnotic. Her heart ached with memories: Lexa’s hand tangled with hers on late-night drives, the way she’d kissed her temple before every game, the soft press of lips against her shoulder when Clarke had fallen asleep in the library. They weren’t strangers. They never would be. And yet…

“Strangers,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice cracking. “That’s what it feels like now.”

Tears burned hot behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She’d cried enough over this. Over her.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, the ring still pressed hard to her chest. She felt torn down the middle — one part of her screaming to run, to lock the box away and never open it again, to finally move on. The other part — the louder part — clung to the hope that maybe they weren’t finished. That maybe there was still something left worth salvaging.

Her mind circled back to Raven’s voice: You need time with her — real time.

And Octavia’s steady hand: Maybe facing it is better than running.

The cabin. The idea terrified her. Days trapped in close quarters with Lexa, no way to avoid her gaze, her presence, her touch. No way to keep pretending they weren’t still tethered by something neither of them could sever.

It was a recipe for disaster. She could already imagine the arguments, the biting sarcasm, the unbearable tension. She could picture Lexa withdrawing into that quiet, armored shell when she felt cornered, leaving Clarke gasping like she’d been shut out of her own home.

But Clarke could also picture the other possibility. Nights by the firelight, laughter spilling easy again, snow-damp hair and Lexa’s shy smile across the table. The weight of the ring in her hand said maybe — just maybe — they could find their way back to that.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as she tried to steady herself. It’s a mistake, her fear hissed. You’re just setting yourself up to get burned again.

But she clutched the ring tighter, her nails biting into her palm. And what if I don’t go? What if this is my chance — my only chance — to finally figure out if there’s anything left worth saving?

The thought hollowed her out. She imagined skipping it, imagined watching Lexa laugh in the snow with their friends, imagined herself back here, alone, wondering what might have happened if she’d had the courage to face her. The ache of that regret felt sharper than the fear.

So Clarke made the choice, right there in the silence of her dorm room, with the ring pressed to her heart.

She would go.

Even if it was a mistake. Even if it ripped her apart. Because some mistakes were worth making, if they brought her closer to the truth.

She closed her eyes, curling around the band as if it were a talisman, as if she could breathe Lexa back into the space beside her. Her pulse steadied, not with peace, but with resolve.

Whatever waited for her at that cabin — the fire, the ice, the fights, the hope — she would face it.

Because forever had been promised once. And Clarke wasn’t ready to let it go, not yet.

Chapter 8 Chapter Text

Clarke

It had been days since the night Lexa had stormed out of her dorm.
Days since the ring had burned against Clarke’s chest as she drifted to sleep.
Days since she’d let herself check her phone in hopes of seeing Lexa’s name.

And nothing.

No texts. No calls. No late-night “are you awake?” messages the way they used to sneak back into each other’s lives after a fight. Clarke had forced herself not to reach out either — partly because she wasn’t sure what she would even say, and partly because she was afraid of what silence on the other end would mean.

Instead, she carried Lexa in glimpses.

The cafeteria, where Costia’s dark hair stood out across the room, her hands cutting sharp gestures as she and Lexa argued under hushed tones. The library, where Lexa sat alone, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at the same page for minutes at a time. The quad, where whispers chased Clarke’s steps — Did you see the game? Did you see the kiss? Are Lexa and Costia together now?

Everyone seemed to know something, even when Clarke herself didn’t.

Some people spoke of Lexa and Costia like they were inevitable, like they fit together so cleanly it was almost enviable. Others asked Clarke, point-blank, when she and Lexa had broken up — voices hushed but eyes gleaming with the hunger for gossip.

She hated every second of it.

And yet, in the privacy of her own heart, there was a sliver of selfish satisfaction. Every time she saw Lexa and Costia’s heads bent together, it wasn’t tenderness she read there. It was tension. Fighting. Costia’s lips pressed thin, Lexa’s jaw set like stone.

The sight of that friction made Clarke’s stomach flutter, a dizzy relief curling through her chest. They’re breaking. Maybe they’re already broken. The thought was selfish, unkind. But God help her — it made her almost ecstatic.

She tried to push it away, bury it in her work.

The art studio was empty that afternoon, light slanting through tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. Her professor had assigned one last project before winter break: draw something pulled from deep inside yourself. No prompts. No guidelines. Just honesty.

For weeks, Clarke had stared at blank paper, unable to find the image. But now her pencil moved without hesitation, the lines spilling out as if they’d been waiting for her hand. A woman, hugging herself tight, shards of shattered glass surrounding her like a storm.

The face was vague. But Clarke knew. Everyone who looked at it would know. Lexa’s cheekbones, Lexa’s mouth, Lexa’s hair falling over her shoulder.

Her chest ached as she shaded in the broken pieces. Lexa was in everything she touched lately — sketches half-finished in her notebooks, rough outlines in margins, paint strokes gone heavy with memory. She should’ve thrown them out, hidden the evidence. But this one… this one she couldn’t bring herself to destroy.

The sound of footsteps pulled her from her trance.

She looked up, startled, as Finn slipped quietly into the studio. His shoulders were hunched, his face set with an expression she hadn’t seen before — conflict, raw and unguarded.

“Clarke,” he said softly, as if testing the weight of her name.

She straightened in her chair, the pencil still in her hand. “…Hey.”

For a moment, he just stood there, shifting from foot to foot. Then, finally, he crossed the room, his gaze dropping to the sketch before flicking back to her. “Are you… okay?”

Clarke blinked. The question, simple as it was, landed with surprising force. She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Finn rushed on.

“I’m sorry. For that night. For not—” he broke off, running a hand through his hair. “For not standing up to her when she walked in. Your ex. I should’ve said something. But I…” His mouth twisted. “I guess I was waiting for you to say something. To defend me. To… choose me.”

The air thickened between them. Clarke set her pencil down carefully, her pulse quickening.

“Finn,” she started, but he lifted a hand, desperate to get the words out.

“I have to know, Clarke. Him or me. Because from where I’m standing, I’m not the one who’s moved on.” His eyes shone with something that made her chest twist — sincerity, maybe even love. “I’ve been here. Always. Whenever you need me. I thought… I hoped we could be something more. Something real.”

Clarke’s stomach clenched. His words were heavy, earnest, filled with all the things she should have noticed months ago. But instead of comfort, they pressed on her like weight she couldn’t carry.

She looked down, hands moving automatically to close her sketchbook, to pack away her pencils, to escape.

“Finn…” Her voice was quiet, strained. “I can’t do this right now. I’m not ready to—”

“Yes, you are,” he cut in, not harsh but firm. “You can’t keep pretending you don’t have to decide. Not when it’s tearing you apart.”

Clarke froze, her bag halfway zipped. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes meeting his.

“What does this mean to you?” Finn asked, voice low but urgent. “What’s between us, Clarke? Because I know what it means to me. I need to know if I’m wasting my time.”

Her throat tightened. Every part of her wanted to give him the kindness of certainty. To offer him an answer that would end his waiting, his hope.

But she couldn’t. Because the truth was messy and unfinished, tangled up in Lexa’s green eyes and the promise of a ring that still sat in her desk drawer.

“I don’t know,” Clarke admitted finally, her voice raw, her gaze steady on his. “I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know what we mean. But I promise… after the break, I’ll have an answer for you.”

Finn’s jaw tightened, disappointment flickering across his face, but he nodded slowly, as if accepting her words even though they cut.

Clarke exhaled a shaky breath as he turned away, the sound of his footsteps fading.

Alone again, she leaned against the table, her heart pounding.

Her promise echoed in her chest. After the break.

Which meant the cabin. Which meant Lexa. Which meant everything would come to a head whether she was ready or not.

And Clarke wasn’t sure if she was walking toward healing — or straight into the fire.

Clarke shoved the last sketchbook into her bag, the zipper straining as though it could barely contain the weight of everything stuffed inside. Her chest still felt heavy, full of Finn’s words, the echo of his eyes on hers. She needed air, she needed to move, she needed—

She swung the studio door open, nearly colliding with someone rounding the corner.

Clarke froze.

Lexa.

She looked as startled as Clarke felt, green eyes widening before her expression slipped into something guarded. Her hair was loose from its braid, strands tumbling around her face in a way that made her look… ragged. Clothes rumpled, sweatshirt sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms like she’d been pacing or pulling at them. Lexa never looked like this. Not unless something — or someone — had gotten under her skin.

Clarke’s lips twitched despite herself. “You look…” she hesitated, letting her eyes sweep over Lexa’s disheveled state. “Like you just lost a fight with a wind tunnel.”

The corner of Lexa’s mouth curved, surprise flashing briefly in her eyes before she smothered it with amusement. Her voice, low and dry, slipped out easily. “Says the artist whose brushes are sticking out of her bag like some tragic bouquet.”

Clarke blinked, glancing down — and sure enough, a handful of brushes were jutting up like unruly flowers, paint-stained tips catching the hallway light. She huffed, a reluctant laugh breaking through as she shoved them deeper into the bag.

“Touché,” she muttered, her grin betraying her.

For a moment, it was just… them. No biting remarks. No sharp edges. Just the familiar tug of banter that felt like slipping into an old, well-worn sweater.

Lexa’s eyes softened — and then, with a dramatic flourish, she bent slightly at the waist, extending her arm toward Clarke like a knight from some old story. “Allow me to escort you back, Princess. It’s late, and rumor has it the campus streets are filled with peril.”

Clarke stared at her, dumbfounded. Then a bubble of laughter broke free, light and unexpected. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here I am.” Lexa’s smirk deepened, but there was warmth beneath it.

Clarke hesitated for only a heartbeat before slipping her hand through the crook of Lexa’s elbow. The contact was solid, grounding, and something in her chest tightened painfully at how natural it felt.

They started walking. The night air was crisp, the campus quiet, save for the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes and the occasional distant hum of voices.

At first, the silence between them was tentative, as though both were waiting for the other to pull back. But then Clarke muttered something under her breath about Coach Titus being a tyrant, and Lexa laughed — low and genuine, the sound vibrating through Clarke’s arm where they were linked.

“He has me running drills until I can barely stand,” Lexa admitted, shaking her head. “And then he has me doing it all again because apparently perfection is ‘just a word until it’s earned.’” She mimicked Titus’s gruff tone with such precision that Clarke burst into laughter.

“I’d almost feel bad for you,” Clarke teased, eyes glinting, “if you didn’t already have half the campus worshipping at your cleats.”

Lexa’s lips twitched, but her gaze dropped, something softer flickering there. “It’s exhausting. Leading them, keeping them focused. They’re good, but Titus wants them to be great. He doesn’t… let me breathe.”

The vulnerability in her voice caught Clarke off guard. This wasn’t the polished quarterback the campus saw. This was Lexa stripped down, tired, worn, letting the weight of it show.

Clarke’s hand tightened slightly on her arm before she could stop herself. “You’ve carried teams on your shoulders before. You’ll do it again. You always do.”

Lexa glanced at her then, and for a second, Clarke felt the weight of being truly seen. The air between them hummed with the familiar pull.

Clarke broke the gaze first, clearing her throat. “Meanwhile, I’ve been told to ‘dig deep into my soul’ and make it art. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

Lexa’s brow furrowed, curiosity sparking. “And?”

“And…” Clarke exhaled, her laugh tired, self-deprecating. “I drew a woman surrounded by broken glass. Vague enough to pass, melodramatic enough to scream ‘college artist.’”

Something shifted in Lexa’s expression — not pity, but recognition. She didn’t ask who the woman was. She didn’t need to.

“If anyone can turn vague and impossible into something worth looking at, it’s you,” Lexa said softly, sincerely.

Clarke froze, the words threading under her skin, warm and piercing. She searched Lexa’s face, half-expecting to find mockery, but all she saw was quiet certainty. Genuine.

It made her chest ache.

The conversation drifted then, lightening again, winding through campus life, old professors they both still couldn’t stand, the way the dining hall somehow managed to make spaghetti taste like cardboard. Their words rolled effortlessly, overlapping, teasing, familiar.

It felt like old times. Like freshman year, when they used to walk this same path after long nights, her head tilted toward Lexa’s shoulder, laughter spilling freely. It was easy. Natural. Dangerous.

By the time they reached Clarke’s dorm, she almost forgot the heaviness of Finn’s confrontation, the whispers about Costia, the ache of all the things left unsaid.

Almost.

Because when Lexa stopped at her door, the smirk had faded into something quieter, something hesitant. Clarke’s hand lingered on her arm a second too long before she let go.

And as Lexa murmured a soft “Good night,” Clarke wondered how long she could keep pretending that being near Lexa didn’t feel like breathing again.

Lexa lingered in the hallway outside Clarke’s door, hand flexing slightly at her side as though she couldn’t quite decide whether to stay or retreat. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something — good night again, maybe, or nothing at all — but the words never came.

Clarke just watched her. Watched the way emotions rippled across Lexa’s face, unguarded in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. Uncertainty. Tiredness. That soft flicker of want, chased quickly by restraint.

It hit Clarke all at once: Lexa hadn’t walked her here with an agenda. She hadn’t been angling for entry, for contact, for the inevitable spiral they’d found themselves in so many times before. She’d simply wanted to make sure Clarke was safe. To walk beside her like they used to.

And maybe that should have made it easier to let her go.

But Clarke couldn’t. Not when her chest was still humming with the memory of their laughter, not when being with Lexa had felt so normal — dangerously, achingly normal — for the first time in months.

As Lexa finally took a step back, Clarke’s hand shot out before she could think, fingers curling around Lexa’s.

“Wait.”

Lexa stilled. Her eyes flicked down to their joined hands, then back up to Clarke’s face. Uncertainty burned there, sharp and searching.

“Come inside,” Clarke whispered, her voice thinner than she meant it to be. “Please.”

The word hung between them, thick with everything it meant.

Lexa’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. Clarke saw it — the memory passing through her: all the nights behind closed doors, the desperate need, the way they pushed and pulled at each other until neither could breathe. The bruises they left, not just on skin but deeper. How intimacy had blurred into something harsher, more punishing, more about drowning than holding.

Clarke’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t let go. Because this — this moment right now — it felt different. And maybe, selfishly, she wasn’t ready to lose it.

Lexa’s eyes softened, though doubt still lingered there. Her silence stretched long enough that Clarke thought she’d pull away.

But then, slowly, Lexa gave the faintest nod.

Relief hit Clarke so hard she nearly staggered. She squeezed Lexa’s hand once before tugging her gently inside, shutting the door behind them with a quiet click.

The small dorm room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Clarke’s pulse thudded in her ears as she turned to find Lexa standing awkwardly by the door, shoulders tense, like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here.

Clarke’s chest ached. Because for all the fire and chaos between them, for all the times Lexa had commanded space with sheer presence, right now she looked like someone trying not to cross an invisible line.

And maybe for the first time, Clarke realized she had to be the one to decide what this would be.

Lexa hovered by the door like a guest in her own home, posture rigid, hands curling and uncurling at her sides. Clarke’s heart tugged painfully at the sight. How many nights had they done this before — rushed, frantic, needing — and yet tonight Lexa looked… unsure. As though stepping further into the room might break something fragile.

Clarke moved to her slowly, refusing to let the hesitation harden into distance. Her hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from Lexa’s cheek. “Stay,” she whispered, more a plea than a command.

Something in Lexa’s shoulders gave at that, the tension loosening, though her eyes still burned with quiet restraint.

Clarke leaned in, searching, asking without words. Lexa met her halfway, lips brushing in a tentative kiss that trembled with everything unsaid. For a moment it was careful, cautious. But restraint never lasted long between them. The kiss deepened, urgency breaking through like floodwater against a dam.

Clarke tugged her closer, hands fisting in fabric, the familiar spark of heat flaring between them. Lexa pressed forward, one hand cupping Clarke’s face as though she could memorize it in her palm. And then, with a soft exhale, her other hand slipped to her collar.

Clarke barely registered the movement at first — too caught in the heady rhythm of them. She only noticed when Lexa pulled something over her head, the glint of silver flashing in the low light. A necklace, Clarke thought distantly. Lexa always wore them, simple chains or pendants. She didn’t think much of it as Lexa set it carefully on the nightstand, like it was something fragile, something not meant to be jostled in the storm they were creating.

Clarke didn’t realize. Didn’t see. Didn’t recognize the familiar band of silver — the same ring tucked away in the back of her drawer, hidden because she could never throw it out, because it wasn’t just jewelry. It was a promise.

But Lexa knew. And she couldn’t bear to keep it pressed between them tonight, not when Clarke’s touch made her feel both whole and undone. So she set it aside with care, giving it space the way she still didn’t quite know how to give Clarke.

The storm pulled them under again, breathless kisses, wandering hands, clothes tugged away, laughter breaking between the gasps. They moved together with the urgency of two people who had been starving, who had forgotten how to breathe without the other.

But in the quiet after, when the storm ebbed into stillness, Clarke curled into Lexa’s side like she always used to, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of her chest. And Lexa held her, eyes half-closed, her gaze flicking once — just once — to the silver ring glinting on the nightstand.

It sat there silently, a reminder of everything they were, everything they had been, and everything they hadn’t yet found the courage to say.

Clarke didn’t notice. Not tonight. She only knew the warmth of Lexa’s arms, the steady beat beneath her ear, the fragile illusion that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t lost each other completely.

And Lexa let her believe it, tightening her hold, as if she could keep the moment from slipping away.

Chapter 9 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lexa

The first thing Lexa felt was warmth. Clarke’s warmth, pressed against her side, arm draped lazily over her waist like it had always belonged there. It was disorienting, waking to that kind of familiarity after so long. For a moment she let herself stay there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of Clarke’s breathing, letting it soak into her bones.

But the pale gray light leaking through the blinds reminded her what hour it was. Dawn. Too soon, too fragile, too dangerous.

Lexa exhaled slowly and carefully began to disentangle herself. Each shift of her arm, each slow pull of her body away from Clarke’s was measured, deliberate, like disarming a bomb. Clarke murmured something unintelligible, stirring just enough to roll onto her stomach, face buried into the pillow. Lexa froze, waiting, heart hammering.

When Clarke settled again, Lexa finally slipped free of the sheets. The first thing her hand reached for wasn’t her shirt tossed carelessly on the floor, nor her cleats by the door. It was the thin silver chain resting on the nightstand, glinting faintly in the dawn light. She curled it into her palm before looping it back around her neck, the familiar weight of the ring pressing lightly against her chest.

She hadn’t meant to take it off last night, not really. But she couldn’t keep it there between them, not with Clarke’s skin under her hands, not with the memories clawing at her ribs. It had felt too much like a reminder, too much like a promise she wasn’t sure she deserved to hold onto. And yet—she couldn’t let it go either.

Sliding the chain into place, she tugged her shirt over her head, fingers fumbling more than she liked to admit.

The faint rustle was enough to stir Clarke again. Blue eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep, finding Lexa across the room.

“Lex?” Clarke’s voice was thick, heavy with drowsiness.

Lexa froze mid-motion, half bent to grab her socks. Her gaze darted back—and promptly stumbled. The sight was enough to unravel her practiced composure: Clarke propped up on one elbow, sheets fallen to her waist, the long stretch of her bare back glowing in the pale morning light.

Lexa’s throat tightened, heat flooding her chest. For a breath, she forgot how to move, how to speak.

She had to clear her throat before words came, low and rough: “It’s dawn. If I’m not on the field in the next thirty minutes, Titus will send an army to track me down.”

Clarke hummed in reply, a small, sleepy smile tugging at her lips. She snuggled deeper into the mattress, face pressed against the pillow again, utterly unbothered. “Try not to die,” she mumbled.

Lexa’s chest ached with something dangerously close to laughter. It broke out anyway—a quiet chuckle she couldn’t bite back, warmth spilling through her ribcage. Gods, she’d missed this. Missed Clarke like air.

She finished dressing quickly, lacing her cleats with practiced speed. One last glance—Clarke was already drifting back to sleep, golden hair spilling across the pillow like sunlight.

Lexa slipped out, pulling the door shut with the softest click.

The quad was quiet at this hour, dawn barely breaking, the air biting against her skin. She shoved her hands into her pockets, walking fast, trying to outrun the storm in her head.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. When she’d offered to walk Clarke back, she’d meant it—just to make sure Clarke was safe. She hadn’t wanted to go back to her own place, not after Costia’s latest tirade.

Costia.

Lexa’s jaw tightened at the thought. Costia had cornered her the night before, demanding explanations, accusing her of stringing her along, insisting that the rumors weren’t just rumors anymore. That she deserved the spot next to Lexa.

Deserved.

Lexa had turned her down, firmly, repeatedly, but Costia wouldn’t let go. And the whispers circling campus—Costia and Lexa, Costia kissing Lexa, Costia as Lexa’s girlfriend—made Lexa’s skin crawl. It was like no one saw how hard she was trying to shut it down. Like they were content with whatever story made the best gossip.

She’d been bracing for Clarke to throw it in her face, for hostility and barbed words. She hadn’t been ready for the Clarke she got instead. Warm, teasing, soft in a way that left Lexa’s chest aching. Like she was hers again, if only for a few stolen hours.

By the time she reached the locker room, Lexa realized she was smiling. Actually smiling.

The expression faltered only when she caught Anya’s gaze. Her cousin stood near the benches, arms crossed, eyes sharp, taking Lexa in from head to toe.

“What?” Lexa asked, dropping her bag onto the floor.

Anya tilted her head, lips twitching like she already knew too much. “You’re smiling at dawn. That never happens. Not unless you’ve either destroyed someone on the field… or…” she paused, raising a brow. “You’ve been with Clarke.”

Lexa stilled, refusing to take the bait. She busied herself with tugging her practice jersey over her head. “What do you want, Anya?”

Her cousin’s grin sharpened. “I wanted to tell you about the cabin. Raven invited Clarke. And you’re coming too.”

Lexa’s head snapped up. “Clarke’s going?”

“Yeah.” Anya’s tone was casual, but her eyes were all steel. “Regardless of whatever… mess the two of you are in, you’re coming. That’s not a request. Consider it a command.”

Lexa stared, disbelief knotting in her stomach. Clarke had agreed? After everything—after the silence, after the fights, after Costia? “She actually said yes?”

Anya’s grin widened. “Surprised?”

Lexa didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mind was reeling, replaying Clarke’s smile in the dim morning light, the soft “try not to die,” the way it had felt to walk side by side like they used to. And now this—Clarke agreeing to the cabin.

Hope flared, unsteady and dangerous, but she couldn’t smother it.

Before she could say anything else, Titus stormed into the locker room, whistle blaring like a war cry. The entire team groaned in unison, shoulders slumping.

“On the field in five!” Titus barked.

Lexa grabbed her water bottle, still shaken, still smiling despite herself. Clarke was going. She didn’t know what that meant yet. Didn’t know if it would end in fire or salvation.

But for the first time in a long time, she wanted to find out.

The whistle still echoed in Lexa’s ears as she sprinted out onto the field, cleats digging into the damp morning grass. Her team lagged behind, sluggish from the early hour, but Lexa didn’t give them a second to wallow.

“Move it!” she barked, voice sharp and carrying. “If you can’t keep up, you don’t deserve the win streak we’ve been fighting for. Hustle!”

Groans rose from the group, but they picked up the pace. They always did. Lexa’s presence had a way of cutting through excuses. Her good mood—rare, foreign, but impossible to hide—bled into the energy she poured into the drills. She pushed harder, ran faster, barked louder.

“Again,” she commanded after a sloppy play. “Reset. We don’t half-ass it. We run it until it’s right.”

Her tone was iron, her expression unreadable, but inside? She felt almost light. Clarke’s smile from that morning—soft, sleepy, vulnerable—kept flashing behind her eyes. It made her chest ache, made her spine straighten, made her voice carry with renewed force.

When a younger teammate tripped over a pattern in the drill, Lexa was there in an instant, showing him footwork step by step. Her corrections were sharp but not cruel, the kind that made players stand taller instead of shrinking. Titus stood at the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but Lexa could feel his grudging approval.

Hours passed before the whistle blew again, signaling the end. Her muscles burned, sweat drenched her shirt, but her focus hadn’t wavered once. The others stumbled off the field, muttering about night practice, while Lexa lingered.

In the showers, she stood under the spray longer than usual, water pounding against her skin. She braced her hands against the tile, letting the heat loosen her shoulders. No classes today. Which meant time. Which meant a choice.

Her mind flickered back to Lincoln’s words: If you want Clarke back, you have to actually try. No more Costia. Even if Finn’s in the way. You’ve got to fight without losing yourself to anger.

Progress. Was that what last night had been? Clarke’s laugh as they walked. Clarke’s hand pulling her inside. Clarke’s warmth under the sheets. Lexa wanted to believe it was. But she also knew one wrong move could send them spiraling back to venom and silence.

She twisted the water off. Stood there, dripping, heart pounding at the thought of Clarke’s face when she showed up. Would it be open? Hostile? Would Clarke regret letting her in?

By the time she dressed—jeans, hoodie, sneakers instead of cleats—she’d made her decision. Bag packed, ring pressed against her chest beneath the fabric, Lexa headed straight for the art building.

The winter air bit at her skin as she crossed the quad, but the giddy undercurrent in her chest kept her warm. She needed to see Clarke again. To know if last night was a step forward or just another detour toward destruction.

She wasn’t surprised when she saw Finn leaning against the wall by the entrance, arms crossed, posture casual but eyes sharp. He looked like he’d been there a while, waiting. Watching.

The moment he spotted her, he pushed off the wall, his shoulders squaring. Ready.

Lexa stopped in front of him, duffle bag strap tightening in her grip. The mask slid over her face—calm, cool, commander’s armor. Her green eyes raked him up and down, unimpressed.

Finn didn’t waste time. “Why are you here?” His tone was low, clipped, like he was trying not to draw attention. “This isn’t your place anymore.”

Lexa’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk. “It’s an open campus,” she said, voice flat. “If I want to walk through the building and look at the art on display, I can. You don’t own the space.”

His jaw tightened, fists curling at his sides. “Don’t play games. We both know why you’re here. Clarke doesn’t need you showing up, confusing her more than you already have.”

That hit sharper than she expected, but Lexa didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping into something edged. “If Clarke’s confused, that’s for her to decide. Not you.”

Finn stepped forward, closing the gap, his presence bristling with challenge. It would’ve been laughable if it weren’t so raw—his need to stake a claim, to push her back, to be seen as the one who stood by Clarke.

Lexa raised an eyebrow, unbothered, her stance steady. “Are you really going to start a fight? Here? In front of everyone?”

And it was true—students milled about, some heading into the building, others across the quad. Eyes were already glancing their way.

Before Finn could answer, a voice cut in. “Finn!”

Raven.

She and Octavia appeared like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. Raven’s grin was sharp as she slipped an arm through Finn’s and started talking a mile a minute. “Perfect, you’re here! I’ve been looking for you—did you finish that project for physics? Because I swear, if you didn’t—”

Finn sputtered, caught off guard, trying to get a word in, but Raven steamrolled him, dragging him off down the walkway, her voice loud and animated.

Octavia lingered, her eyes locked on Lexa. Arms crossed, jaw set.

She stepped closer, voice low but lethal. “Don’t do anything to upset Clarke. If you do, I’ll find you. And you know I will.”

Lexa blinked at her. Of all people, she hadn’t expected Octavia to intervene on her behalf—or at least, to give her the chance.

Something in her spine straightened. She gave a single, solemn nod. “Understood.”

Octavia studied her for a long beat, then finally stepped aside, trailing after Raven and Finn.

Lexa exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back, the adrenaline humming beneath her skin. Her pulse still hammered, not from fear, not from Finn’s bluster, but from the weight of what it meant—that Clarke’s friends weren’t shutting her out. Not entirely. Maybe they still believed in her.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, squared herself, and finally walked into the building.

Straight toward Clarke.

Lexa spotted her the moment she stepped into the studio.

The building was nearly silent, the air filled with the faint smell of graphite and turpentine. A few sketchpads were scattered across tables, but only one lamp was lit near the back corner, its warm glow cutting through the winter-gray light. Clarke sat beneath it, hunched forward with her hair falling loose over her shoulders, so intent on her work that she didn’t notice Lexa at all.

Lexa slowed her steps instinctively, not wanting to break the spell. She had always admired the way Clarke could lose herself completely when she was drawing or painting. The world could be burning down around her and Clarke would still be there, pencil moving with that sharp, graceful precision, capturing something no one else could see.

Lexa drifted closer, her shadow stretching long across the table. She tilted her head to get a better look at the page.

And froze.

It wasn’t some vague figure or faceless muse. It was her.

Not perfectly rendered, but unmistakable—Lexa’s profile, her sharp jaw, the slope of her nose, the tension she carried in her shoulders. But the version of her on the page was fractured, surrounded by jagged shards of glass, arms folded tightly across her chest like she was holding herself together. The lines were raw, emotional, almost violent in their honesty.

Lexa’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected to see herself sketched out of Clarke’s heartache.

She leaned closer, voice slipping low, dark, the way it sometimes did when she wanted to cover her nerves. “Careful, Griffin. Your edginess is showing.”

The words made Clarke jolt in her seat, pencil slipping from her fingers and rolling across the desk. She whipped around, blue eyes wide, breath catching when they landed on green.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispered, surprise breaking across her face like a flash of light.

Lexa smirked, straightening slowly, though her pulse was hammering in her throat. “I expected more sun in your work. Something brighter. Cheerful. Maybe flowers. Not…” Her eyes flicked deliberately back to the sketch. “This.”

Clarke’s lips quirked into the smallest smile, mischief glinting in her gaze despite the tension. “It’s supposed to reflect the deepest parts of me. And apparently… that’s edginess.”

Lexa pressed a hand against her chest in mock horror. “Clarke Griffin? Dark and brooding? No. I never would’ve guessed.”

Clarke let out a soft laugh—quick, but real. Lexa’s stomach flipped with the sound, so familiar and yet something she hadn’t heard directed at her in too long.

But then Clarke turned back, set her pencil carefully on the desk, and really looked at her. Her laughter faded into something quieter, sharper. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion rising in place of warmth.

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asked, her voice steady but low. “You haven’t stepped foot in this building since…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The memory hung between them, raw and heavy—the fight, the disappointment, the missed dinner that had split them wider apart than either of them had intended.

Lexa shifted, rolling one shoulder in a shrug that looked casual but felt anything but. “Wondering if you were hungry,” she said. “Thought maybe we could get lunch.”

Clarke’s jaw tightened. The question Lexa had been waiting for came sharp and unhesitating. “What about Costia?”

Lexa had braced for the ache. For the familiar pang in her chest. For her own sharp tongue to snap back with Finn’s name like it always did. But none of it came. Not today. Not after the night they’d just shared. Not after the way Clarke had laughed again.

“I don’t know,” Lexa admitted, her voice quieter than before, stripped of its edge. “I just… want to eat with you. If you’re willing.”

The silence stretched. Clarke’s eyes stayed on her, searching, weighing, clearly waiting for the trap. For the jab. For the hostility that always seemed to sneak in between them.

Lexa held herself still. For once, she didn’t want to win a fight. She just wanted Clarke.

Finally, Clarke sighed, the sound like a soft release of pressure, and began to gather her supplies. Pencils slid neatly into their case. Sketchpads stacked in careful order. She moved deliberately, buying herself time.

When she finally spoke, her tone carried the lightest trace of teasing. “Well… if it’s free food, I guess I wouldn’t turn down the offer.”

Lexa’s grin broke instantly, uncontrollable. A spark of triumph—small but heady—lit her chest. Clarke was saying yes. She was saying yes.

Before Lexa could say anything else, Clarke turned back, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her expression shifting. The mischief had dimmed, replaced by something darker, heavier.

“Order in,” Clarke said. Her voice left no room for argument. “We’re going back to your dorm.”

Lexa stilled, pulse quickening, the breath in her lungs catching. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected Clarke to meet her halfway, to choose her, even in this small, loaded way.

It wasn’t just lunch anymore.

And gods help her, Lexa wanted to see where it would go.

The hallway felt smaller with Clarke beside her.

Lexa adjusted the strap of her duffel bag across her shoulder, her other hand flexing at her side. Every time their arms swung just close enough to brush, her fingers tingled like a live wire had sparked against her skin. She told herself to keep her pace steady, to not stumble into the rhythm of something so dangerous, but the more she tried, the more aware she became of Clarke’s presence—her scent, her warmth, the sound of her steady breaths.

It felt… familiar. Painfully so.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t hostile this time; it wasn’t the silence of avoidance or of words too sharp to risk saying aloud. No, this silence was heavy with a different kind of tension. One that hummed between them, drawing them closer.

Lexa was the first to break it. She glanced at Clarke, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You know,” she said, tone light, “I always suspected you had a dark side. But sketching me shattered into pieces? That’s dramatic, even for you.”

Clarke’s lips twitched. “I told you—it’s supposed to reflect the deepest parts of me.”

“Which, apparently, is me falling apart?” Lexa teased, though her chest tightened as she said it.

Clarke shot her a sideways glance, blue eyes sparking with mischief. “If the shoe fits.”

Lexa huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Careful, Griffin. You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

Clarke’s smirk widened, and the sight of it—it was too much like old times. Before the fights. Before the bruises they left on each other’s hearts. For a moment, Lexa let herself forget, let herself soak in the way Clarke’s smile lit up her entire face.

They fell into easy banter after that, conversations rolling off their tongues like they used to. Clarke ribbed Lexa about how seriously she took practice, asking if she ever actually smiled when she was running the team into the ground. Lexa shot back that her players smiled plenty—when they survived the drills. Clarke told her she sounded like a tyrant, and Lexa quipped that tyrants at least got results. Clarke called her insufferable, and Lexa only smirked harder.

Each playful exchange loosened something tight in Lexa’s chest. With every step, the weight she carried seemed to shift, replaced by the pull of the girl walking beside her.

Their hands brushed again, light and fleeting. This time, neither of them pulled away.

Lexa stole a glance at Clarke, only to find Clarke already looking at her. The heat in Clarke’s gaze hit her like a blow—sharp, undeniable, dangerous. It was hunger, plain and simple, and it stole the breath from Lexa’s lungs.

Lexa’s own eyes must have mirrored it, because Clarke’s lips parted slightly, her stride slowing as if the gravity between them had tugged her back. Lexa swallowed hard, pulse hammering, telling herself not to lose control. Not here. Not in the middle of the quad where anyone could see.

Clarke’s voice came softer this time, the teasing lilt fading into something quieter. “Raven and Octavia were talking about this cabin trip,” she said.

The words jolted Lexa back into herself, if only for a second. She masked the sudden rush of nerves with a shrug. “Yeah. Anya already informed me I don’t get a choice in the matter.”

Clarke’s brow arched, curiosity mingling with something more cautious. “And you’re… okay with that?”

Lexa hesitated, then forced herself to nod. “More than okay.” Her voice dropped lower, honest in a way that made her stomach twist. “Especially if you’ll be there.”

Clarke didn’t answer right away. She just looked at her—really looked—and Lexa wondered if Clarke could see how hard she was fighting to keep her walls steady. To not show how much she needed her.

Finally, Clarke hummed, a small, almost amused sound, and shook her head. “You always know how to make things complicated.”

Lexa’s lips curved. “Takes one to know one.”

That earned her another soft laugh, and Lexa clung to it like a lifeline.

By the time they reached her dorm, the air between them had thickened. The easy banter was still there, but beneath it ran a current of charged silence, an expectation neither one of them needed to name. Lexa fumbled with her keys longer than she should have, aware of Clarke standing close enough that her arm brushed against Lexa’s shoulder. The nearness made her head spin.

She pushed the door open finally, holding it for Clarke. Clarke stepped inside without hesitation, her eyes scanning the room once before landing back on Lexa.

The look she gave her… it wasn’t playful anymore. It wasn’t teasing. It was sharp, hungry, a look that promised something neither of them could keep contained much longer.

Lexa’s breath caught in her throat. Because she knew she was looking at Clarke the exact same way.

They hadn’t talked. They hadn’t mended the wounds. They hadn’t even touched the truth of everything festering between them.

But Lexa knew they would. At the cabin, surrounded by their friends, when the pressure became too much to ignore, the conversation would come.

For now, though—for this one sliver of time before the heartbreak, before the truth, before the storm—they both wanted the same thing.

To cling to what they had.

And Lexa couldn’t stop herself from wanting it too.

The dorm door clicked shut, sealing them into a silence so thick it hummed in Lexa’s ears. Lexa’s dorm room wasn’t big, but right then it felt infinite—an entire universe carved out of four walls, holding only the two of them.

Lexa hadn’t expected this. She thought she’d walk Clarke back, make sure she got in safely, maybe linger a minute at the door before retreating into her own restless thoughts. But then Clarke had looked at her with that soft, fierce light in her eyes, had asked her in, and suddenly Lexa’s world had tipped sideways.

Now Clarke was standing in front of her, hair tumbling over her shoulders, blue eyes alight with something that made Lexa’s chest tighten and her body move before her mind could catch up.

Clarke’s hand slid into hers, fingers warm and insistent, tugging her closer until there was no space left between them. Lexa’s breath caught. For a suspended heartbeat, they simply looked at each other—like they could memorize every detail, every shift of expression.

And then Clarke leaned in, and Lexa met her halfway.

The kiss ignited, immediate and consuming. Lexa’s hands framed Clarke’s face, desperate to keep her close, while Clarke clutched at her shirt, pulling her toward the bed as if letting go wasn’t an option. The back of Lexa’s knees hit the mattress, and they tumbled together, laughter and heat tangling in the same breath.

It was chaotic, unplanned, reckless—like every moment between them had always been.

“God, Lexa,” Clarke whispered against her lips, and the sound nearly undid her.

Lexa pressed her forehead against Clarke’s, struggling to breathe, her pulse racing. And that was when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They froze. Clarke’s eyes went wide for a second before dissolving into laughter, bright and unrestrained.

“Don’t tell me,” Clarke managed between giggles, dropping back against the pillows, “that’s the food you ordered before this started?”

Lexa swore, dragging herself upright and searching for something—anything—to throw on. She shot Clarke a look that was half-glare, half-surrender, but Clarke only laughed harder, burying her face in her pillow.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Lexa yanked on a shirt, tugging it down over her still-flushed skin, and stalked to the door with her duffle bag still half-open on the floor. She cracked it open just enough to snatch the bag from the delivery boy, muttering a quick, breathless “thanks” before slamming it shut again.

When she turned back, Clarke was upright now, hair mussed, cheeks pink, one hand covering her mouth as she tried to contain her laughter. Her eyes, though—those sharp blue eyes—were glowing with mischief, with fondness, with something softer that Lexa felt all the way in her chest.

“You,” Clarke teased, shaking her head, “are ridiculous.”

Lexa growled low in her throat, a sound that made Clarke’s laughter spill over again. She set the food on the desk, forgotten, before crossing the room in long strides and climbing back onto the bed.

“Keep laughing,” she murmured, her voice a dangerous sort of amusement, “and see what happens.”

Clarke’s grin was wicked as she leaned back, eyes never leaving Lexa’s. “Oh, I’m terrified.”

Lexa’s lips curved in answer, because this—this teasing, this fire, this push and pull—was them. It had always been them.

Her hands found Clarke again, and the laughter blurred into breathless sounds, into closeness, into something far deeper than either of them had planned. The food sat forgotten on the desk, cooling by the minute. The world outside Lexa’s door faded, until there was nothing left but warmth, skin, and the sound of their names on each other’s lips.

Lexa wasn’t sure when the laughter gave way to quiet. She wasn’t sure when Clarke’s teasing turned into something softer, gentler. All she knew was that she wanted to memorize it—the way Clarke looked at her with eyes full of fire and affection, the way her touch felt like both a promise and a plea.

Because she knew, deep down, that this couldn’t last forever. That the storm was still out there, waiting.

But for tonight—for just this night—they could let themselves forget.

And so they did.

Clarke’s laughter had faded hours ago, swallowed up in kisses and whispers, in that desperate urgency that always seemed to catch fire between them. Now the room was quiet, dim, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and Clarke’s breathing against Lexa’s chest.

Clarke was asleep. Finally.

Lexa lay on her back, one arm curled around her, the other free to drift. She let her fingers trace slow, careful paths up and down Clarke’s spine, memorizing the rise and fall, the warmth of her skin. She couldn’t seem to stop. It grounded her, tethered her to the fact that Clarke was here, in her arms, choosing to stay.

It was different tonight. Lexa could feel it in her bones.

There had been no sharp edges once the laughter had died down. No sniping, no bitterness wrapped in touch. Clarke hadn’t pushed at her like before, hadn’t tried to drown her hurt in fire. Instead, she had softened. She had looked at Lexa like she wanted to remember her, not punish her.

And Lexa… Lexa hadn’t known how badly she needed that.

Her eyes drifted to the ring hanging against her sternum, cool against her skin. She’d taken it off during the chaos, set it carefully on the nightstand, and then slipped it back on as Clarke’s breathing slowed into sleep.

That was when she’d noticed it—Clarke’s gaze falling there.

At first, Clarke hadn’t registered it. It must have looked like just another necklace, one of the simple chains Lexa often wore. But then Clarke’s eyes had narrowed slightly, then widened, the pieces clicking into place.

Lexa had braced for questions. For anger. For that sharp tongue Clarke could wield like a weapon.

But none of that came.

Instead, Clarke’s touch had gentled. Her fingers had smoothed over Lexa’s jaw like a promise, her lips brushing over Lexa’s temple with reverence. Her eyes—God, those eyes—had softened until Lexa thought she might break under the weight of it.

It had felt like love.

Not desperation. Not possession. Not the reckless need that had defined so much of what they’d been lately. Just… love. Quiet and undeniable.

Now, with Clarke asleep, Lexa let herself breathe it in. The way Clarke’s hair tickled her collarbone. The way her lips parted just slightly, a soft sigh escaping every so often. The weight of her arm draped over Lexa’s stomach, anchoring her in place.

Lexa memorized it. Every single detail.

Because she didn’t know how many more nights like this they would get.

Her chest ached with the thought. She wanted to believe this was the start of something better—that maybe, finally, they could find their way back to each other. But fear gnawed at her too. The fear of promises broken, of mistakes repeating themselves, of losing Clarke all over again and not surviving it a second time.

So she held her tighter, let her fingers keep tracing those soothing lines along her back, and tried to quiet the storm inside her long enough to match the rhythm of Clarke’s breathing.

The ring pressed against her chest, a reminder of a promise made years ago. A reminder that, despite everything, neither of them had truly let go.

Lexa closed her eyes.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

Notes:

Hey guys! I have been trying to avoid writing an authors note. Wanting you all to just enjoy the story without me randomly saying stuff in the notes. At least not until the last chapter but I figured I would explain something here because I have this small fear that some people are wondering what the cheating tag is about it, technically, they aren't cheating. Well. I consider what Clarke and Lexa are doing with Costia and Finn cheating. Using someone as a way for emotional stability or to get another person jealous, is a form of cheating in my mind. That's all.

Chapter 10 Chapter Text

Clarke

Clarke woke slowly, the way you do when there’s no alarm pulling you out of sleep, no pressing obligations clawing you into the day. Just warmth.

Warmth, and the steady rhythm of another’s breathing beneath her cheek.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She didn’t even open her eyes. She simply lay there, curled into the curve of Lexa’s body, the faint scent of her shampoo still clinging to the sheets, Lexa’s arm draped heavy and protective around her waist.

Her lips tugged into a smile before she could stop herself.

It felt like a dream.

Last night, she’d gone to bed convinced she’d wake up alone—that Lexa would slip away like she always did, leaving Clarke to chase memories instead of moments. But when she stirred in the early hours and found Lexa still there, wrapped around her like she belonged, Clarke had dared to believe it. To believe that maybe things could be different.

She hummed softly, burrowing deeper into Lexa’s chest, eyes still closed. No part of her wanted to move. Not yet.

Her mind drifted back to the night before, to the chaos and the laughter, to the food spread across the bed between them, paper cartons rustling against the sheets. Chinese takeout. Lexa had ordered enough to feed a whole team, and Clarke had teased her mercilessly until Lexa smirked and pointed out that Clarke had eaten half the dumplings without hesitation.

They’d sat cross-legged, shoulder to shoulder, bare skin brushing bare skin, sharing noodles and spring rolls and quiet jokes. No defenses. No battles. Just… them. It had felt like old times, when being together had been easy. Before it all got complicated. Before heartbreak carved its jagged edge between them.

Clarke’s smile softened at the memory. God, she’d missed this. Not just Lexa’s touch, but her presence. The quiet safety of being with her, even in the silence between words.

Her hand moved almost of its own accord, slipping across Lexa’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breaths. She let her fingers wander upward, tracing lazy paths along firm muscle and smooth skin, until they found it.

The chain.

The ring.

Clarke’s breath caught, though she kept her eyes closed. She rolled it between her fingers, just to be sure. Cool, familiar metal, the tiny indentation of the engraving she knew by heart.

Not a dream.

Lexa had reached for it last night, Clarke remembered now. She’d been half-asleep, too drowsy to comment, but not enough to miss it entirely. The way Lexa’s hand had fumbled on the nightstand, the quick, almost guilty way she’d slipped it back over her head before finally curling into Clarke’s arms.

It was the same ring Clarke had hidden away in her drawer, the twin to her own. A promise made when they were young and reckless and so sure of forever.

Lexa still wore hers.

Clarke cracked her eyes open, just enough to glance down at it. The sight of it resting there, pressed against Lexa’s chest like a secret talisman, sent a warmth unfurling through her—deep and bone-deep.

Of course Lexa would be the one still carrying this. Of course she would wear her heart on her sleeve in the quietest, most stubborn way possible.

Clarke let the ring fall back against her skin and trailed her fingers higher, over Lexa’s collarbone, sketching invisible shapes against her. Her lips brushed Lexa’s jaw in a soft kiss, then another, then one against the strong line of her shoulder.

Lexa stirred, groaning faintly, her arm tightening around Clarke’s waist.

Clarke smiled, leaning closer. “Lex,” she whispered, voice gentle, coaxing. “Wake up.”

It took a moment, but then green eyes blinked open, bleary and unfocused. Lexa squinted at her, then broke into the kind of slow, lopsided smile that Clarke rarely got to see anymore. Soft, unguarded, utterly disarming.

Clarke’s heart skipped painfully.

God help her, she was doomed.

“Morning,” Lexa rasped, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” Clarke echoed. She pressed one last kiss to her jaw, then sighed, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “We should get up.”

Lexa groaned again, a sound halfway between protest and resignation, burying her face briefly against Clarke’s neck before rolling onto her back. Clarke followed, propping herself up on one elbow, watching her with something that felt dangerously close to fondness.

“The cabin trip’s tomorrow,” Clarke reminded her softly. “If we don’t get moving, our friends are going to wonder why we’re both too distracted to pack.”

Lexa blinked up at her, eyes still hazy, but her smile lingered. “Let them wonder.”

Clarke laughed, shaking her head. But she didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out and smoothed a lock of hair from Lexa’s forehead, committing the moment to memory.

She didn’t bring up the ring. She didn’t ask, didn’t demand explanations she wasn’t ready to hear. That conversation—they both knew it was waiting for them at the cabin. Out in the cold, with nowhere to hide.

But not here. Not now.

Here, in this quiet morning, Clarke let herself believe.

Even if it hurt later.

Clarke dressed slowly, slower than she should have.

Every time she reached for a shirt or tugged on her jeans, she felt Lexa’s eyes on her. Watching, but not in the sharp, cutting way she used to. No, this was different—quiet, softened, almost reverent. And when Clarke risked a glance up, she found Lexa already looking, gaze lingering like she was memorizing every part of this ordinary moment.

Clarke felt her stomach twist, warmth rising in her chest. Lexa wasn’t the only one caught in it either. Clarke noticed the hitch in Lexa’s movements, the way her hands hesitated as she pulled her shirt over her head, the way her fingers brushed Clarke’s wrist when they both reached for her bag strap.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Charged. Like there was too much unsaid and not enough courage yet to say it.

At the door, Clarke lingered. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, her hand resting on the knob, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn it. Not yet. Not when Lexa was standing there, a few feet away, her whole body taut like she was bracing for a goodbye she didn’t want. Her hands twitched at her sides like they wanted to reach for Clarke but didn’t dare.

The sight made Clarke ache.

So she stepped forward, closing the space, and pressed a soft kiss to Lexa’s lips. Nothing frantic or desperate like last night. Just quiet. Grounding. A promise.

“We’ll talk,” Clarke whispered when she pulled back. “At the cabin.”

Lexa’s throat worked as she nodded, her eyes sad, shining with something Clarke couldn’t name. It took every ounce of strength Clarke had to step away, to leave the weight of Lexa’s gaze behind as the door clicked shut.

In her own room, Clarke kept herself busy with packing. Folding clothes. Rolling socks. Tucking toiletries into their place. Routine steadied her, at least a little. But when she opened the bottom drawer, her hands froze.

There it was.

Her ring.

The match to the one she’d felt pressed against Lexa’s chest last night.

Clarke picked it up, rolling it between her fingers. The metal was cool, the engraving still there, faint but unbroken. Her heart thudded painfully.

She knew the truth: this trip would decide everything. Either she’d return with the ring on her finger again, or she wouldn’t bring it back at all.

With a steadying breath, she slipped it into her bag.

The art building buzzed with movement when Clarke arrived to turn in her project. Students carried canvases and sketchbooks, laughter and complaints echoing down the halls. Clarke felt a swell of pride as she laid her piece down—a portrait fractured in broken glass, Lexa’s face caught in the shards. Raw. Honest. Too honest, maybe.

When she stepped into the hallway, Raven and Octavia were waiting. Raven leaned against the wall with a smirk, Octavia crossed her arms with that sharp, protective stare Clarke knew too well.

“So,” Raven started, eyes glinting, “are you gonna tell us what happened, or should we pull it out of you like a bad tooth?”

Clarke blinked, thrown off. “What are you talking about?”

Raven raised her brows. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We saw Finn storm off yesterday, looking like he was ready to murder someone. And Lexa walking in right after? Yeah, it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

Octavia cut in, voice edged. “What I want to know is if Lexa hurt you.”

Clarke shook her head quickly. “No. Nothing bad happened.”

But Raven wasn’t finished. She leaned closer, her smirk widening. “Actually, nothing bad happened because we made sure of it. Do you know we had to drag Finn away from her? He looked like he was actually about to hit Lexa. Like, fist clenched, teeth gritted—full-on ready to throw down. If we hadn’t stepped in, it would’ve been a show.”

Clarke’s breath caught. Her eyes widened. “What?”

Octavia nodded grimly. “He was about two seconds away from doing something really stupid. And as much as I don’t love Lexa… I wasn’t about to let that go down in the middle of campus. For your sake.”

Clarke stared at them, surprise twisting in her chest. The image of Finn squaring off with Lexa burned in her mind—Lexa, standing unflinching like she always did, Finn wound up and ready to swing. A shiver ran through her.

Raven clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension. “Anyway. That’s not the point. The point is: Lexa walked in, Finn stormed off, and you…” she gestured to Clarke’s face, “look a little too soft around the edges for nothing to have happened.”

Clarke hesitated, heat rising in her cheeks. Finally, she let out a slow breath. “It was… good,” she admitted. “Like we were us again.”

Raven grinned instantly, triumphant. “Knew it.”

Octavia didn’t look as quick to celebrate, her arms tightening across her chest. “But you didn’t talk, did you?”

Clarke shook her head. “No. Not yet. We made a promise, though. At the cabin. We’ll talk. About everything.”

Raven sighed dramatically. “About time.”

Octavia’s gaze softened, though her warning tone stayed. “Clarke… be ready for it to get ugly. She’s probably carrying just as much anger as you are.”

Clarke nodded slowly, her hand brushing the side of her bag where the ring rested. “I know. But we need it. I can’t keep doing this halfway. Either we figure it out… or we let it go.”

Her voice caught, but she forced herself to hold their gazes.

And even as fear coiled in her stomach, beneath it all, there was still that stubborn warmth—what she’d felt in Lexa’s arms last night. The part of her that whispered maybe, just maybe, there was a way back.

The walk across campus with Raven and Octavia felt like slipping into an old rhythm Clarke had nearly forgotten.

Raven had one arm linked with Clarke’s, the other draped lazily over Octavia’s shoulder as she launched into some grand pitch about how their girls-only sleepover was going to be the perfect sendoff before the cabin trip. Snacks, movies, too much caffeine, and a ridiculous amount of nail polish that Clarke already knew Raven would insist on pulling out at some point. Octavia egged her on, grinning at the idea of pillow fights and junk food feasts.

Clarke laughed with them, the easy sound bubbling out of her chest, and for a moment she allowed herself to feel light. Normal.

But the ease faltered when she noticed three figures walking across the quad ahead of them.

Lexa.

Lexa beside Anya and Lincoln.

Raven spotted them first, her arm slipping free of Clarke’s as she lifted her hand high. “Hey!” she called out, her voice bright and unmistakable.

Octavia followed, waving both arms like a flag. “Over here!”

Clarke’s stomach swooped, her laugh catching. Lexa’s eyes found hers instantly across the distance, and Clarke could see the subtle shift in her expression. That flash of nerves. The hesitation in her step.

Clarke almost smiled at it. Because she understood. She felt the same.

Still, with Raven and Octavia’s summons impossible to ignore, Anya, Lexa, and Lincoln altered their path toward them.

Anya’s grin was sharp and playful before she even spoke, her gaze flicking knowingly between Clarke and Lexa.

“So,” she drawled, her tone thick with teasing, “you’re the reason the Commander skipped night practice. Titus nearly lost his damn mind. She’s lucky I lied my ass off for her.”

Clarke froze. Her head snapped toward Lexa, eyes wide.

Lexa skipped practice?

That wasn’t possible. Not when they were together. Not when they weren’t. Lexa never skipped.

But before Clarke could say a word, Lexa’s elbow shot into Anya’s ribs. Anya gave a dramatic grunt, doubling slightly before straightening with laughter still written across her face.

Raven leaned closer to her girlfriend, shaking her head with a chuckle. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, babe.”

“Worth it,” Anya shot back with a crooked grin, though she rubbed her side for emphasis.

Clarke’s lips curved into a smirk despite herself, warmth pooling somewhere in her chest at the realization. Lexa skipped—for her. The thought made her soften in ways she didn’t want to admit.

“Well,” Clarke said lightly, eyes narrowing in mock challenge, “I guess I just know how to convince the Commander into doing something she shouldn’t. Maybe I’ll give Raven some tips. Then you’ll be the one who has to lie for her next time.”

Raven threw her head back and cackled, her laugh ringing across the quad. “God, yes! I want to see that.” She nudged Anya’s side, teasing. “You’d fold in a second if I batted my eyes at you.”

Anya shot her a mock glare but didn’t deny it, which only made Raven laugh harder.

Lincoln huffed a laugh too, shaking his head at the lot of them, but his eyes were steady, always watching.

Octavia cut in before the teasing could spiral further. “So what time are we leaving tomorrow?”

“Before dawn,” Anya answered smoothly, her grin too smug for Clarke’s liking.

The collective groan that came from Clarke, Raven, and Octavia was loud enough to draw curious looks from passersby. Clarke pressed her palm against her forehead dramatically, while Raven muttered about football players being obsessed with the sun.

Anya leaned down toward Raven with a sly smirk, her voice low but loud enough for all of them to hear. “Maybe the three of us should stay with you girls tonight. Just to make sure you wake up on time.”

Clarke’s whole body tensed. She could practically see the train of thought barreling toward disaster.

Before Clarke could cut it off, Octavia clapped her hands together. “Yes! That’ll be fun!” She reached out and grabbed Lincoln’s arm, eyes sparkling up at him. “Right, babe?”

Clarke nearly choked. Six people. In her dorm room. Tonight.

Even Lincoln looked uncertain, glancing between Octavia and the others, but she leaned in, whispering something softly that made his lips twitch despite himself. He sighed, resigned, and nodded. “Fine. I’ll grab beers.”

Raven whooped loudly, looping her arm tighter around Anya’s waist. “Now we’re talking!”

Clarke’s head was spinning.

Her gaze slid to Lexa almost against her will.

Lexa’s shoulders were taut, her expression closed, but when her eyes met Clarke’s, something shifted. Slowly, her mouth softened into a real smile—not her mask, not her shield. A true, quiet smile.

And Clarke felt her chest squeeze.

Because even with all the reasons this was a terrible idea, that smile unraveled her.

Anya clapped her hands once, finalizing things. “Eight then. After practice. And don’t worry, Clarke—I’m not covering for her again. Two days in a row? Even Titus isn’t dumb enough to buy that.”

Lexa muttered something under her breath that Clarke couldn’t catch, but she was only half listening anyway.

Because in that moment, with Raven leaning against Anya and laughing, Octavia tugging Lincoln closer, and Lexa smiling at her like she was the only one who mattered—Clarke let herself forget.

Forget the sharp edges waiting in their future. Forget the unanswered questions. Forget the promise of hard conversations.

For now, she just let herself feel the warmth of being in this space, with these people, and with Lexa’s eyes steady on hers.

And maybe—for tonight—that was enough.

Clarke’s dorm room was already buzzing with warmth and noise before the three football players even arrived.

Raven sprawled across Clarke’s bed, one leg crossed dramatically over the other, her hands busy painting Octavia’s nails in some obnoxiously glittery shade of blue. Clarke sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, a tiny bottle of crimson polish in hand as she carefully applied it to Raven’s toes.

They were laughing so hard their stomachs hurt, trading insults about Raven’s “sloppy-ass brush control” and Octavia’s “impossibly steady hands, like a goddamn surgeon.” Clarke couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like this—open, loud, unrestrained.

The clock read 7:59 when Clarke capped the nail polish, and before she could even stretch out her legs, there was a firm knock on the door.

“I got it!” Raven hollered, springing up with a clumsy leap that smudged half the work Clarke had just done on her toes. Clarke rolled her eyes and swore under her breath, but she was smiling all the same.

Raven yanked the door open dramatically.

There they were.

Lexa, Lincoln, and Anya. Lincoln had a case of beer balanced against his hip, Lexa with another clutched in one hand, her other hand shoved into her pocket.

“Right on time,” Raven grinned before leaning in and tugging Anya by the shirt for a kiss.

“Gross,” Octavia groaned automatically, though her eyes sparkled as she sauntered right past Raven to reach for Lincoln. “Hi, you,” she murmured, pulling him down for her own kiss.

Lincoln chuckled, steady as ever, letting her claim him without hesitation.

Lexa slipped inside quietly, setting her case of beer down on Clarke’s coffee table with a solid thud. When she turned, her eyes found Clarke instantly. That soft, unguarded smile flickered across her lips, so subtle Clarke almost thought she imagined it.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t reach for each other like the others.

And Clarke could feel the others noticing. But no one called them out. No one teased.

It was understood, unspoken—that whatever Lexa and Clarke were doing behind closed doors, it wasn’t ready for center stage. And for tonight, their friends seemed content to let them play their quiet game.

“Beer?” Lexa asked simply, holding one out to Clarke.

Clarke accepted, brushing Lexa’s fingers as she did, the faintest spark running through her.

Raven, now settled happily across Anya’s lap, clapped her hands together. “Okay. Game night. And I brought the only game that actually matters.” She slammed the black box of Cards Against Humanity on the table like it was a royal decree.

“God help us,” Lincoln muttered, setting beers out.

They piled into Clarke’s room, squeezing onto the bed, floor, and couch. The cramped space only amplified the energy—knees knocking together, shoulders brushing, laughter spilling out so easily Clarke swore the walls themselves were shaking.

Cards Against Humanity was chaos incarnate.

Anya played with merciless precision, eyes gleaming every time she dropped down a card that made Raven wheeze with laughter.

Octavia was worse—grinning like a devil every time she made Lincoln read something filthy out loud.

Clarke swore her stomach hurt from laughing when Lincoln, deadpan as ever, had to solemnly announce: “A romantic candlelit dinner would be incomplete without… Batman’s smoldering gaze.”

Lexa sat close. Close enough Clarke could feel the warmth of her knee against her thigh. Close enough that when Clarke reached to grab a card from the table, her hand brushed against Lexa’s, neither of them pulling back quickly.

And every time Clarke glanced sideways, Lexa’s profile was soft. Relaxed. Her lips curled into the smallest half-smiles that Clarke knew weren’t for the group—they were for her.

When Cards Against Humanity finally dissolved into too much shouting and groaning at terrible puns, Raven pulled out another game: charades.

“Team Raven and Anya versus everyone else,” Raven declared boldly, already dragging Anya to the center of the room.

“That’s not how charades works,” Octavia groaned, but she was grinning too wide to really fight it.

It was ridiculous. Lincoln miming out “Titanic” with both arms spread wide while Octavia clung to his side, nearly crying from laughter. Raven flailing wildly until Anya calmly guessed “octopus on a trampoline” without missing a beat. Clarke doubled over on the bed, her head nearly hitting Lexa’s shoulder, as Anya mimed “yoga” but looked more like she was trying to summon the spirits of the dead.

Then came Pictionary. Raven insisted Clarke wasn’t allowed to be on anyone’s team but hers.

“You’re an artist, it’s basically cheating,” Anya accused, pointing her marker like a weapon at Clarke.

Clarke feigned innocence, her eyes wide. “I don’t control how my brain works.”

“Cheating,” Anya repeated firmly.

“Oh, please,” Clarke shot back, biting back a grin. “Don’t be jealous just because you draw stick figures that look like potatoes.”

The room erupted in laughter. Raven nearly spilled her beer on Anya’s lap as she cackled, Octavia clapping like Clarke had just scored a touchdown.

Anya narrowed her eyes, but there was amusement in it. “Alright. You and me. Next round, Clarke. I’ll destroy you.”

“Bring it,” Clarke fired back, her cheeks aching from smiling.

Through it all—beer bottles clinking, laughter echoing, the hum of easy camaraderie filling the room—Lexa lingered near Clarke.

Never demanding. Never too close. Just… there. A steady presence, her hand brushing Clarke’s thigh under the table once, her arm pressing lightly against Clarke’s when she leaned forward to watch a drawing take shape.

It was subtle, almost invisible. But Clarke felt it. Every shift, every ghost of a touch.

And for the first time in a long time, Clarke realized—the six of them together felt… right.

Like they’d finally found their rhythm again.

The hours slipped away in Clarke’s dorm without any of them noticing. Empty bottles and discarded bottle caps littered the table, Raven’s glitter nail polish was half knocked over, and someone (probably Octavia) had spilled chips on the rug without bothering to clean them up.

The laughter hadn’t died down once. If anything, it had grown louder with each beer.

It was Raven, of course, who leaned back across Anya’s lap, head dangling upside down over the side of the couch, and groaned, “Okay. Cards and Pictionary are for cowards. Time for a real game.”

Octavia perked up immediately, suspicion and excitement mixing in her grin. “Oh no. What now?”

Raven righted herself with a dramatic spin, nearly elbowing Anya in the ribs. “Truth or dare,” she announced, eyes glinting with mischief.

Lincoln groaned. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Raven shot back, pointing at him. “Big man like you afraid of a little fun?”

Octavia patted Lincoln’s knee, teasing, “C’mon, babe. It’s just truth or dare. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Lincoln muttered something under his breath about everything being the worst that could happen, but the resigned look on his face meant he wasn’t going anywhere.

And so it began.

The first few rounds were harmless. Raven dared Octavia to chug half her beer in one go (which Octavia did without blinking). Anya asked Clarke truthfully how many all-nighters she’d pulled this week (Clarke winced but admitted “three, maybe four”). Lincoln was dared by Octavia to do his best cheerleader impression, which had everyone rolling as he half-heartedly shook imaginary pom-poms.

But it didn’t take long for the questions and dares to edge closer to dangerous territory.

“Truth,” Raven said, pointing at Anya with a sly grin. “What was your first impression of me?”

Anya arched a brow, smirking. “That you were loud. And insufferable.”

Raven gasped dramatically, clutching at her chest. “Rude!”

“And,” Anya continued smoothly, tugging Raven closer, “that you were entirely too pretty for your own good.”

The room groaned and whooped in equal measure as Raven beamed triumphantly, planting a quick kiss on Anya’s cheek.

Octavia leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Okay, Clarke. Truth or dare?”

Clarke hesitated for a moment before answering, “Truth.”

Octavia smirked. “Do you regret coming tonight?”

It was meant lightly, Clarke knew that. A little poke. But the room went quiet all the same, waiting. Clarke let her gaze drift, almost unconsciously, to Lexa. Sitting close. Watching her, green eyes steady but soft.

Clarke swallowed, then smiled. “No. Not even a little.”

Something unspoken passed between her and Lexa then—heat, relief, something that made Clarke’s pulse thrum in her throat.

Raven noticed it, of course. Raven noticed everything. Her smirk sharpened, but she said nothing, only leaned further into Anya’s lap with a satisfied hum.

The game spiraled again. Lincoln dared Octavia to arm wrestle Anya (Anya won, to no one’s surprise but Octavia’s). Raven was dared to prank call Titus, which she almost did until Anya snatched the phone away with a glare that promised death.

And through it all, Clarke and Lexa found ways to brush against each other. A shoulder here. A knee there. When Clarke leaned forward to grab another card, her fingers slipped against Lexa’s wrist, and Lexa didn’t move away.

It was subtle. Easy. But charged.

By the time the night stretched well past midnight, the room was thick with the kind of giddy, alcohol-laced energy that made everything feel warmer, easier, softer.

Anya was sprawled against the couch, Raven curled half on top of her, giggling about something neither of them could articulate anymore. Octavia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against Lincoln’s chest while he absentmindedly played with her hair.

And Clarke?

Clarke was on the bed, sitting close enough to Lexa that her thigh pressed firmly against Lexa’s. Close enough to feel every breath Lexa let out, steady but measured. Close enough to feel the heat of her.

They weren’t touching in any obvious way. Not in the way Raven and Anya were tangled together, or how Octavia was pressed against Lincoln. But there was something about the restraint—something about the almost—that made Clarke shiver.

She risked a glance at Lexa. And caught her staring.

Not openly. Not boldly. But with the same soft, unreadable expression Clarke remembered from years ago. Like Lexa was memorizing her. Like she was trying not to want too much, too fast.

Clarke’s chest ached with it.

Raven’s voice broke through the thick silence that had fallen around them. “Alright,” she said with a mischievous grin, sitting up straighter on Anya’s lap. “One more round before we call it. And it’s Lexa’s turn.”

Every head turned.

Lexa raised a brow, her mask slipping into place with ease. “Truth.”

Raven grinned wickedly. “Who’s the one person in this room you’d drop everything for, no questions asked?”

The air shifted. Clarke swore her heart stopped.

Lexa’s face didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. Her gaze stayed steady, neutral. But Clarke saw it. She felt it.

The answer wasn’t spoken. Not out loud.

But Clarke knew.

And the warmth of it carried her through the rest of the night—the laughter, the clinking bottles, the slow trickle of friends peeling off into tired heaps across her room.

And when Lexa’s fingers brushed hers under the blanket later, unseen, Clarke held on.

Just for a little longer.

The night had unraveled into chaos the way it always did when it was the six of them together, loud and messy and too much alcohol. But now, hours later, Clarke’s dorm was quiet in that distinctly sleepover way—the hum of the heater, the occasional shifting of someone turning over on the floor, the faint rustle of blankets being tugged.

Raven and Anya had claimed the couch, tangled up in each other, Raven’s laugh finally dimming into soft breaths. Octavia and Lincoln were sprawled across a makeshift pile of blankets, Lincoln’s arm draped lazily over Octavia’s waist, her hair a dark curtain across his chest.

It was crowded. Claustrophobic, even. But warm. Familiar.

Clarke lay on her bed, her sketchbook and pencils shoved onto her desk to make room. She wasn’t surprised when Lexa had ended up next to her. It had been inevitable all night—the way their shoulders brushed, the way their knees knocked under the table, the way Lexa’s eyes kept lingering when she thought no one noticed.

Clarke was staring at the ceiling when she felt it: the shift of the mattress, the weight of Lexa moving closer.

Her breath hitched, but not with nerves. Not with dread. Just… expectation.

Lexa’s hand pressed gently to her shoulder, coaxing her down flat against the mattress. Clarke let it happen without resistance, without hesitation, her heart thudding slow and steady instead of frantic.

Then the bed dipped again, and Lexa slid in behind her. An arm came around Clarke’s waist, careful but firm, pulling her back against the familiar solid warmth of Lexa’s chest.

It should’ve felt complicated. Reckless. Dangerous.

It didn’t.

It felt like breathing again after holding it too long.

Clarke let herself melt into the touch, her fingers curling loosely over Lexa’s arm where it rested across her stomach. She could feel the steady rhythm of Lexa’s breath at her back, the faint brush of lips near her hair. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, like the silence itself was sacred.

Then Lexa moved. Slowly. Gently. Her lips brushed against Clarke’s temple, then her cheek, before finally finding her mouth.

It wasn’t like the kisses they’d been trading in secret for over a year now. Not urgent. Not burning with frustration or need.

It was soft. Barely there. A kiss hello. A kiss goodnight.

Clarke’s eyes fluttered closed, her body relaxing even further as she returned it. There was no battle to win here. No storm to brace against. Just Lexa’s mouth on hers, quiet and reverent.

When Lexa pulled back, Clarke opened her eyes to look at her. What she found wasn’t heat or hunger—it was something steadier. Something that reminded Clarke of late nights in high school, when Lexa had walked her home and kissed her like it was the only thing she knew how to do.

Her chest ached with it.

Lexa pressed her forehead against Clarke’s, her arm tightening minutely around her waist. Clarke could feel the restraint there, the way Lexa was holding herself back, but also the way she wasn’t leaving.

Clarke smiled softly, her eyes slipping closed again. For the first time in months, maybe longer, she felt… content.

Not fixed. Not healed. But settled.

Her last thought before drifting into sleep was simple: she knew they’d talk at the cabin. She knew it wouldn’t be easy.

But tonight, she wasn’t afraid.

Because tonight, Lexa was here.

Chapter 11 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lexa

Lexa woke slowly, the kind of slow that only came from warmth and the weight of someone pressed against her side. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—her head heavy, the air thick with the faint smell of nail polish and cheap beer, blankets twisted everywhere. Then she felt the steady rise and fall against her chest, Clarke’s hair soft against her chin, and it all came back.

The night. The laughter. The games. The careful, quiet moment when the others had slipped into sleep and Clarke hadn’t pulled away when Lexa moved closer. She’d half expected Clarke to shift, to tense, to remind her silently that this wasn’t the kind of comfort they were supposed to allow themselves anymore. But Clarke hadn’t. Instead, she’d let Lexa curl an arm around her waist, their bodies fitting together with a familiarity that felt carved into her bones. Then that soft kiss—the kind that wasn’t about want or need, but simply being. Like a hello and a goodnight in one.

Lexa hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She’d thought she would just watch Clarke for a while, hold onto the quiet weight of her, trace the rhythm of her breathing until the sun came up. But she’d blinked, and now the world was louder, brighter.

A groan from somewhere across the room broke through her haze. Raven. Then Octavia, grumbling something unintelligible, followed by the shuffle of Lincoln moving carefully on the floor. Anya’s voice was unmistakable—low, sharp, commanding as she barked something about needing to leave soon. Lexa didn’t even open her eyes at first; she knew the sound of Anya’s morning impatience better than she knew her own.

It wasn’t until Clarke stirred against her that she finally blinked awake. Clarke made a small, unhappy sound and buried her face further into Lexa’s shoulder, like she could will the morning away. Lexa felt her lips twitch upward despite herself.

They were the last ones still in bed. The realization landed heavy and soft at once. Everyone else was up—or trying to be. The room had that chaotic energy of too many bodies gathering their things at once, voices overlapping, laughter thin with hangovers. And yet Clarke and Lexa were still here, curled together on Clarke’s narrow bed, like the night had stretched itself out just for them.

Anya’s sunglasses caught the light when she stalked closer, her voice slicing through the room. “Rise and shine, lovebirds.”

Lexa shot her a glare, more annoyed than threatening, while Clarke let out a pitiful groan and dragged the blanket over her head. Lexa’s hand tightened instinctively at Clarke’s waist, protective in a way she couldn’t quite hide.

“Time to go,” Anya added, voice softer this time but still with that bite of amusement. She turned away before Lexa could retort, already moving to corral Raven, who was whining about coffee and greasy food being a necessity.

Lexa sighed and shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair from Clarke’s face where it peeked out from under the blanket. Clarke’s eyes opened just enough to look up at her, blue still heavy with sleep, and the sight nearly undid her. The corners of Clarke’s lips curled faintly, lazy and unguarded, before she shut them again and burrowed closer.

Lexa let the moment linger. Just a few seconds longer, before they had to move, before the cabin, before the conversation they’d both been promising and dreading. She memorized the warmth of Clarke’s body against hers, the way her hand fit over Clarke’s hip, the way the world felt muted here, inside this fragile cocoon they’d somehow made in the middle of the chaos.

It wouldn’t last. She knew that. But for now—just for now—she let it.

It wouldn’t be the last time they would all end up like this this week, and the thought brought a soft smile to Lexa’s face. She was glad she never drank enough to wake up hungover—someone had to hold it together.

By the time they all stumbled out of Clarke’s dorm, bags slung over shoulders and jackets thrown on carelessly, the sun was already higher than Anya would have liked. They piled into Anya’s van, the one Anya rarely drove because it screamed soccer mom, but she’d outfitted it enough to make it bearable—tinted windows, a better sound system, blackout curtains pinned up to cover the back windows. A van for “group activities,” as Anya liked to call it with a smirk.

Raven, Octavia, and Clarke crammed into the back row, limbs draped over one another in a half-asleep sprawl. Lexa slid into the middle beside Lincoln, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, while Anya took the wheel.

The van barely made it off campus before Raven groaned loudly, slumping against Anya’s seat. “Stop. Food. Coffee. Now. Or I’ll die.”

Anya rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. “You’re not dying, Reyes. You’re hungover. Daylight’s wasting.”

The dramatics only grew from there. Raven moaned about greasy bacon and hash browns being the only cure. Octavia joined in, half laughing, half groaning, while Clarke just leaned against the window with a small smile, watching her friends unravel. Lexa couldn’t help her own quiet smirk. They were ridiculous. Predictable. And—if she was being honest—comforting.

Anya grumbled, but she eventually pulled into a diner off the highway, muttering under her breath about how they were all useless. Raven nearly kissed her for it, sliding out of the van with Octavia on her heels. Clarke followed, her steps still a little heavy from the late night, and Lexa had to fight the urge to follow too closely behind her.

The stop didn’t last long. Coffee in styrofoam cups. Sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Grease that left fingerprints on napkins. And then they were back on the road, the van humming steadily as the highway stretched out endlessly before them.

Six hours. That’s how long it took, with Raven singing off-key to the radio, Octavia trying to sleep on Lincoln’s shoulder, and Anya threatening every thirty minutes to turn the van around if they didn’t stop bickering.

Six hours of Lexa’s thoughts circling back again and again to Clarke. To last night. To the promise of the cabin.

Her anxious energy built with every mile. By the time the treeline thickened and the cabin finally came into view, she thought her chest might split from it.

This was it.

The place Clarke had promised. The place where they’d talk everything through.

Lexa’s hands tightened against her knees as the van pulled up the gravel drive, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She knew what had been happening between them this past month wasn’t enough—thin threads, barely holding, something they both were clinging to even while afraid of the weight that might snap them.

But now… now there would be no running. No interruptions. Just the cabin. Just them.

And whatever truth waited on the other side of it.

The van crunched to a stop at the end of the gravel drive, the sound of tires scattering loose stone echoing off the trees. Lexa lifted her head, green eyes catching the first glimpse of the cabin through the windshield. It sat in a clearing, wood darkened by years of weather, smoke curling faintly from the stone chimney like someone had been by earlier to air it out. The air outside was crisp, sharp enough to sting the lungs, the kind of mountain cold that promised nights spent bundled under too many blankets.

Her heart kicked up painfully.

This was it. The place Clarke had named, the one promise she’d held on to since that night: We’ll talk. At the cabin.

For six hours Lexa had been bracing herself for this sight, and now that it was in front of her, she wasn’t ready.

The doors slid open, the sleepy chaos of bodies spilling out into the chilled air. Raven immediately stretched her arms overhead with a loud groan, then jabbed a finger toward Anya as if she’d been waiting six hours to start something. “Worst driver in history. My spine is in shambles.”

Anya scoffed, slamming the driver’s door with unnecessary force. “You were asleep for half of it.”

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t suffering.” Raven shot back, but her grin betrayed her. She sidled closer and tugged at Anya’s jacket, leaning into her shoulder. Anya gave her a mock glare, the corner of her mouth twitching. They had been like this since junior year of high school, the constant bickering sharpened into something playful—private, almost. Lexa had seen it enough to know it was their language.

Lincoln was already moving, pulling open the back doors of the van. Octavia hopped down with a little bounce, still managing energy even with the shadow of a hangover clinging to her. She reached for her duffel, but Lincoln brushed her hand aside with a quiet smile, hoisting it over his shoulder with an ease that made her laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him, but she didn’t stop him.

Lexa’s eyes found Clarke without even trying.

Clarke was tugging her bag free from the back, hair tousled from the drive, cheeks pink from the cold. She looked… untouchable and familiar all at once. Something twisted low in Lexa’s chest at the sight.

She didn’t think about it—her feet carried her forward before her head could catch up. She reached for Clarke’s bag, the movement so natural it startled her. Like before. Like always.

Clarke froze for half a second, blue eyes flicking to hers. There was no protest, no sharp comment, only a small nod as she let Lexa take part of the weight.

The strap pressed into Lexa’s palm, grounding her. The brush of their fingers was brief, but it left a trail of static in its wake.

And then there it was—the look. Clarke’s eyes lingered on her, not long enough to pin her in place, but enough that Lexa felt it everywhere. The knowing. The fear. The anticipation. The unspoken reminder that this wasn’t just a weekend away with friends—it was the stage for something that could make or break them.

Lexa’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but in the sheer effort of holding herself steady.

The group made their way inside, boots thudding against the wooden porch, voices rising with the sudden burst of energy that always came after a long drive. Raven and Anya were still needling each other, their laughter cutting through the quiet clearing. Lincoln brushed a hand down Octavia’s back as she bounded ahead of him, her laugh carrying.

Lexa slowed just enough to stay beside Clarke, shoulder close but not quite touching. She caught Clarke glancing at her again, lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, Clarke shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, gaze dropping to the steps in front of her.

Lexa swallowed.

Her chest was tight, every inhale filled with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, every exhale heavy with the weight of what was waiting. Six hours of restless imagining had built to this moment—the ring warm against her collarbone, the memory of Clarke’s soft breathing in her bed last night still vivid.

Threads. That’s what they had been clinging to these past weeks. Fragile, fraying. Afraid of letting go, afraid of what might be lost if they did.

And now they were here, both hands full of bags, standing at the edge of something that could unravel them completely… or finally begin to stitch them back together.

Lexa adjusted her grip on Clarke’s bag, forcing her voice to stay even. “Come on,” she murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward Clarke’s. “Let’s get inside.”

Clarke nodded, and the smallest curve of her lips—hesitant but there—was enough to ignite something fragile and fierce in Lexa’s chest.

The cabin door creaked open and the smell of cedar hit first, earthy and sharp, like the walls themselves still carried every winter that had pressed against them. Raven barreled inside immediately, calling out dibs before anyone else could get a word in, dragging Anya behind her like a trophy. Anya groaned, but she was already laughing, already giving in.

Octavia and Lincoln weren’t far behind. “This one’s ours,” Octavia announced like it was a battlefield she’d just claimed, shoving her bag into the nearest room. Lincoln followed with his quiet smile, arms full of both his and hers, the perfect picture of content resignation.

And then there were two.

Lexa lingered by the threshold with Clarke, both of them standing awkwardly in the thinning noise, bags in hand. The laughter from down the hall faded, leaving only the sound of their own breathing and the faint pop of the wood stove settling.

It wasn’t planned. Of course it wasn’t. But the couples had gravitated toward each other, and that left one room—the last room—for them.

Lexa could feel Clarke’s nerves in the way she shifted from foot to foot, fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. Blue eyes darted once toward Lexa, then away, like she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or terrified.

Lexa’s chest ached at the sight.

Because she understood. Sharing a room meant more than just space—it meant proximity. It meant the silence between them had no place to hide. And Clarke wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Truth be told, neither was Lexa.

She thought about last night, about the quiet weight of Clarke’s body pressed against hers in that narrow dorm bed, about the soft kiss that had felt more like homecoming than hunger. That had been enough. More than enough.

But here… in this cabin that carried the promise of the talk—the one that would either rebuild them or finally break them—it felt too soon. To drag it all out tonight would snap the fragile thread they’d been balancing on.

No, Lexa decided, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to protect this lightness, this almost-illusion that things could just be them again.

Clarke hesitated by the doorway of the last room, bag clutched like a shield. Her lips parted, ready to say something—maybe a protest, maybe a nervous joke—but Lexa didn’t let the moment take root.

She stepped forward, bag sliding off her shoulder and landing with a muted thud on the floor. And then, before Clarke could retreat into her head, Lexa closed the space between them.

Clarke’s back hit the dresser with a soft thump, the wood rattling beneath the sudden motion.

And then Lexa kissed her.

It wasn’t careful, not like last night’s tentative brush of lips. It was sharp, hungry, the kind of kiss that left no room for hesitation. Fury burned beneath it—not at Clarke, but at the months wasted, at the ache that had been growing unchecked inside her chest.

Clarke gasped against her mouth, but she didn’t pull away. No—she fell into Lexa like it was muscle memory, like her body had been waiting for this exact collision.

Hands tangled in hair, nails grazing fabric, mouths meeting with a desperate rhythm that had no words but carried every unspoken one. Each kiss was a demand and a surrender at once, the sound of breath filling the small room louder than anything else.

Clarke clutched at Lexa’s shirt, dragging her closer, as if the small space between them was already unbearable. And Lexa—Lexa let herself drown in it, pressing harder, sliding her hands along Clarke’s sides like she could memorize every inch through touch alone.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire. A release. All the nights they’d been apart, all the fights, all the distance—compressed into this furious pull toward each other.

Lexa broke away just long enough to rest her forehead against Clarke’s, chest heaving, lips tingling. She didn’t speak. Words would ruin it, pull them back to the precipice of that conversation they weren’t ready for.

Instead, she kissed Clarke again, slower this time, deliberate. A kiss goodnight dressed in the clothes of a kiss hello.

Clarke’s hands softened, the grip easing, and for a moment Lexa felt the tension bleed out of both of them.

It wouldn’t last—Lexa knew that. Tomorrow, or the next day, they would have to face it all. But not tonight. Tonight, she just wanted Clarke like this—close, alive, burning against her like the world outside didn’t exist.

Clarke’s mouth was warm beneath hers, insistent, demanding, and for a moment Lexa let herself get lost in it. But slowly—almost unwillingly—she pulled back, lips brushing against Clarke’s in the faintest whisper of contact. Clarke’s eyes fluttered open, blue and wide, pupils still blown from the frenzy they’d just tumbled into.

Lexa didn’t step away. She couldn’t. Instead, she lifted a hand to Clarke’s cheek, thumb brushing across her skin like the kiss they’d just shared hadn’t nearly set the room on fire.

Clarke leaned into the touch. Just slightly. Just enough.

That tiny gesture unraveled something inside Lexa.

Her fury softened into something quieter. Something steadier. She didn’t need to consume Clarke—not right now. She just needed to hold her. To remind herself that this wasn’t just a dream she’d wake from.

Lexa let her forehead rest against Clarke’s again, her free hand sliding down until it found Clarke’s waist. She tugged gently, guiding Clarke away from the dresser toward the bed that loomed on the other side of the small room.

Clarke didn’t resist.

The mattress dipped as they sat down together, knees brushing, shoulders leaning closer until their bodies aligned. For a beat, the silence between them was heavy, almost too much, threatening to press in with all the unsaid things.

But then Clarke shifted, her hand finding Lexa’s, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lexa blinked down at their joined hands, a muscle in her chest tightening.

She remembered every night she used to fall asleep this way. Every morning she used to wake with Clarke still there.

And now, here they were again—different, scarred, still bleeding from the past, but here.

“Lie with me?” Clarke’s voice was quiet, tentative, but steady enough to make Lexa’s breath catch.

Lexa nodded, unable to find her own voice.

They lay down slowly, carefully, Clarke rolling onto her side to face her. Lexa slid closer until she could wrap an arm around Clarke’s waist, pulling her in. Clarke’s breath ghosted across her collarbone, her hair brushing Lexa’s chin.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Lexa’s hand began tracing idle patterns against Clarke’s back, the same way she had the night before in Clarke’s dorm. Up and down, light and soothing, the rhythm grounding her. She felt Clarke melt into it, the tension easing from her shoulders, her breathing deepening with each pass.

Clarke’s fingers toyed absently with the fabric of Lexa’s shirt before slipping higher, grazing the chain around her neck. The ring.

Lexa stilled, just for a second, waiting.

She knew Clarke had noticed it last night. She’d seen it in her eyes, in the way her touch had softened after. But Clarke still hadn’t mentioned it. Not now, not then.

Instead, Clarke let her hand fall back to Lexa’s chest, tracing small shapes along her collarbone.

It felt like love. For the first time in too long, it didn’t feel like desperation or need or anger—it felt like them.

Lexa’s throat tightened. She pressed a kiss into Clarke’s hair, lingering there, breathing her in.

Tomorrow they would have to face everything. Tomorrow, the words would come, sharp and heavy and unavoidable.

But tonight? Tonight they would cling to this.

Lexa closed her eyes, her grip on Clarke steady, unyielding. She let herself breathe with her, heart syncing to Clarke’s slower rhythm, until the world outside the room faded away.

Until there was nothing left but the two of them.

Clarke was warm against her chest, her breath steadying after the whirlwind that had just burned through them. The chaos of earlier—their mouths, their hands, the unspoken need that had pulled them together—had faded into something softer. Something Lexa almost didn’t trust, because it felt too much like peace.

Her hand was still moving lazily up and down Clarke’s back, fingers tracing the ridges of her spine, slipping over the dip of her waist. Clarke hummed low at the touch, a sound so quiet Lexa might have missed it if not for the closeness between them.

For a while, Lexa thought Clarke might already be asleep, but then Clarke’s voice, faint and slurred with fatigue, broke through the silence.

“You think Raven already has tomorrow planned out?”

Lexa’s lips quirked. “It’s Raven. She probably has the whole week planned out.”

That earned her a quiet laugh from Clarke, soft and warm against her skin. The sound tugged at something deep inside Lexa, something that had been starved for far too long.

“She’ll drag us out of bed before sunrise for some ridiculous adventure,” Clarke murmured, her fingers absentmindedly brushing along the chain at Lexa’s neck. They lingered there for a beat too long before drifting back down to rest against her collarbone. “Bet you anything.”

Lexa tilted her head, brushing her nose lightly through Clarke’s hair, breathing in the faint scent of paint and shampoo. “Anya will hate that. She’ll pretend she’s fine, but she’ll complain the whole time.”

Clarke giggled, the sound muffled as she tucked her face into Lexa’s chest. “And Lincoln will play peacemaker.”

“As always,” Lexa added, her tone dry but fond.

The silence stretched again, comfortable this time. Lexa traced circles along Clarke’s back, her own breathing slowing in rhythm with Clarke’s. She wanted to memorize this—how natural it felt to be lying here, speaking in whispers like they had all the time in the world.

Clarke stirred slightly, her voice growing quieter, sleepier. “It feels good… all of us together again. Doesn’t it?”

Lexa’s chest tightened. She wanted to answer immediately, but her throat caught on the truth of it. Because it did feel good. Dangerous, yes. Fragile, absolutely. But good, in a way that made her ache.

“Yes,” Lexa said finally, her voice low, firm with conviction. “It feels right.”

She felt Clarke’s lips curve into a small smile against her skin.

For a moment, Lexa thought about pushing further, about saying the words that pressed at the back of her throat—the ones about Clarke, about love, about how this couldn’t just be temporary. But she swallowed them back. It wasn’t time. Not yet.

Instead, she asked, softly, “What do you want to do tomorrow? If Raven lets you choose, I mean.”

Clarke tilted her head up just enough for Lexa to catch the faint gleam of her half-lidded eyes. “Something simple. A walk maybe. By the lake. Away from all of them.”

The quiet vulnerability in Clarke’s voice hit Lexa like an arrow. She tightened her arm around Clarke’s waist in answer, pulling her closer. “Then we’ll do that,” she promised.

Clarke exhaled, a long, content sigh, and her body melted further into Lexa’s. Her hand, once restless, finally stilled against Lexa’s chest, rising and falling with each breath Lexa took.

“You’ll wake me up early, won’t you?” Clarke murmured, her words slurring into drowsiness.

Lexa smiled faintly, pressing her lips into Clarke’s hair. “Always.”

The room fell into silence again, broken only by the soft creak of the old cabin and the steady rhythm of Clarke’s breathing as it slowed, deeper, heavier. Within minutes, she was gone, her weight lax in Lexa’s arms.

Lexa stayed awake.

She held Clarke close, her thumb still stroking lazy lines against the small of her back. She let herself watch—every soft line of Clarke’s face in the dim light, the way her mouth parted slightly in sleep, the strands of golden hair spilling across her pillow.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Lexa allowed herself the smallest bit of hope.

Tomorrow might bring the hard words, the fights, the confessions they’d been avoiding. But tonight—tonight was theirs. Quiet, whole, and unbroken.

Lexa closed her eyes, pressing one last kiss to Clarke’s temple before finally letting herself drift, her grip never loosening.

Lexa woke to the feeling of warmth pressed along her side, Clarke’s arm still thrown across her waist like she’d claimed her in the night. For a blissful moment, she didn’t move—just listened to the steady breath of the girl sleeping beside her, the faint creak of the old cabin settling around them, the muffled quiet that only came with thick snow blanketing the world outside.

And then—chaos.

The door banged open and Raven’s voice exploded through the room like a cannon blast.

“Wake up, lazy asses! It snowed!”

Lexa blinked, momentarily stunned, as Raven came barreling inside without an ounce of shame.

“And it’s officially time for me to DOMINATE all of you in the first annual cabin snowball war,” Raven announced, hands thrown dramatically in the air. Before Lexa could even register what was happening, Raven was spinning on her heel, already halfway back out the door. “I’m calling fort dibs!”

“You can’t just declare dibs and run off!” Anya’s voice came from down the hall, sharp and exasperated. Seconds later she appeared in the doorway, tugging on her boots, sunglasses still perched on her head from the night before. “That’s cheating! If you start a snow fort before the rest of us are even awake, I swear to God, Reyes—”

Her words trailed off as she stormed after Raven, yelling about fair play and “battle honor” like it was life or death.

Beside Lexa, Clarke groaned and rolled over, burying her face briefly in Lexa’s shoulder with a muffled laugh. “Do they always have this much energy?”

Lexa’s lips curved faintly, her heart warming at the sound of Clarke’s amusement. “Only when they’re about to kill each other.”

Clarke lifted her head, her hair a golden, tousled mess, and grinned at her. The sight pulled something fierce and tender inside Lexa all at once.

“Come on,” Clarke said, sliding out of bed, already reaching for her clothes. “Commander, if we don’t hurry, they’ll have half the battlefield fortified before we even step outside.”

Lexa’s brow arched at the challenge in Clarke’s tone. Commander. It was a word that had always carried weight for her, but from Clarke’s lips now, laced with mischief and fondness, it felt different—lighter, almost intimate.

She swung her legs out of bed, quickly pulling on layers. Clarke shot her a mock glare.

“You know,” Clarke said, tugging her sweater down over her hips, “if we lose this battle, I’m blaming you for not waking me up at dawn like you promised.”

Lexa smirked as she laced up her boots. “You looked too peaceful to disturb.”

Clarke rolled her eyes but the pink flush of her cheeks betrayed her. “That’s not an excuse.”

By the time they made it outside, the cold air slapped against Lexa’s face, crisp and clean. Snow crunched under their boots as the scene unfolded before them.

Sure enough, Raven and Anya were already knee-deep in chaos, building what looked like the beginnings of a snow fortress near the treeline. Raven was crouched low, her hands moving quickly, while Anya stood behind her, barking orders like she was leading an army, though Lexa noticed the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Not far off, Octavia and Lincoln wandered hand in hand along the path that curved around the cabin, their heads close together in quiet conversation. Lincoln leaned down to kiss her temple, Octavia laughing softly in response. They looked content, disconnected from the impending “war,” and Lexa found herself smiling at the simplicity of it.

Beside her, Clarke let out a low chuckle, shaking her head at the scene. “Look at them. Pretending they’re not going to get dragged into this in the next ten minutes.”

Lexa’s eyes followed Clarke’s gaze, lingering a second longer on the way her smile curved so naturally, so unguarded in the morning light.

Clarke turned suddenly, that playful glint in her eyes back again. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Lexa tilted her head, feigning nonchalance even as her pulse thrummed with something more. “A plan, maybe. Strategy is important.”

Clarke huffed, exasperated in the way only Clarke could be with her. “Strategy? Lexa, it’s a snowball fight.”

“A battle,” Lexa corrected smoothly.

Clarke gave her a look that was both fond and threatening. “If we lose because you were overthinking this, I’ll never forgive you.”

Lexa’s lips curved in a smile that she didn’t bother to hide. “Then we won’t lose.”

And with that, Clarke shoved her shoulder playfully before darting toward a patch of snow, already scooping up a handful and packing it together. Lexa followed, her long strides easily catching up, her heart lighter than it had felt in years.

Snowflakes caught in Clarke’s hair as she crouched low, hands busy, and Lexa thought—not for the first time—that she could almost believe this week might give them what they both had been aching for.

For now, though, it was simple: snow, laughter, and Clarke by her side.

Lexa crouched beside Clarke, her gloves already damp from scooping handfuls of snow. Clarke worked fast, her fingers flying as she packed perfect spheres one after another, the little pile beside her growing taller.

“You know,” Clarke said without looking up, her tone deceptively light, “if you’d gotten us out here faster, we’d already have a fort.”

Lexa’s brows shot up, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Are you blaming me for your lack of preparation, Griffin?”

Clarke finally glanced at her, eyes sharp but glinting with mischief. “I’m blaming you for sleeping in. Again. Some commander you are.”

Lexa pressed the snow between her palms deliberately, meeting Clarke’s gaze with an unflinching steadiness. “You didn’t seem to mind me being… distracted last night.”

Clarke faltered just enough to give Lexa the smallest victory, her cheeks heating as she ducked her head. But then she threw the comment right back. “Maybe I didn’t. But that doesn’t excuse you from battle strategy today. If we lose, it’s on you.”

Lexa leaned closer, lowering her voice. “We won’t lose.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Clarke challenged.

Lexa gave her the barest smirk. “Because I have you.”

Clarke’s breath caught, just for a second, before she shook her head and lobbed a half-made snowball at Lexa’s chest. “Shut up and build, Commander.”

Lexa caught it before it fully broke apart, her grin widening. This—this give and take, the playful bite with something heavier beneath—it made her chest ache in a way she both loved and feared.

But any more banter was cut short by a sharp yell across the snowy clearing.

“HEY, O!”

Raven’s voice rang out like a war horn, and before anyone could register what was happening, a snowball flew through the air with deadly accuracy.

Octavia’s head snapped up just as it came flying toward her. Lincoln, ever the knight, reacted instantly. He pulled her against him, pivoting their bodies with a speed that would’ve made Titus proud. The snowball missed by inches, exploding harmlessly against the cabin wall.

Raven’s triumphant cackle echoed through the trees.

Lincoln didn’t waste a second. His eyes scanned the field, sharp and assessing, before he tugged Octavia toward the picnic table sitting a few yards away. With one powerful shove, he tipped it onto its side, snow scattering as it thudded against the ground. He ducked behind it with Octavia tucked close, already gathering snow in his large hands.

“Unbelievable,” Octavia muttered, brushing snow off her shoulder. But the way she looked at Lincoln—soft and glowing—betrayed her words.

“Cowards!” Raven shouted, ducking behind her and Anya’s half-formed snow fort. She already had another snowball in hand, her grin feral.

Anya stood beside her, arms crossed, unimpressed but clearly amused. “You’re going to start a war we can’t win if you antagonize them too soon.”

“We’ll win,” Raven insisted, launching another snowball blindly over the wall of packed snow.

It sailed nowhere near the others.

Clarke snorted beside Lexa, finally standing and brushing the snow from her knees. “Okay, Commander. What’s the plan? Or are we just throwing blind like Raven?”

Lexa straightened, scanning the makeshift battlefield. Snow clung to her curls, the cold biting at her cheeks, but adrenaline sang through her veins. She pointed toward a cluster of low shrubs a few feet away.

“Cover there,” she said. “From that angle, we can hit both Raven and Anya’s fort and Lincoln’s table without being fully exposed.”

Clarke arched a brow. “Fully exposed? You make it sound like this is life or death.”

Lexa’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and serious despite the smile tugging at her mouth. “Everything is life or death, Clarke.”

Clarke groaned dramatically, but she followed Lexa’s lead anyway, the two of them sprinting low across the snow. They slid behind the shrubs just as another snowball whizzed past, Raven’s gleeful laughter chasing after it.

“HEY!” Raven yelled when she spotted them diving for cover. “No secret alliances! You two always cheat when you’re on the same team!”

“We don’t cheat,” Clarke shouted back, already pelting her first snowball over the top of the bush. It exploded against the side of Anya’s fort, sending a puff of powdery snow into the air. Clarke laughed, triumphant.

“We strategize,” Lexa added, releasing her own snowball in a clean arc that landed just in front of Lincoln and Octavia’s table, making Octavia yelp.

“Watch it!” Octavia shouted, popping up just long enough to hurl one back. Lexa ducked easily, the snow shattering harmlessly against the ground where her head had been.

“Nice try,” Lexa muttered under her breath.

Clarke’s laugh rang in her ears, warm and bright, even as chaos erupted around them.

Snowballs flew through the crisp air in a flurry of white. Raven, shrieking battle cries, launched volley after volley, while Anya barked strategic orders she half-followed herself. Octavia tried to play defense, but her competitiveness soon got the better of her, and soon she was firing right alongside Lincoln, who looked far too calm and efficient in the middle of the madness.

Lexa and Clarke moved in sync, ducking and weaving, their shoulders brushing, their laughter rising together as they fought like they had something to prove. Lexa stole quick glances at Clarke’s flushed cheeks, her hair wild, her eyes lit with fire, and thought—not for the first time—that she’d follow this girl into any battle.

And when Clarke caught her staring, grinning like the world hadn’t been heavy between them for so long, Lexa felt the weight lift just a little more.

This was only snow, only laughter, only a game—but it felt like hope.

Snow whipped through the air like shrapnel, each snowball hitting with a puff of white that echoed with laughter, curses, and triumphant whoops. The cabin yard had become a war zone.

Lexa crouched behind the shrubs, her side pressed close to Clarke’s as they lobbed one snowball after another across the field. They were holding their ground well—too well. Raven noticed.

“Octavia!” Raven yelled, her voice sharp with that mix of panic and glee she always carried in competition. “Truce! We need to take the lovebirds out first!”

Octavia popped her head over the edge of the picnic table Lincoln had turned into their bunker. Snow dusted her hair, her cheeks pink from the cold. “What do you mean truce? You’ve been pelting us nonstop!”

“Temporary!” Raven waved her arms dramatically, a snowball nearly crumbling in her hand. “Look at them! They’re picking us off like—like assassins!”

Clarke snorted, ducking back behind the shrub. “She’s not wrong.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes, already calculating. Raven and Octavia together meant chaos. Raven was reckless; Octavia was ruthless. That combination could spiral quickly.

Sure enough, Octavia’s eyes lit with interest. “Fine. But after we take them down, you’re mine.”

“Deal!” Raven said, and immediately sprinted toward Octavia’s cover, nearly face-planting in the snow but laughing the whole way. Anya threw her hands up, exasperated.

“You can’t just switch sides mid-fight!” she called after her.

Raven ignored her, diving into cover with Octavia, already whispering plans like the traitor she was.

Clarke peeked over their bush and groaned. “Great. They’re combining forces.” She shoved her elbow lightly into Lexa’s side. “Got any brilliant strategies now, Commander?”

Lexa’s jaw flexed as she tracked Octavia and Raven moving in tandem, their laughter sharp and wicked as they started flanking. She could already see where this was going. She turned back to Clarke.

“We can’t hold this position against both of them.”

Clarke’s brow furrowed, her breath a puff of mist in the air. “So what, we retreat? Run away?”

Lexa shook her head. “No. We split.”

Clarke blinked at her. “What?”

“They want both of us. Together, we’re the threat. If I draw them away—”

“You’ll leave me exposed,” Clarke cut in, her voice rising with disbelief. “You can’t just—”

“I’m making this decision with my head, Clarke. Not my heart.”

The words stung as soon as they left Lexa’s mouth. She saw it hit Clarke too, saw the flicker in her eyes before she masked it behind a stubborn glare.

“Fine,” Clarke said flatly. “Go ahead. Be the strategist.”

Lexa didn’t let herself hesitate. She bolted from cover, snow spraying in her wake, her body low and swift as she sprinted across open ground. Predictably, Raven shrieked and immediately chased, Octavia on her heels.

Clarke was left crouched alone behind the bush, her breath harsh, her fingers digging into the snow. Betrayal burned under her ribs, sharp and cold, but she forced herself to move. If Lexa thought she’d crumble without her, she’d prove her wrong.

Snowballs whizzed past Lexa as she dove into a new position, skidding behind the log pile near the edge of the yard. Raven whooped, chasing her with all the feral joy of a hunter. Octavia was quieter, more focused, already circling wide.

Meanwhile, Clarke made her move. She bolted toward Anya, who was still hunkered down behind their half-built fort, clearly unimpressed with everyone else’s antics.

“Need a partner?” Clarke panted, throwing herself down beside her.

Anya arched a brow. “Thought you had one.”

Clarke grimaced, scooping snow into her palms. “She defected.”

Anya snorted. “Classic Lexa.” Still, she tossed Clarke a half-formed snowball, their temporary alliance solidifying with one nod.

Together, they launched a volley at Raven and Octavia, who were too busy pursuing Lexa to fully defend. Snow splattered against Raven’s back, making her yelp.

“Traitors!” Raven shouted, twisting mid-run.

“You started it!” Clarke yelled back, a grin breaking through despite her irritation.

Lincoln, meanwhile, had taken on a role somewhere between shield and target. Octavia barked orders at him like a general with her soldier, and he followed without complaint, flipping snow-laden benches for cover and absorbing hit after hit with his broad back.

“Lincoln, move left!” Octavia snapped, pelting Clarke and Anya’s fort with a deadly-accurate throw. Lincoln complied, even as another snowball smacked him square in the chest.

“You’re using him as a body shield!” Raven howled, scandalized.

Octavia grinned, savage. “That’s called strategy.”

Snowballs flew in every direction, the air thick with laughter and shouts. Raven tried to charge Clarke directly, only to get blasted in the side of the head by Anya, who crowed in triumph. Clarke nearly collapsed with laughter, doubling over as Raven wiped snow from her ear with a pitiful wail.

“Unfair!” Raven screeched. “Friendly fire doesn’t count!”

“Wasn’t friendly,” Anya deadpanned.

The battlefield shifted again when Lexa, calm and precise, nailed Raven in the stomach with a clean hit. Raven crumpled dramatically into the snow, hands clutching at her chest.

“I’m down! I’m down! Save yourselves!”

“Useless,” Anya muttered, but there was fondness there.

With Raven eliminated, Octavia’s focus sharpened. Her movements grew sharper, her aim cruelly perfect. One snowball took Anya in the shoulder hard enough to stagger her. Another nearly clipped Clarke’s ear.

Clarke scrambled for cover, but it was too late. Octavia was a blur of motion, ruthless and unstoppable, snow flying from her hands like bullets. Lincoln moved with her, deflecting shots and shielding her from retaliation, but he was caught in the crossfire anyway—pelted again and again until his jacket was soaked.

Still, he held the line, his loyalty unflinching.

Clarke tried one last desperate throw, but Octavia dodged it effortlessly and surged forward, unleashing a flurry of snowballs that overwhelmed both Clarke and Anya. Within moments, they were down—half-buried in snow, sputtering through laughter and curses.

Octavia stood tall, breathing hard, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face. She raised her arms in victory, grinning like a warrior queen.

“Bow down!” she shouted. “Blodreina reigns again!”

Lincoln shook his head, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” Octavia shot back, tugging him close to press a kiss against his jaw, triumphant even in affection.

From the ground, Raven groaned, flopping onto her back. “I knew it. I knew Blodreina’s ruthless streak would come out. I’m telling you, she’s a monster when it comes to snowball fights.”

“Don’t forget survivor,” Anya muttered, sprawled in the snow beside Clarke.

Clarke sat up slowly, her cheeks flushed, hair plastered to her forehead with melting snow. She glanced across the yard, and there was Lexa—leaning casually against the log pile, watching her with that unreadable calm.

Something twisted in Clarke’s chest. The sting of Lexa’s earlier words still lingered, but so did the memory of her smirk, her warmth, the way she’d said we won’t lose because I have you.

Octavia’s laughter echoed around them, the taste of victory sharp in the crisp air, but Clarke’s focus narrowed on Lexa. And Lexa, as if pulled by the same invisible string, was already looking back.

The battlefield was still buzzing with Octavia’s victory laugh echoing across the snow, Raven’s dramatic groans, and Lincoln’s amused resignation. Breathless laughter swirled in the cold air, steam rising off their flushed faces and damp clothes.

But Clarke wasn’t laughing.

She was sitting in the snow where Octavia’s last strike had knocked her down, chest heaving, cheeks pink—not just from the cold, but from something far hotter simmering beneath her skin. Her eyes found Lexa across the yard.

Lexa stood casually against the log pile, snow clinging to her coat and hair, her posture loose, her breathing even. Watching. Always watching.

Their gazes collided, and the world around them seemed to fade. Clarke’s lips pressed into a hard line, her eyes narrowing into sharp blue ice.

Beside her, Anya crouched down, brushing snow from her gloves. She followed Clarke’s stare, then sighed, already recognizing the tension winding tighter between the two of them.

“Princess,” Anya said, her tone even but edged with warning, “don’t start. It was just a game.”

Clarke’s jaw clenched. She didn’t look at Anya. She didn’t look at anyone but Lexa. Her voice came low, bitter, like the words scraped on their way out.

“It’s always a game.”

That made Anya pause. She straightened, eyes narrowing in thought, because she knew Clarke wasn’t just talking about snow anymore. The sting wasn’t in the snowball hits. It was in Lexa’s choice. The deliberate split. The words Clarke had heard before—head, not heart.

And Anya, for once, didn’t have a clever retort. She just exhaled and stepped back, letting Clarke move how she needed to.

Clarke rose to her feet, brushing snow roughly from her jacket, her movements sharp. She crossed the yard with purposeful steps, her boots crunching in the silence.

When she reached Lexa, she didn’t stop, didn’t soften. She angled her body past her, leaning close just long enough to spit the words in a mockingly sweet tone.

“We won’t lose because I have you.”

The echo of Lexa’s own promise thrown back at her. Acid dripping in every syllable.

Then Clarke was gone, pushing past the door of the cabin, her shoulders tight with seething frustration.

The yard went still. Octavia’s victorious smirk faltered, Raven sat up straighter, and even Lincoln glanced between the two of them, reading the storm in Clarke’s exit.

Lexa hadn’t moved, though her jaw ticked, her fingers curling once into her coat pocket before releasing. Her eyes followed Clarke until the door shut behind her.

It was Raven who broke the silence. She pushed herself to her feet, brushing snow off her jacket. “Okay,” she said lightly, though her tone was careful. “I think we all know what that means.”

Octavia frowned. “That the snowball fight got too real?”

Raven gave her a look. “That Clarke’s about to tear into Lexa like one of those snowballs had a grudge.”

Anya snorted quietly but didn’t disagree. Her eyes stayed on Lexa, calculating, protective.

Raven turned to the group, lowering her voice. “We should give them space. Cabin’s small, and no one wants to sit front row for that.”

Octavia opened her mouth to argue, but Lincoln touched her arm, shaking his head. He knew. They all knew.

So Raven clapped her hands once, forcing a grin. “Walk, then? Warm up the legs, maybe grab some wood for the fire while those two…” She waved vaguely toward the cabin door. “…figure themselves out.”

Anya slid her sunglasses back down over her eyes, lips quirking in reluctant amusement. “Fine. But if they’re still alive when we get back, I’ll call that progress.”

One by one, they began to shuffle off, leaving the battlefield behind, their laughter quieting as the cold pressed closer.

Lexa stayed rooted for a moment longer, her gaze still locked on the cabin door. The taste of Clarke’s mocking voice lingered, heavier than any snowball strike, sharper than the cold air in her lungs.

This was it. The first crack in the fragile truce they’d been clinging to. The beginning of the talk Clarke had promised.

And Lexa—steady, unflinching Lexa—finally turned toward the door, every step carrying her closer to the confrontation she’d both dreaded and longed for.

Notes:

Okay, I told myself I wouldn't make a lot of Author notes but, I'm gonna be honest, I lost myself in the snowball fight. I don't think I really stuck to either of their POV's. I just kept writing and kept it going and it kind of spun out of control on me.

Chapter 12 Chapter Text

Clarke

The cabin door slammed behind Clarke, louder than she intended, but she didn’t care. Her blood was boiling, her chest tight as she marched toward the fireplace. Snow clung to her jacket, dripping onto the wood floor, but she hardly noticed. All she could see in her mind was Lexa’s face in the snow—the way she had looked at her right before walking away, leaving her stranded with nothing but those words. Head, not heart.

That was what stung. Not the game. The game had been fun, even when Octavia claimed victory like a queen on the battlefield. No, it was the choice. Lexa’s choice. That same sharp cut Clarke knew too well—the same one that had ended them before.

When the door opened again and Lexa stepped inside, quiet and deliberate as always, Clarke’s fury only rose.

She spun on her heel, eyes locking onto green with all the fire she felt in her chest. “You didn’t even think twice, did you? Just left me there like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

Lexa froze near the door, snow still dusting her dark hair. Her shoulders tensed, but her face stayed maddeningly steady.

“It was a game, Clarke,” she said evenly, though her voice carried an edge. “We needed to win.”

Clarke laughed bitterly, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. “You always have an excuse, don’t you? Always some bigger reason. Strategy. Victory. Your head over your heart. Same old Lexa.”

Lexa began to cross the room slowly, deliberately, like she was approaching something dangerous. “And you think you didn’t make choices just as easily? Like it was nothing?”

Her chest tightened, but Clarke refused to back down. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” For the first time, Lexa’s voice sharpened, rising past that calm mask. “Finn. The way he hovered around you. The way you let him. Like you wanted me to see.”

Clarke’s breath hitched. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Lexa’s eyes flared, her words almost trembling now. “He was there first, Clarke. Before Costia. Before the rumors. Before any of that. And you let him stand so close. You let him touch you like he belonged to you. Like he had a right.”

“That’s not—” Clarke shook her head, hands curling into fists. “I didn’t lead him on.”

“Didn’t you?” Lexa pressed, low and raw. “Because it felt like more than leading him on. It felt like you were choosing him. Over me. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To watch him slide into your life while I was still bleeding out from losing you?”

The words sliced through Clarke, sharper than any blade. Because beneath Lexa’s anger, she could hear it—the pain. The same pain she carried.

“I didn’t choose him,” Clarke said finally, her voice breaking. “God, Lexa, I never chose him. He was just… there. And you weren’t. You left. You walked away from us without even fighting for it.”

That cracked something. Lexa’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened just slightly, as if Clarke had knocked the air from her lungs.

“I wanted you,” Clarke went on, her voice unsteady but unstoppable now. “I wanted you to fight for me, to choose me. And you didn’t. You made it sound so simple—head over heart, duty over us. You made me feel like I was just… disposable.”

Lexa’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, her eyes glinting with something she wouldn’t quite let fall. “You think it was simple?” she whispered. Then louder, cracked open: “You think it didn’t tear me apart every damn day? I walked away because I thought you’d already chosen him. Because I thought holding on would only make it worse—for both of us. But you were always the one, Clarke. Even when I hated you for it. Even when I told myself I couldn’t do this anymore.”

The room felt thick, the air charged with words that had lived too long unsaid. Clarke could barely breathe through the weight of it.

And then she was moving, closing the space between them before she could think. Her hand rose, brushing Lexa’s jaw, her thumb trembling against warm skin. Lexa leaned into it immediately, eyes fluttering shut like she’d been starving for that touch.

Their mouths met, and it wasn’t soft. It was desperate, aching, full of every wound and longing neither of them had the courage to say until now. For a breathless heartbeat, Clarke thought she might drown in it.

But then she pulled back, pressing her forehead to Lexa’s, panting. “No,” she whispered, even though her whole body screamed otherwise. “We can’t… not like this. We promised, Lexa. We promised to talk.”

Lexa’s hand lingered at her waist, reluctant to let go, her eyes burning with fire and devastation. “I know,” she breathed. “I know.”

And still, neither of them stepped back. They stood there in the silence, hearts pounding, bodies aching to close the distance again, but for once refusing to hide behind it.

It wasn’t easy. It was never going to be easy. But Clarke knew, for the first time in years, that they were finally starting to cut down to the truth.

Clarke stepped back, her feet moving on instinct before her mind caught up. The space she carved between herself and Lexa was only a few feet wide, but it felt like a canyon—wide, impossible, dangerous to cross. She wrapped her arms tight across her chest, more for armor than comfort, and stared at the rug, at the scuffed wood floor, at anything but Lexa’s face.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she meant, brittle like ice. “You want honesty? Then let’s talk about Costia.”

The name landed between them like a stone dropped in still water, the ripples immediate, endless. Lexa’s body went rigid. Her jaw tightened.

Clarke’s chest burned as she forced the words out. “Don’t look at me like I imagined it. Like I made her up. I was there, Lexa. I saw how she looked at you. How you let her look at you. And we were still together. Not completely—not like we used to be—but we were still trying.” Her throat caught, but she pushed through it. “Enough that it hurt like hell to watch her slide into your life like I’d already disappeared.”

The silence afterward was brutal. Clarke’s hands clenched around her own elbows, nails digging in, and she hated the crack in her voice, the years of pain threading through every syllable.

Lexa’s lips parted as if to argue, but nothing came. For a heartbeat, Clarke thought she’d won—not the fight, but maybe some acknowledgment of the wound. But then Lexa stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her eyes burning with a sharp green fire.

“You want to talk about Costia?” Lexa’s voice was low, and Clarke could hear the shake under it, fury braided with something rawer, something that made her stomach twist. “Fine. But don’t you dare stand there and act like you were innocent. Because before Costia, before any of it—there was Finn.”

Clarke’s whole body jolted, as if she’d been struck.

Lexa’s voice rose, carrying years of restrained resentment. “He was there first, Clarke. Always there. Hanging around like he belonged in your orbit. Close enough to touch you, always leaning in, always waiting. And you let him. You let him hover. You let him stand so close I couldn’t tell if I was the one intruding.”

“Lexa—” Clarke tried, but her voice faltered.

“No.” Lexa’s tone cracked, trembling but unrelenting. “Do you even realize how it looked? To see him around every time I turned my head? To see how badly he wanted you? It was written all over him. And you didn’t push him away. You didn’t draw the line. You let him take up space that I couldn’t. And maybe you didn’t notice. Maybe you didn’t care. But I noticed. Every damn time.”

Her hands curled into fists, then flexed open, as though she couldn’t decide whether to keep her rage inside her skin or hurl it across the room. Clarke bit her lip, the weight of Lexa’s words pressing into her chest like a stone she couldn’t spit out.

Lexa’s voice hardened. “You know why I couldn’t always be there. You know.” She jabbed a finger into her sternum. “Football is the only reason I’m here. My scholarship pays for everything—my classes, my housing, my future. Without it, I wouldn’t have made it into Polis, not like this. And we talked about that. We went over it before graduation. We made peace with it.”

Her breath came in heavy pulls, like each word had cost her oxygen. “And I thought you understood. I thought you promised me you understood.”

The air between them thickened, sharp with old wounds. Clarke could barely breathe.

“But then there was Finn.” Lexa’s tone dipped, lower, heavier, like it carried more weight than her body could hold. “Always there to step in when I couldn’t be. Always there to make it look like you weren’t missing me at all. And maybe you didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you didn’t see it. But I did. I saw the way he hovered, the way he wanted more, and the way you didn’t stop him. Do you know what that did to me, Clarke? Do you even care?”

Clarke’s lips trembled, but she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She could feel every vein in her body thrumming, every memory resurfacing like a bruise pressed too hard.

Lexa’s hand lifted halfway to her chest, faltering, before hovering there. Right over her heart. Right where Clarke knew the ring rested under her shirt. Her fingers twitched, like she could feel its outline through the fabric.

Clarke’s eyes locked on the gesture, her throat closing. That ring had lived between them like a ghost. A reminder. A promise.

When Lexa looked back up, her glare was sharp enough to slice through steel. It pinned Clarke where she stood, left her raw and exposed.

“You gave up,” Lexa said finally. Quiet. Devastating. “We made a promise, Clarke. And you just… gave up. Like it meant nothing.”

The words landed like knives, and Clarke nearly staggered under their weight.

Because she hadn’t. God, she hadn’t. Not at first. She had clung to them for as long as she could, even when the cracks spread and the weight grew unbearable. But she had faltered. She had broken, piece by piece, under the silence and the distance and the gnawing ache that maybe they weren’t strong enough anymore.

And now Lexa stood before her, fury and grief tangled together, holding Clarke accountable for all the ways they had unraveled.

Clarke’s heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears. She pressed her palms hard against her thighs, grounding herself, but the fire snapping in the hearth only made the room feel smaller. The space between them buzzed with tension, filled with every word they’d swallowed over the years, every wound left to rot instead of heal.

Lexa’s glare didn’t waver, but behind it Clarke could see the exhaustion. The desperation. The hollow hurt of someone who had never stopped carrying the weight of a broken promise.

And Clarke—Clarke wasn’t sure if she could bear being the reason Lexa still carried it.

Clarke stood frozen in the cabin’s dim light, Lexa’s last words still echoing in her mind like the crash of a wave she hadn’t braced for. Then why did it feel like he was always there when I couldn’t be?

It hollowed her out. Left her breathless.

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was suffocating, like the air itself thickened with all the things they hadn’t said, all the things they’d buried for years. Clarke’s chest ached with it, her pulse thrumming so loud in her ears she was afraid Lexa might hear it. She pressed her arms tighter against her body, suddenly feeling like if she moved too much, she’d shatter.

Lexa didn’t move either. She stood across the room, shoulders sharp and rigid, her hand brushing the chain around her neck like it grounded her. Clarke could see the slight tremor in her fingers, could see the furious determination etched into her face—and beneath it, the pain. The hurt.

The very same pain that Clarke herself had been carrying.

Clarke’s gaze dropped to the floor, her throat constricting. She wanted to say something, anything, but her mind was a storm. Words collided with memories: waiting for Lexa after practice until the sky went dark, the cold seeping into her bones, her heart leaping every time the door creaked—only for Lexa never to come out. Standing in the hall outside Lexa’s classroom, excitement fizzing in her chest at the thought of surprising her, only to find her smiling at Costia like it was easy. Like it was effortless. Like Clarke had never existed.

That smile had gutted her. And she hadn’t even said a word about it.

Her voice came finally, brittle but sharp. “I did try, Lexa.” She lifted her head, eyes meeting Lexa’s across the distance. “I showed up. Again and again. Waiting after practice, waiting for you to come out—to just… see me. Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes you disappeared like it didn’t even matter I was there. But I still came.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Clarke’s voice wavered, but she pushed through. “I even went to one of your classes once. I thought maybe I could catch you for lunch, that maybe we could just—talk, like normal people. But you weren’t in the classroom. You were in the hallway. With her.” The words caught in her throat, jagged. “Smiling at Costia the way you used to smile at me. Do you know what that felt like? To wonder if I’d already lost you, if you’d already decided she was better? And still, I tried. I kept showing up until all it caused was hate. Until all we could do was scream at each other.”

The fire popped, a crack that made Clarke flinch. Her voice hardened. “But you—you could have said something. About Finn. About how you felt. Before it got that far. Before everything snapped.”

Lexa’s eyes blazed, her voice cutting through Clarke’s words like a blade. “I did say something.”

The force of it made Clarke stumble a step back, her spine hitting the dresser behind her.

Lexa surged forward, the air between them charged, her voice shaking with restrained fury. “I told you I didn’t like him. More than once. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend I didn’t. I told you he was too close. I told you he wanted something more. And you—” her voice cracked, sharp and bitter, “you brushed me off every time.”

Her hands curled into fists, then released, trembling. “I didn’t just say it, Clarke. I showed you. Every time he waved like a lovesick idiot when we walked across campus—I ignored him. I made it clear. But you never listened. You always said he was harmless.” Her lip curled on the word. “Harmless.”

The venom in her tone cut straight through Clarke, but underneath it she could hear the fracture, the wound that had never healed.

Clarke’s breath caught. She wanted to argue. Wanted to defend herself, say Finn never mattered, that she hadn’t even thought of him like that. That Lexa had always been the one she wanted, the only one she’d chosen. But the words stuck in her throat.

Because she remembered.

She remembered Lexa’s jaw clenching when Finn waved. The subtle shift of her grip tightening on Clarke’s hand. The way Lexa’s eyes had darkened every time Clarke laughed at one of his dumb jokes, waved back, told Lexa she was overreacting.

She had dismissed her. Again and again.

And now, standing here with Lexa’s fury burning like fire between them, she realized how deep those dismissals had cut.

Clarke swallowed hard, her voice breaking through the quiet. “I didn’t think he mattered.” Her chest ached as the truth bled out. “I didn’t think anyone could matter when I already had you.”

Lexa let out a sharp, humorless laugh, throwing her head back for a second before pinning Clarke with a look that nearly undid her. Her eyes shimmered, not with softness but with hurt sharpened into steel.

“Then why did it feel like he was always there when I couldn’t be?” she whispered, her voice ragged, as though the words themselves tore at her on the way out.

Clarke’s whole body trembled. The words hollowed her, because she didn’t have an answer. Not one Lexa would accept. Not one that would make this right.

Her mouth opened, closed. She couldn’t explain the void Lexa had left when she disappeared behind the weight of practice and expectations, how Clarke had been desperate for someone, anyone, to fill it—even if only platonically. She couldn’t explain the loneliness, the ache of waiting. She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t fought harder to make Lexa see how much it hurt.

So she stood there in silence, swallowing back the sting of tears, her fingernails digging crescents into her palms.

Lexa stared at her, waiting, daring her to speak. And Clarke—Clarke could only choke on the truth she wasn’t ready to say.

The fire popped again. The snow whispered against the glass.

The distance between them felt infinite, but so did the pull.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Clarke felt like she might choke on it. Lexa’s last words still burned in her chest, raw and jagged: Then why did it feel like he was always there when I couldn’t be?

Her fists clenched at her sides. The ache in her throat burned into something sharper, hotter. Anger. Not the wild kind that lashed out blindly—but the kind that rose like fire through her veins, steady and consuming.

Her eyes narrowed. “Fine,” she bit out, her voice suddenly stronger, steadier than it had been in minutes. “If Finn was always there, then answer me this, Lexa—why the hell was she there?”

Lexa’s head tilted, confusion flickering for a split second before her features hardened.

Clarke pressed forward, the fire fueling her now. “Costia. Why did you even entertain her at all if I was what you wanted so much? If I was the one you loved? Why didn’t you fight for me sooner, fight with me, instead of finding someone else to take my place when it got hard?” Her voice cracked on the last word, but the fury didn’t falter.

Lexa’s jaw worked, the muscle ticking. Clarke didn’t let her answer—not yet. The words kept spilling, sharpened by months, years, of resentment. “All you needed to do was make it clearer, Lexa. Like you used to. Back in high school, you laid everything out—what you saw, what you felt. You made sure I knew, made sure I understood. You didn’t let things fester. But in college? You stopped. You just… you let me guess.” Her voice wavered, but she forced it louder. “And when I guessed wrong, you went to her.”

Lexa’s laugh was short and humorless, a sharp sound that cut through Clarke like ice. “This is just going in circles,” she said bitterly. “Because I did make it clear. I didn’t think I needed to keep spelling it out, Clarke. We were together for five years. Five years. You seriously expect me to believe you didn’t understand the way I was feeling? That you didn’t recognize it in me?”

The weight of her glare landed on Clarke, but Clarke refused to falter. Not now.

Her chin lifted, defiance lacing her trembling voice. “It was hard to understand, Lexa. Because we weren’t with each other as much anymore. You had football. I had art. Practices, studios, late nights—we barely had time together like we used to. It wasn’t like high school, where we knew each other’s every move, every mood, every thought. We weren’t together every second of the day anymore, and you know it.”

Lexa’s nostrils flared, but Clarke pressed on, her words gaining speed, ragged with frustration. “So how was I supposed to read you clearly when I wasn’t even sure what I was reading? One minute you were distant, buried in your team, your scholarship, and the next you’d laugh when I mentioned Finn. Laugh, Lexa. Like it was a joke, like it didn’t matter. How the hell was I supposed to know that underneath that laugh you were seething? That you hated every second of it?!”

Her chest heaved, the storm of her words finally breaking into silence. Her own pulse roared in her ears.

Lexa stared at her, eyes burning, lips parted like she was about to speak but caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak. Her fingers twitched at her sides, like she wanted to reach out, to hold something, anything, before she exploded.

Clarke’s whole body trembled, but she held her ground, glaring at Lexa even as her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you fight for me?

The question still screamed inside her head, even as the words she had already spoken echoed in the charged air between them.

Clarke’s breath hitched, but the words kept forming in her mind, sharp and suffocating. She’d said Costia’s name, flung it like a blade, but now that it was out there, it bled into everything—every memory, every image she’d spent years trying to bury.

Her voice dropped, not quiet but heavier, thick with the weight of things she hadn’t said. “Do you even know what it was like for me? To walk onto campus, into the art building or the quad, and see her standing there with you?” Her throat burned, her eyes narrowing as if she could still see it. “You’d be leaning against the railing, laughing at something she said—the kind of laugh that used to be mine. That look in your eyes… like the whole world had fallen away and you’d forgotten anyone else was even there. I used to be that person for you, Lexa. I used to be the one who made you look like that.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, but Clarke kept going, her pulse hammering harder with every word.

“And it wasn’t just one time. It wasn’t some fleeting moment I could brush off. It was everywhere. Every damn corner of this campus—her with you. Costia waiting outside the locker room after practice. Costia sitting with you in the dining hall when I thought we’d eat together. Costia leaning against the wall, close enough that her shoulder brushed yours while you scrolled through your phone.” Clarke’s voice cracked, her chest aching with the sharp edge of memory. “It was like she became your shadow. And I was… I was just the ghost you went home to.”

The last words came out raw, unfiltered, and Clarke hated the way they made her sound—small, abandoned, breakable. But they were the truth, the ugly, festering truth that had gnawed at her for years.

She shook her head, bitter laughter slipping through. “Do you know what that felt like? Standing there, watching you give her pieces of you that used to be mine? And still trying to convince myself I was imagining it? That you weren’t slipping away from me, even though everyone else could see it as plain as day?”

Her hands trembled, and she curled them into fists to keep from reaching up, from showing just how much those moments had torn at her. She needed the anger more than the ache—it kept her standing, kept her words steady.

Her eyes cut back to Lexa, sharp and defiant even through the sheen of unshed tears. “So don’t stand there and tell me this is going in circles. Don’t tell me you made it clear. Because maybe you think you did, but all I saw was you giving your time, your smiles, your goddamn laughs to someone else while I was waiting for you to come back to me. And if you really wanted me to understand, Lexa, then you should’ve fought for me, not found someone to take my place.”

The air between them seemed to vibrate with the force of her words, with the ghosts of Costia’s smile, Lexa’s laugh, Finn’s shadow, all of it pressing down at once. Clarke’s chest heaved as though she’d just run miles in the snow outside.

And still—still—beneath the rage, beneath the grief, the pull toward Lexa remained, magnetic and impossible to sever. Even now, even here, when everything inside her screamed of betrayal.

Clarke thought she was braced for this. She thought she was ready for whatever words Lexa had been holding back. But as she watched the fight drain out of her, saw the way her frame seemed to sag with something heavier than anger, Clarke realized she hadn’t been prepared at all.

The glare, the fire, the edge—it all dimmed in Lexa’s eyes until there was nothing left but something fractured, something broken. It hit Clarke like a blow, how much it hurt to even look at her.

“I let her stay,” Lexa said, voice low, stripped of its commander’s weight. “I let Costia hover around because I wanted you to notice. I wanted you to see me. To see how I was feeling every time Finn was there, smiling at you like he had a right to. Touching you like he belonged there.”

Clarke’s throat tightened.

“I thought… maybe if you saw me with someone else, you’d finally see it. You’d finally tell him to back off, and it would just be us again. Like it used to be.”

It twisted in Clarke’s chest, because as much as she wanted to deny it, some part of her knew she’d done the same with Finn. Not all the time. Not in the way people thought. But she’d let him linger close, let him take up space that should’ve been Lexa’s, because she’d wanted Lexa to notice too.

But then Lexa’s expression hardened, her mouth pressing into a thin, sharp line.

“It got too far,” she admitted, voice rough. “The night against Arkadia… after the win. When the cameras were still rolling.”

Clarke didn’t need her to finish. The memory was carved into her brain—the way Costia had grabbed Lexa and kissed her in front of everyone. How it spread across campus like wildfire, until Clarke couldn’t walk into a class without hearing whispers.

“I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it,” Lexa said, her voice breaking against the edges of the truth. “I hated every second, because it wasn’t you. It was never you.”

Clarke felt the echo of it, the humiliation, the way her stomach had plummeted as she watched on a screen. And later—Lexa walking into her room only to find Finn there, perched like he belonged.

But now Lexa’s voice shifted, quieter, sharper, cutting to the bone.

“That night…” She swallowed, and Clarke saw the fear there, raw and trembling. “I already know what happened. I know it wasn’t him. It was me.”

The admission was like ice in Clarke’s veins, but Lexa didn’t let it linger. She pressed forward, eyes locking onto Clarke’s with such brutal honesty it made her breath catch.

“I’m not asking about that night. I’m asking about before. The months when we weren’t talking. When you blocked my number for weeks. When I couldn’t reach you, no matter what I tried. Those nights I thought I’d already lost you.” Lexa’s jaw clenched, but her voice wavered, betraying her. “Did you sleep with him then?”

The question lodged itself between them like a blade.

Lexa didn’t look away. She didn’t flinch. But Clarke could see it—the guilt shadowing her features, the fear coiled in the sharp line of her shoulders. She wasn’t just asking about Finn. She was asking if Clarke had let someone else take her place during the silence. If, while she was drowning in her own mistakes, Clarke had already chosen someone else.

Clarke’s heart hammered in her chest, her hands curling against her thighs. She had wanted this—the truth laid bare, no matter how ugly. But staring into Lexa’s eyes now, seeing the sheer terror underneath her question, Clarke realized what it meant.

This wasn’t about Finn anymore. This was about them. About whether or not they had already lost each other long before that night on the field.

And Clarke didn’t know how to answer without breaking them both wide open.

Clarke’s mouth went dry the second the words left Lexa’s lips. Did you sleep with him then?

It rang in her ears, bouncing inside her skull, louder than the crackling of the fire, louder than the winter storm humming outside the cabin walls. For a moment, all she could do was stare at her—at Lexa, standing there with her hand still hovering near the chain around her neck, guilt shadowing her features like storm clouds.

Clarke couldn’t breathe.

Because it wasn’t just a question. It was the question.

Lexa already knew what happened that night after the Arkadia game. Knew, because she had been the one Clarke had fallen into, the one Clarke had clung to when she couldn’t bear the weight of seeing Costia’s mouth pressed to hers on live television. Lexa knew. Which meant this wasn’t about that night. It was about all the other nights. The weeks when Clarke had cut herself off completely.

When she had blocked Lexa’s number and stared at her phone like it was both poison and lifeline.

When she had paced her room, shaking with anger and grief, then sunk into her bed hollowed out by the absence.

When Finn had shown up at her door with that stupid, easy smile and too much patience.

Clarke’s stomach twisted.

Her silence stretched on, the air between them dense and suffocating. She could feel Lexa watching her, every second heavy, as if she were cataloguing every flicker of hesitation in Clarke’s face, every memory that flicked across her eyes.

Because there had been moments. Moments when Finn was there. When Clarke had let him linger longer than she should’ve. When she hadn’t shoved him away the second he leaned too close. Not because she wanted him, but because she was tired of being alone. Because she wanted Lexa to notice.

Just like Lexa had wanted her to notice Costia.

Clarke’s throat burned as she swallowed. Her hands shook, so she curled them into fists at her sides, willing them to still.

“Lexa…” she started, but her voice faltered, raw.

She saw Lexa tense at the sound, saw the flicker of fear pass over her face before it hardened back into steel. Clarke hated it—the way Lexa always put her armor on just when Clarke was about to reach her.

“I didn’t—” Clarke stopped again, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. Her heart pounded so violently it felt like it was rattling her ribs.

Because the truth wasn’t simple. It wasn’t a clean no, wasn’t a clean yes. It was mess and ache and desperation. It was Finn’s hand brushing hers at the wrong moment, when she was weakest. It was the way she’d let him sit on her bed, let him be there, even if her heart wasn’t.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, inhaling until her lungs hurt. Memories flooded her—the sight of Lexa running drills on the field until midnight, her unread messages stacking up, her voice mail filling until Clarke’s calls went straight to nothing. The ache of missing her, colliding with the fury of feeling like she’d already been replaced.

She opened her eyes again, finding Lexa still watching her with that gaze that could flay her alive, equal parts fear and demand.

“Those weeks… when I blocked you,” Clarke said finally, voice trembling, “I was angry. I was hurting. And he was there. Always there.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just waited.

Clarke’s chest constricted. “But being there doesn’t mean—” she cut herself off, dragging a shaky hand through her hair, trying to find words that didn’t make this worse. “I didn’t—Lexa, I didn’t sleep with him. I couldn’t. Because even when I wanted to burn everything down, even when I hated you so much I thought it would eat me alive, it was still you. It was always you.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated herself for it.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The fire popped in the grate. The wind rattled the cabin windows.

Lexa’s face was unreadable, her green eyes like deep water Clarke couldn’t see the bottom of. And yet… beneath it, Clarke swore she saw the flicker of something fragile, something raw.

But Lexa didn’t answer. She just stared, waiting, as though Clarke’s words weren’t enough. As though the space between I didn’t and I couldn’t still left too much room for doubt.

Clarke shifted on her feet, her stomach in knots. Because maybe Lexa was right. Maybe it wasn’t just about what she didn’t do, but about what she’d allowed. The space she’d let Finn occupy when it should’ve belonged to Lexa.

The guilt settled heavy in her chest. And still, Lexa’s question lingered in the air like smoke: Did you sleep with him then?

And Clarke knew this wasn’t the end of it. It couldn’t be.

Clarke’s breath stuck in her throat, the question still echoing in her skull. Did you sleep with him then?

The fire in the cabin snapped and hissed, filling the silence she couldn’t seem to break. Lexa stood there, so still, so rigid, but her eyes were a battlefield of their own—demanding, wounded, terrified. Clarke hated that she knew exactly what Lexa was doing. She was measuring every hesitation, every stutter, every flicker in her face for proof. Proof that Clarke had betrayed her.

And Clarke could feel herself being pulled backward, into those weeks.

The weeks when she had blocked Lexa’s number.

The first night, she’d thrown her phone across the room so hard the case cracked. She’d laid face-down in her pillow, swallowing sobs until her throat burned, trying to convince herself she was done. That she didn’t care anymore. That if Lexa wanted someone else, then fine—she’d give her silence, give her nothing, give her absence until Lexa felt the same hollow ache Clarke was living in.

The second night, she’d woken up at 2 a.m., fingers trembling as she hovered over Lexa’s contact—Lexa Heda with the little heart she hadn’t deleted. She’d wanted to call. Just to hear her voice. Just to scream. Just to beg. But she hadn’t. She’d set the phone down like it might burn her.

By the third night, Finn was at her door.

He hadn’t asked questions when she opened it, mascara smudged under her eyes, her hair tangled. He just smiled, held up two cups of coffee, and said something dumb about caffeine being a temporary cure for heartbreak. Clarke had rolled her eyes, but she’d let him in. She’d let him sit on her couch, let him make jokes until she almost forgot how much it hurt to breathe.

Almost.

It became a pattern. He’d come by after class, sometimes with food, sometimes with nothing at all. He’d linger. He’d hover in the doorway of her room. And Clarke… hadn’t pushed him out. Not right away. Not every time.

She could still feel it—the way his hand had brushed against hers one night when they both reached for the remote. How she’d gone utterly still, her stomach knotting, not because she wanted it, but because for one terrifying second, she thought about letting him. Letting someone else fill the space that Lexa had left hollow.

But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Because every time Finn got too close, every time he smiled at her like she was something fragile, Clarke’s chest would seize with anger. Because it wasn’t his hand she wanted. It wasn’t his mouth. It wasn’t him at all.

It was Lexa.

It had always been Lexa.

Clarke’s eyes burned as she looked back at her now. She could see it in Lexa’s face—that she was imagining those same nights, painting pictures of what might’ve happened in Clarke’s silence. And Clarke hated it. Hated that her silence had given Finn a shadow of a place in their story.

She forced herself to speak, voice low and unsteady. “I told you… he was there. Too much. And I let him stay longer than I should’ve because… because I was angry, Lexa. And I wanted—” Her throat clenched, words choking off. “I wanted you to feel what I felt. I wanted you to notice me again.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Clarke shook her head, hair falling into her eyes. “But I didn’t sleep with him. I couldn’t. Because even when I hated you, even when I swore I’d never forgive you for Costia, it was still you. It was always you. And maybe that makes me a fool, maybe that makes me weak, but I couldn’t…” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a trembling hand over her chest. “I couldn’t give that part of me to anyone else. Not when it still belonged to you.”

The words hung between them, heavy and trembling.

Lexa’s eyes closed, lashes trembling, and for a moment Clarke thought she’d keep that wall of silence forever. But then, like something inside her finally snapped, Lexa exhaled sharply. A sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob slipped past her lips, startling Clarke with how raw it was.

Clarke froze. She had seen Lexa bleed on the field, seen her break bones, seen her take hits that would’ve dropped anyone else—and she had never made a sound like that.

When Lexa opened her eyes again, they were wet, shimmering green glass fractured under weight. Her voice came low, breaking, “I believe you.”

That was it. Two words, torn from her like they’d been clawing their way out for years.

And Clarke broke. She didn’t even think. She crossed the room in two desperate steps and grabbed her, pulled her in so tightly it felt like maybe she could keep Lexa from shattering entirely if she just held her close enough.

Lexa clung back instantly, fists bunching into Clarke’s shirt, burying her face against her shoulder. Clarke could feel her shaking, could feel the restraint unraveling piece by piece as Lexa let herself lean into her.

The sobs were quiet, muffled, but Clarke heard them. Felt them. Each one cutting into her chest like glass. And Clarke, god help her, pressed her face into Lexa’s hair and let her own tears fall, silent but relentless.

They stood there like that, holding each other together in the wreckage of everything they’d just torn open. Both of them raw, both of them bleeding, but still reaching.

Clarke didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes, maybe longer. Time seemed to blur in the warmth of Lexa’s body pressed against hers, in the way her grip never loosened, in the way Clarke’s own arms refused to let go.

And still, in the back of her mind, she knew this wasn’t the end. They weren’t done. They’d promised each other a reckoning, and there were still wounds unspoken, truths yet to bleed out.

But for tonight, this was enough.

This moment. This fragile, desperate embrace. The proof that despite everything—every fight, every betrayal, every silence—they were still tethered to each other. Still choosing to hold on, even when it hurt.

Clarke let her eyes close, her forehead resting against Lexa’s temple. Tomorrow, they would dig again. Tomorrow, they’d face the rest.

But tonight, she would let herself believe in the simple truth pressed against her chest.

It was always you.

Chapter 13 Chapter Text

Lexa

The cabin door burst open in a rush of wind and snow, boots stomping against the wooden floorboards, laughter spilling in with the cold. Lexa stiffened automatically, her gaze cutting to the entrance, but she didn’t move from the couch. Clarke was still pressed into her side, warm and heavy, the faint rhythm of her breathing tugging Lexa toward calm even as her chest tightened with unease.

“Holy hell, we’re not dragging corpses out, are we?” Raven’s voice rang through the room before anyone else could speak, pitched far too loud for Lexa’s pounding head. “Because honestly, I half expected—”

“Raven,” Octavia groaned as she trailed in behind her, brushing snow off her jacket. “Maybe don’t start with murder jokes.”

Raven only grinned, unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying. I didn’t hear yelling or glass breaking, so I’d say that’s a win.”

Clarke stirred faintly against Lexa’s chest at the noise, letting out a tiny sound—half amusement, half irritation. Lexa grimaced, leaning down just enough to check her expression. Clarke’s eyes stayed shut, her lashes brushing her cheeks, but her mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile.

Anya and Lincoln were the last to step inside, each lugging armfuls of firewood. Snow clung to Anya’s dark hair, melting fast in the cabin’s warmth, while Lincoln’s steady presence filled the doorway. They dropped the wood with a heavy thunk near the fireplace.

“About time,” Raven announced, hands on her hips as she surveyed the room. “Now we can finally have some fun instead of, you know—” she waved vaguely at Lexa and Clarke, still curled together—“whatever gloomy thing this is.”

Lexa’s jaw twitched, but she said nothing. She knew Raven’s jab wasn’t cruel, not really. Just Raven’s way of filling the silence, of cutting tension before it grew claws. Clarke, though—Clarke made the smallest noise of protest, shifting closer, like she could burrow into Lexa’s side and ignore them all.

Anya dropped her gloves onto the table and shot Raven a look. “You’ve been talking about these games the entire drive back. Don’t pretend this isn’t just your excuse to gloat when you win.”

Raven’s grin widened. “And what’s wrong with that?”

“Everything,” Octavia chimed in from where she was tugging off her boots. “Because you never win against me.”

“Bold talk, O,” Raven shot back, pointing at her dramatically. “But I’ll take you down.”

Their bickering filled the cabin, familiar and oddly soothing. Lincoln knelt by the hearth, stacking kindling with practiced precision, while Anya leaned against the arm of the couch Raven had claimed, arms crossed, smirking in quiet amusement.

The fire caught quickly, the sharp scent of smoke blending with the crisp air still sneaking in from the half-open door. Shadows danced across the wood walls, the flicker of orange light warming the space.

Lexa let herself lean back, Clarke’s weight steady against her. Thirty minutes they’d sat like this—no words, just silence and touch. It had been a balm after the jagged edges of their fight, even if Lexa’s mind hadn’t stopped churning once. Clarke’s warmth had been the only thing keeping her steady, keeping her from unraveling.

She glanced down again. Clarke’s hair was tangled, her face flushed from exhaustion, her mouth soft. She looked like she could sleep right there, in Lexa’s arms, no matter how loud the room grew. The sight tugged at something in Lexa’s chest she didn’t dare name.

“Alright, troops,” Raven declared, dropping a stack of board games onto the coffee table with a loud thud. “Snow’s coming down too hard for outside fun, so it’s game night, round two. And this time? I’m not holding back.”

Clarke stirred again, groaning quietly. “Do we have to?” she murmured, her voice muffled against Lexa’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Raven shot back instantly. “Non-negotiable. We’re doing this. Otherwise, I’m staging a coup.”

From across the room, Octavia snorted. “You’d trip over your own feet before you even made it to the throne.”

“Excuse me—” Raven started, indignant, but Anya’s hand on her shoulder cut her off.

“She’s right,” Anya said dryly, though there was warmth behind her tone. “But you’ll still play like your life depends on it, won’t you?”

Raven smirked up at her. “Obviously.”

The banter rolled on easily, the others slipping into rhythm like they’d never left it. Lincoln stoked the fire, Octavia sprawled on the rug with a blanket like she owned the place, and Anya leaned back against Raven as if she’d been doing it her whole life.

Lexa remained quiet, her fingers brushing absent patterns on Clarke’s arm, her eyes taking it all in. The ease between the others. The warmth. The laughter.

And Clarke—Clarke made a small sound, almost a laugh herself, then tipped her head just enough to mumble, “Lexa, don’t let her rope you into strip poker again. You’re terrible at bluffing.”

Lexa blinked, startled. Raven, who had definitely heard, broke into loud, delighted laughter. Octavia snickered. Anya raised her brows, smirking like she wanted the details.

And Clarke, damn her, just smirked into Lexa’s shirt, her shoulders shaking with her own muffled laugh.

Lexa’s lips twitched before she could stop them. Small, sharp, but real.

The fire crackled louder, filling the brief lull. Cards scattered across the table with Raven’s flourish. Octavia stole one just to irritate her. Anya pretended to mediate but smiled the whole time. Lincoln shook his head like he’d seen this chaos before and would see it again.

And Clarke stayed pressed against her side, warm and steady.

For one fragile, fleeting moment, Lexa let herself believe this—laughter, warmth, the others’ voices rising around her—might last. That she and Clarke might make it through this day intact.

The coffee table became a battlefield within minutes. Raven had laid out decks of cards and dice like she was some sort of warlord, while Octavia had declared herself the “general of chaos” and stretched across the rug, claiming half the space as her own. Clarke had finally shifted upright against the couch, her hair a mess, her cheeks still flushed from her nap, but her eyes sharp and amused as she watched the others bicker over rules.

Lexa sat beside her, shoulders rigid, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch. Casual. At least that’s what she told herself. In reality, every nerve was taut, every instinct on edge, as though she were lining up for kickoff. But Clarke’s warmth at her side anchored her, kept her from unraveling.

“Okay,” Raven announced, slapping a deck of cards against the table. “Round one: bullshit. Winner gets bragging rights. Loser makes the hot chocolate.”

“Not it,” Octavia said immediately, pointing at Raven. “You’re already standing.”

“That’s not how this works!” Raven protested.

Anya leaned forward, scooping up her cards with the calm precision of someone who’d dismantle an opponent piece by piece. “She’s right, Rae. You should be the one to lose.”

“I hate you,” Raven muttered, but her grin gave her away.

Lincoln, quiet as ever, shuffled his cards with a small smile tugging at his lips. Lexa caught it—subtle, but there. He was humoring them, the same way she often did with Anya.

The first few rounds descended into chaos. Octavia gleefully accused everyone of lying, even when she herself was caught in the act more than once. Raven tried to bluff through an entire hand and failed spectacularly, tossing her cards across the table in frustration. Anya was ruthless, her eyes narrowing at every twitch and stumble, dismantling Octavia and Raven with surgical precision.

And Clarke—Clarke didn’t even play seriously. She lounged against the couch with her cards fanned lazily in one hand, her lips curved in a sly smile, occasionally tossing out accusations at just the right moment to watch Octavia implode. Every time she laughed, Lexa felt it like a jolt in her chest, and she had to force herself to focus on the game.

By the third round, Octavia was standing in the kitchen stirring hot chocolate with exaggerated dramatics, muttering under her breath about traitors.

“Face it, O,” Raven said smugly, “you’re just not cutthroat enough.”

Octavia whipped around, ladle raised like a weapon. “Say that again, Reyes.”

“Children,” Anya drawled from her spot by the fire, already sipping her mug.

The group dissolved into laughter again, the sound filling every corner of the cabin. The storm outside rattled against the windows, snow piling high, but inside it was heat and noise and sharp-edged joy.

The games shifted. From cards to dice to charades that nearly ended in Raven and Octavia wrestling on the floor while Anya calmly guessed every clue. Lincoln won a round of Jenga without breaking a sweat. Clarke tripped Raven up in Pictionary just to watch her sputter.

Lexa found herself laughing—actually laughing—more than once. The sound startled her, raw and strange in her own ears, but Clarke’s sidelong glances, warm and smug, softened the edges of her discomfort.

And then Raven leaned back, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“Alright,” she said, her tone the kind of casual that always preceded trouble. “Time for the real game.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like that tone.”

Raven slapped the deck of cards onto the table. “Strip poker.”

Lincoln choked on his hot chocolate. Anya’s brows arched in amused disbelief. Octavia immediately cackled. Clarke pressed her lips together, failing to smother a laugh, and when Lexa glanced at her, Clarke’s smirk was sharp enough to cut glass.

“You’re bluffing,” Lexa said flatly, though her stomach tightened.

“Nope.” Raven grinned, all teeth. “Come on, Woods. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes. “I don’t waste time on games that ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Raven gasped dramatically. “This is a time-honored tradition. Besides, Clarke already told us you suck at bluffing, sooo…”

Lexa’s gaze snapped to Clarke. Clarke was smirking outright now, eyes bright with mischief, her chin propped in her hand.

“Don’t look at me,” Clarke said, though her voice dripped with amusement. “I’m just here for the entertainment.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened. She wanted to refuse, to dismiss the entire suggestion as beneath her. But Clarke’s expression—the smug tilt of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes—lit a fire in her chest.

“I’ll play,” Lexa said, her voice cool, steady.

“Oh, this is going to be so good,” Octavia crowed, practically bouncing where she sat.

Raven rubbed her hands together like a villain. “Let the stripping begin.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly—chaotic, loud, and electric. Every lost hand was met with cackling and jeers. Octavia shed her socks with theatrical flair, tossing them across the room. Raven lost her hoodie and declared it a sacrifice for the greater good. Anya, infuriatingly skilled, barely lost a thing, her smirk growing sharper with every round.

And Lexa—Lexa played like she was back on the field, sharp and calculating. But Raven was right. Bluffing wasn’t her strength. By the third hand, her jacket was gone. By the fifth, her shirt. The fire’s heat licked against her skin, the cabin loud with laughter.

Clarke’s gaze never left her. Not mocking, not cruel. Just steady, intent, that damn smirk playing at the corner of her lips. Every time Lexa caught it, her stomach twisted tighter.

Raven whooped as Lexa lost another hand. “See? What did I tell you? Worst bluffer ever!”

Lexa forced her expression calm as she peeled off her socks, tossing them onto the growing pile.

Clarke leaned closer, her voice pitched low enough for only Lexa to hear. “Told you.”

Lexa swallowed hard, heat crawling up her neck. Clarke’s smirk widened.

The storm howled outside. The fire crackled, laughter roared, clothes piled on the rug. And through it all, Lexa sat tall, refusing to fold, even as Clarke’s eyes burned into her, amused and hungry and far too knowing.

The cards slapped down on the table like gunfire, Raven’s grin widening with every deal. Octavia leaned half over the rug, wild-eyed and merciless, already stripped to one sock and her hoodie, hair a mess around her shoulders as she plotted her next betrayal. Anya lounged in her chair like a queen, entirely unbothered, her pile of chips towering while everyone else bled theirs away.

Lexa sat with her jaw tight, cards fanned neatly in her hands. She could read plays, strategies, body language. She had trained herself to scan a field of players in seconds. But poker wasn’t about honesty; it was about lying. And lying—at least in this way—wasn’t something she excelled at.

“Three of a kind,” Raven declared, tossing her cards down with a flourish.

“Liar,” Octavia shot back instantly, slamming her palm on the table.

The reveal came with Octavia’s groan of despair. Raven cackled, pounding her fist on the rug in triumph.

Lexa shifted in her seat, keeping her face neutral. Clarke’s warmth brushed her side where their shoulders almost touched, the faintest graze, and it was ridiculous how much harder it was to focus when Clarke was this close. She looked over before she could stop herself.

Clarke was watching her. Not the game. Her. Eyes sharp and bright, mouth curved in that quiet smirk that Lexa had once loved and hated in equal measure. Heat flickered in those blue eyes—playful, yes, but hungry too. It rooted Lexa in place.

“Woods,” Anya’s voice cut through her haze, smooth and sharp. “Your play.”

Lexa blinked and forced her eyes down to her hand. She hadn’t even processed what was on the table.

Damn it.

She pushed forward her chips anyway, feigning confidence.

Raven’s eyes lit up like a wolf catching a scent. “Oh, she’s bluffing.”

Lexa schooled her expression. “No, I’m not.”

“Definitely bluffing,” Octavia chimed in gleefully. “That’s her football face. You know, the one she makes before she runs headfirst into a tackle?”

Clarke snorted beside her, covering it with her hand. Lexa didn’t even have to look to know the smirk had grown.

When the reveal came, Lexa’s cheeks burned hotter than the fire.

“Called it,” Raven whooped. “Strip, Commander.”

Lexa peeled off her socks with deliberate calm, tossing them onto the growing heap. But Clarke’s gaze lingered, dragging over the curve of her calf, the taut lines of her muscles, before flicking back up to Lexa’s face. That heat in her eyes burned brighter, and Lexa had to look away, had to focus on the cards before her pulse betrayed her.

The next round was worse.

Octavia betrayed Raven in an instant, switching alliances mid-hand just to shove her out of the pot. Lincoln—quiet, steady Lincoln—took advantage of the chaos to sweep half the chips into his pile. Anya cut through the table like a scalpel, playing only when she knew she would win.

And Lexa—Lexa, distracted, restless, kept losing.

Her jacket was long gone. Then her shirt. Then another sock. Each time, Clarke’s smirk sharpened, her eyes trailing openly, unashamed. By the time Lexa sat in just her undershirt and jeans, Clarke had leaned back against the couch, one leg crossed, chin resting on her knuckles like she was watching her own private show.

“You’re terrible at this,” Clarke murmured, low enough for only Lexa to hear.

Lexa clenched her jaw. “I’m not terrible.”

Clarke arched a brow. “Mhm.”

That heat in her eyes flared, bold and unrelenting, and Lexa’s pulse stuttered. She dropped her gaze back to her cards too quickly, missing the way Clarke’s lips curved, soft and dangerous.

The room rang with laughter, with Octavia’s gleeful taunts, Raven’s loud declarations of victory, Anya’s quiet but devastating triumphs. But for Lexa, it all blurred at the edges. The fire roared, the snow hammered against the windows, and Clarke’s eyes—those damn eyes—burned hotter than all of it.

It was supposed to be a game. Just a game.
But Clarke’s smirk told her she was already losing something else entirely.

The fire popped in the hearth, the warmth spilling across the cabin while laughter tangled with the snap of cards on wood. Lexa’s fingers tightened on her hand as she studied the table. She could already see how this round would end. She was about to lose again.

And Clarke knew it.

Clarke’s smirk was sly, infuriating, her chin propped on her hand as she leaned just enough into Lexa’s space to remind her who was really winning here. Not Raven. Not Octavia. Not Anya with her mountain of chips. Clarke.

Her voice was a low murmur, honey and steel at once. “Told you—you’re terrible at this.”

Lexa’s head snapped toward her before the final reveal hit the table. She caught Clarke’s smug little grin, her bright eyes glittering with amusement, and something in Lexa’s chest tightened. The room around them hummed, but for a moment, it was just the two of them, locked in a standoff.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Lexa let a smirk of her own unfurl across her face.

“If I’m so bad at this…” her voice cut sharp, slicing through the chatter of the table, “…why don’t you give it a try?”

The table erupted before Clarke could even blink.

“YES!” Raven practically leapt across the rug, slapping her palms down on the cards. “Oh, hell yes. This is happening.”

Octavia whooped, leaning into Lincoln’s shoulder with a grin. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for this.”

Even Anya’s lips curved into a wicked smile, her head tilting as though she were watching a play unfold exactly as she’d scripted it. “Now this… this will be entertaining.”

Clarke’s eyes widened, color flooding her cheeks. “Wait, what? No. Absolutely not.”

But Lexa’s smirk deepened, satisfaction sparking in her chest at the sight of Clarke off balance. She leaned in close enough for Clarke to hear her whisper over the laughter. “What’s the matter, Clarke? Afraid you’ll do worse than me?”

Clarke’s glare sharpened, but the edge of panic in her expression only fueled Lexa’s amusement.

“You’re not serious,” Clarke hissed under her breath.

“Oh, I’m very serious.” Lexa leaned back, lounging now, relaxed in a way she hadn’t been all night. She could taste the shift in the air, feel the electricity. “You said I was terrible. Prove you’re better.”

“Do it, princess!” Raven crowed, already shoving the pile of clothes and chips toward Clarke like a tribute. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Clarke looked around the table, searching for an ally, but found none. Octavia’s grin was merciless, Lincoln’s expression quietly amused, and Anya’s eyes gleamed like she was witnessing divine justice.

Clarke’s mouth opened—ready to argue, to find a way out—but Lexa didn’t give her the chance.

She stood, slow and deliberate, plucking the cards from Clarke’s spot with one hand while tugging gently at Clarke’s wrist with the other. “Trade places.”

Clarke resisted for a heartbeat, her glare searing into Lexa, but Lexa only tilted her head, smug and calm. She wasn’t backing down, and Clarke knew it.

Finally, with a muttered curse under her breath, Clarke pushed up from the couch.

The table whooped like a chorus as Clarke took Lexa’s seat on the rug, tucking her legs under herself with reluctant grace. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes flicked up at Lexa, heat burning there even through her irritation.

Lexa didn’t sit back down at the table. She claimed the couch instead, draping herself across the cushions, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. From here, she had the perfect view. Clarke, cross-legged at the table, cards in her hands, her hair tumbling forward as she shuffled. The light from the fire painted her in gold, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth.

Lexa let herself smirk openly now, watching every flicker of Clarke’s expression as she tried to focus on the game.

The others egged her on.

“Better not choke, Griffin,” Octavia teased, bouncing with excitement.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” Raven said with a wicked grin. “At least at first.”

Anya’s laugh was low, dangerous. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy watching this.”

Clarke’s glare shot across the table, but her hand betrayed her—tightening on the cards just a little too much. Lexa caught it, caught everything, and felt the satisfaction burn through her like whiskey.

Now it was Clarke in the spotlight. Now it was Clarke squirming under the weight of everyone’s eyes.

And Lexa? Lexa lounged back, watching, waiting, savoring every second.

This time, it was her turn to enjoy the show.

Lexa had never enjoyed strip poker. Not once. The chaos of the rules, the way bluffing was supposed to carry more weight than skill, the ridiculous vulnerability of it—it wasn’t her game.

Until now.

Because now Clarke sat where she had been moments ago, cross-legged on the floor, hair falling into her eyes as she shuffled the cards with the tension of someone who both wanted to win and prove herself. Lexa lounged across the couch cushions above, her vantage point perfect, the firelight painting Clarke in shifting hues of amber and shadow.

And for once, Lexa didn’t have to play. She didn’t have to guard her tells, didn’t have to fight down the heat in her chest when Clarke looked at her a certain way. No—she only had to watch.

The first hand went badly for Clarke. She tried to bluff, Lexa could see it in the way her mouth pressed tight, in the flick of her gaze to Raven and back. But Raven saw straight through her, slamming her cards down with a crow of triumph.

“Pay up, princess.”

Clarke groaned, dragging her hands over her face, but rules were rules. She tugged her socks off first, flinging them toward Raven with more force than necessary. The table roared in laughter.

Lexa’s lips twitched upward, but her chest tightened at the same time. It was nothing, just socks. But the sight of Clarke reluctantly obeying the rules, of her eyes flicking up to Lexa as though daring her to say something—something inside Lexa coiled.

And she couldn’t resist.

“Careful, Clarke,” Lexa murmured, voice low, threading between the noise of the table. “Wouldn’t want to prove me right.”

Clarke’s head snapped up, glare sharp. “I’m not losing,” she hissed back.

Lexa only smirked, leaning further into the cushions, enjoying how that fire lit up Clarke’s face.

The second hand was worse. Clarke folded too late, Anya swooped in with a smirk that promised cruelty, and Clarke was forced to peel off her hoodie. She tugged it over her head with a grunt of frustration, hair falling messy around her shoulders as she tossed it aside.

Lexa swallowed hard, her eyes tracing the way Clarke’s t-shirt clung just faintly to her. The stir low in her stomach tightened, heat sparking in her chest.

She let her gaze linger long enough that Clarke noticed. Clarke’s cheeks flushed, though whether it was the heat of the fire or Lexa’s stare, Lexa didn’t know. Didn’t care. The way Clarke squirmed under the weight of her eyes was more than enough.

“Looking a little… lighter, Griffin,” Raven teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Clarke rolled her eyes, muttering, “Shut up,” but her glance cut toward Lexa again, quick and sharp, like she was checking if Lexa was watching.

Of course she was.

The next few rounds blurred in a haze of laughter, curses, and banter. Clarke lost again—her shirt this time—and Lexa felt the air catch in her lungs when Clarke tugged the hem up, revealing the smooth line of her stomach before the fabric hit the pile. Clarke laughed through the embarrassment, shaking her head at Raven’s whooping, but Lexa didn’t laugh.

No, Lexa’s gaze darkened, her pulse quickening, her throat dry. She couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of Clarke stripped down further and further, the way the firelight caught her skin, the way every move was reluctant but bold all at once.

And Clarke felt it. Lexa knew she did. Every time Clarke shifted, every time her eyes darted up, she found Lexa’s gaze steady, unwavering, heavy with something unspoken.

It stirred something dangerous, something that made Lexa lean forward on the couch, elbows braced on her knees, voice a low taunt.

“Starting to think you’re worse at this than I am.”

Clarke glared, lips curling into a defiant smirk. “Keep talking, Lexa. You’re just jealous you’re not the one still at the table.”

“Maybe,” Lexa murmured, tilting her head, her smirk sharpening. “But I’m enjoying the view far more than they are.”

Clarke’s breath hitched—Lexa saw it, saw the flush creep up her neck. The cards trembled just faintly in her hands, her composure cracking for only a moment before she forced it back together.

The game went on, the pile of clothes on Clarke’s side of the floor growing. Raven and Anya fed on her fluster, Octavia teased mercilessly, Lincoln chuckled quietly—but Lexa barely heard them.

Her world narrowed to Clarke. To the curve of her shoulders, the fire in her glare, the way her body shifted as the rules of the game forced her into vulnerability. Lexa felt the hunger inside her grow, slow and dangerous, and she knew Clarke could feel it too.

Every look Lexa gave was deliberate. Every word meant to push, to prod, to unravel her further.

And it was working.

By the time Clarke leaned back, cards slipping from her hand after yet another lost round, Lexa’s blood roared in her ears. Clarke’s laugh was breathless, tinged with exasperation, her hair wild around her flushed face. She stripped off another layer, tossing it aside with a muttered curse, but when her eyes flicked up this time, they didn’t waver.

They met Lexa’s head-on.

And Lexa let the smirk return, slow and sharp, savoring the heat simmering between them—heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

Raven shoved her cards away with a loud groan, collapsing backward onto the rug like the game itself had betrayed her. “Nope. I’m done. Finished. I refuse to sit here and watch you two make googly eyes any longer.” She jabbed a finger between Clarke, who was cross-legged on the floor, and Lexa, who was sprawled lazily across the couch above them. “This isn’t strip poker anymore—it’s foreplay, and I am not about to witness whatever’s next.”

Octavia snorted from her spot near the table, leaning into Lincoln with a grin. “She’s got a point.”

Lincoln chuckled, calm as always, tugging Octavia closer like he knew she’d stir the fire if left unchecked. Anya, already halfway to standing, shook her head but smirked. “We should give them space. They’ll combust if we don’t.”

Raven cackled, throwing her hands in the air as she bounced to her feet. “Fine by me. Let the lovebirds explode.”

Their laughter carried down the hall as the four of them disappeared into their rooms, the echoes fading until the cabin was wrapped in quiet again. The only sounds left were the faint hiss of snow against the windows and the crackle of logs in the fireplace.

Lexa sat back deeper into the couch, her arm draped across the back cushion, her chest rising slow and heavy. Below her, Clarke still sat on the rug, one leg folded under her, the other stretched out, her flushed skin glowing in the firelight. Her hair was messy, cheeks pink from heat and laughter, and her tank top had slipped slightly off one shoulder after her last loss.

And Lexa couldn’t look away.

Her eyes dragged shamelessly down the slope of Clarke’s neck, the faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she caught her breath. Her stomach clenched tight, low heat curling deep inside her.

Clarke finally moved, breaking the taut stillness. The scrape of her palm on the wood floor as she pushed herself up sounded louder than it should. Lexa’s chest tightened as Clarke rose to her feet—slow, deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Their eyes met, and something shifted.

Clarke’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Lexa’s wrist before Lexa even had a chance to react. The contact seared, electricity sparking sharp under her skin. Clarke didn’t speak, didn’t give her the chance to ask what she was doing—she just tugged.

Lexa went willingly, letting Clarke pull her up from the couch and across the room. Her balance almost faltered at the sheer urgency in Clarke’s grip, but she didn’t resist. Couldn’t. The air was too thick, every step toward their room stretching anticipation tighter, tighter.

The door clicked shut behind them, the quiet of the cabin replaced by the sound of their breathing. Clarke didn’t hesitate. She pushed Lexa back into the wall, and her mouth was on hers before Lexa had even registered the movement.

The kiss was searing. A rush. All teeth and hunger and a gasp that slipped free from Clarke, swallowed instantly by Lexa. Lexa’s growl followed, low and guttural, ripped out of her chest as her hands found Clarke’s waist, hauling her closer until their bodies collided.

Clarke surged forward with a force that pinned Lexa hard against the wall, her hands sliding up into Lexa’s hair, tugging until it hurt—and god, it made Lexa kiss her harder.

The world shrank to heat and breath and the frantic clash of mouths. Months—years—of tension spilled out all at once, neither holding back. They stumbled, careening into the dresser, the bedframe, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths only to drown it in another desperate kiss.

Clarke’s laugh was wild, unrestrained, and Lexa drank it down like a lifeline.

Lexa spun them, pressing Clarke into the wall this time, their hips grinding together as she held her there, every muscle straining to get closer. Clarke arched with a gasp, her hands slipping beneath Lexa’s shirt, nails dragging across bare skin, and Lexa nearly lost her footing.

The room blurred, melted around them—just firelight, just heat, just Clarke gasping her name.

They tripped again, this time onto the bed. Clarke fell back against the mattress, her hair fanning across the pillow, eyes wide and dark, lips kiss-bruised. For a moment Lexa froze, hovering over her, struck breathless by the sight.

Then Clarke’s hand fisted in her shirt and yanked her down.

The air between them burned hot. Lexa kissed her again, harder, swallowing every sound Clarke made, every gasp, every plea.

Every touch, every scrape of teeth, every desperate pull—it was too much, not enough. Months of silence, of distance, of buried feelings erupted in fire and need.

Clarke pressed her mouth along Lexa’s jaw, down her throat, each kiss stealing the air from Lexa’s lungs. Her name fell from Clarke’s lips like a prayer, desperate and wrecked, and Lexa thought she might break apart from the sound alone.

The world didn’t exist anymore. Just Clarke. Just this. Just the wildfire finally given room to burn.

The heat between them was unbearable, consuming, too much and still never enough. Every kiss, every touch felt like it had been carved out of years of waiting, of wanting, of losing and finding and losing again. Clarke gasped into Lexa’s mouth, nails dragging down her spine, and Lexa thought she might unravel completely.

The world narrowed, the air thick, the fire inside of them burning hotter, brighter—

—until the rest was lost to shadows, breath, and the kind of closeness words couldn’t begin to name.

The fire between them burned until it couldn’t anymore—until there was nothing left to feed it but the echo of their breaths and the way their bodies tangled desperately together, a knot that neither seemed willing to loosen. The night swallowed the rest: the gasps, the murmured names, the surrender.

And then it was quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t press down on them, but curled around them like another blanket, heavy but warm. Clarke lay draped across Lexa’s chest, her curls wild and damp, strands sticking to her temple. Her breath fanned hot and slow against Lexa’s collarbone, steadying little by little, even as her fingers remained curled tight against Lexa’s ribs, as though afraid that if she loosened her grip, Lexa might slip away.

Lexa didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was afraid that any shift, any break in the stillness, might undo this fragile, stolen moment. Her arm circled Clarke’s waist, palm spread across the bare curve of her back. Every so often, her thumb traced lazy, thoughtless arcs over Clarke’s skin, memorizing the feel of her, reminding herself that this wasn’t a dream.

Her body ached, but in the kind of way that made her chest tighten instead of her muscles. The exhaustion sank deep, bone-deep, but beneath it, there was a fullness. A raw, unsteady fullness that threatened to spill over the longer she held Clarke.

Clarke made a small sound—a hum that was almost a sigh—and shifted, pressing closer, like she could burrow her way into Lexa’s bones if she tried hard enough. The sound broke something in Lexa. She bent her head just enough to kiss the crown of Clarke’s hair. The scent of her filled her lungs, grounding her in a way that almost hurt.

She thought of all the nights she had fallen asleep alone, clutching the chain around her neck like it could substitute for Clarke’s warmth. Thought of all the mornings she had forced herself up, training, studying, playing, anything to keep from remembering what it felt like to have this.

Now, Clarke was here. Warm. Real. Breathing. And Lexa was terrified that it wouldn’t last.

She closed her eyes against the sting that built there, pressing another kiss into Clarke’s hair like maybe it could keep the storm at bay. Her throat felt tight. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full—suffocating with everything unsaid. Clarke’s occasional tension, the way her body would relax and then stiffen again, told Lexa she wasn’t the only one drowning in it.

Eventually, Clarke stirred, her voice low and blurred with sleep. “Don’t let go.”

The words hit harder than Lexa expected. Her chest clenched so tight she thought she might not be able to breathe. She pulled Clarke tighter, almost instinctively, until their legs tangled completely, until Clarke was molded against her as if there had never been space between them.

“Never,” she whispered back. And she meant it.

For a long time after that, they didn’t speak. Clarke’s breathing softened, steadied, her weight sinking heavier into Lexa’s chest as sleep claimed her fully. Lexa stayed awake, her gaze fixed on the shadows shifting across the ceiling, the soft flicker of the dying fire outside the bedroom spilling faint light under the door.

Her body was exhausted, screaming for rest, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. Not when Clarke was curled in her arms, not when the sound of her steady breathing was so close, anchoring her and undoing her all at once.

She brushed her fingertips over the ridge of Clarke’s spine, slow and careful, committing every curve to memory. She didn’t know if she was trying to soothe Clarke or herself. Maybe both.

The ring around her neck felt heavier than usual, like it knew. Like it was waiting, like they both were, for the conversation they weren’t ready to finish tonight.

Lexa shut her eyes, inhaled the faint scent of paint on Clarke’s skin, mixed with soap and snow. Her throat burned with another wave of emotion, but she swallowed it down, pressing her cheek against Clarke’s hair instead.

For the first time in months, maybe years, Lexa felt like she wasn’t drifting alone. And she clung to it, even if it meant she’d break when morning came.

The cabin was still, hushed in a way that made every shift of breath feel louder. Clarke was warm in her arms, her head tucked beneath Lexa’s chin, her curls fanned over Lexa’s chest like gold threads glinting faintly in the firelight. Lexa thought she was asleep, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling her into believing it. But her own mind refused to rest. Words pushed against her throat, too sharp to swallow back down, too heavy to leave unsaid.

Her hand lingered at the small of Clarke’s back, fingers tracing absent circles. She pressed her lips together, drew in a slow breath, and finally let the words slip free.

“Clarke…” her voice was low, rough, nearly cracking on her name. “I’m sorry.”

Clarke stirred against her, not enough to pull away, just enough to lift her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Lexa’s chest as though to listen closer.

Lexa forced herself to go on. “If I ever made you feel like… like I was only using you. For this. For—” she swallowed hard, her jaw tight, “—for your body. This past year. When we weren’t together.” Her voice faltered, broke around the edges. “It wasn’t because I didn’t care. It’s because I didn’t know how else to… reach you. Every time I tried to use words they felt like they’d choke me. But this… this was the only way I knew how to keep you close.”

Her chest tightened with guilt as the admission left her, like she’d ripped open something she had been keeping locked away. She waited for Clarke to pull back, to bristle, to confirm every ugly fear that had gnawed at her since the first time they crossed that line after the breakup.

But Clarke didn’t pull away. She stayed pressed against her, her hand drifting from Lexa’s ribs upward, trailing her sternum, fingertips feather-light until they rested just over her heart. Clarke’s palm flattened there, grounding.

Her voice was soft, but steady. “I never felt like that. Not once.”

Lexa blinked, stunned, her throat closing on another wave of emotion. Clarke tilted her head slightly so she could look at her, her blue eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but clear, sharp with truth.

“I knew what it was,” Clarke went on, her thumb brushing small, soothing arcs over Lexa’s chest. “I knew it wasn’t healthy. That we were clinging to the only way we still knew how to talk to each other. But it wasn’t empty. It was the opposite, really. It was messy and painful, yeah… but it was real. And it was ours.”

Lexa’s lungs stuttered, her chest rising sharply beneath Clarke’s hand. She wanted to argue, to insist that she had been selfish, that she had failed Clarke in a hundred ways. But Clarke’s gaze—gentle but unwavering—silenced her.

The air between them shifted, softened. Clarke lowered her head again, nestling against Lexa’s throat, her lips brushing the hollow there in something that wasn’t quite a kiss but carried just as much weight.

Lexa closed her eyes, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of Clarke’s head, her fingers weaving through her curls. The simple intimacy of it—the way they held each other not for desire but for grounding, for reassurance, for love—made her chest ache in a way no wound ever had.

Their bodies remained tangled, but the urgency of before was gone. Now every touch was slow, lingering. Clarke’s palm against her heart. Lexa’s fingers combing lazily through her hair. Their legs hooked together, not because of need, but because neither could bear the thought of even an inch of space.

The silence stretched again, but this one felt different. Less suffocating, more like a balm. Clarke’s breathing was steady, her weight melting further into Lexa’s chest, her fingers idly tracing invisible lines across her collarbone.

Lexa pressed her lips to Clarke’s hair, whispered so quietly she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to Clarke or just to herself. “I don’t want to let go again.”

Clarke hummed, a sound full of exhaustion and something softer, something like agreement. She tightened her hand over Lexa’s chest as if to promise she wouldn’t let go either.

So they stayed like that—wrapped around each other, the past still raw between them but the present gentler. No more fire. No more fury. Just soft confessions and the simple act of holding on.

And for the first time in so long, Lexa felt like maybe—just maybe—that was enough to see them through until morning.

Clarke

The light crept into the room gently, spilling across tangled sheets and bare skin, the kind of morning glow that felt too fragile to disturb. Clarke was the first to stir, though only just. She didn’t move at first, didn’t even open her eyes all the way. She felt Lexa before anything else — her weight solid against Clarke’s back, an arm wrapped tight across her waist, palm resting against her stomach like it had every right to be there. Fingers curled instinctively with each shift Clarke made, holding her closer even in sleep.

Clarke breathed in slow, letting her chest rise and fall against Lexa’s rhythm. She had spent nights over the past year trying to recreate this — burying her face into her pillow, curling her arms around herself, convincing herself she didn’t need the weight of Lexa beside her. But nothing compared. Nothing came close.

She rolled carefully, not wanting to wake Lexa yet, but the movement caused the hand at her waist to drag across her skin. Gentle, grounding, like Lexa’s body wasn’t ready to let her slip away. Clarke turned her head enough to catch her face — lashes dark against her cheeks, lips parted, chest rising in slow, deep breaths. For a moment Clarke just watched, memorizing the curve of her mouth, the little furrow in her brow even while asleep.

She couldn’t stop herself from lifting a hand, brushing the backs of her fingers against Lexa’s jaw. The touch coaxed a low hum from her lips, and green eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep.

“Morning,” Clarke whispered, her voice rough, the word catching in her throat.

Lexa’s mouth curved, soft and small. “Morning.” Her thumb dragged lightly across Clarke’s side, a second greeting, one that said more than words.

Neither moved for a long while after that. They stayed cocooned in the warmth of the blankets, in the safety of each other, their breaths syncing until the world outside felt far away. It was fragile, this quiet. A truce drawn in the softness of skin and silence.

Eventually Clarke sighed, the sound reluctant, and pushed herself upright. The cold nipped at her the moment the blanket slipped away, and she shivered as she reached for the clothes scattered across the floor. Lexa followed, slower, precise in her movements as if her body was still weighted by the night before.

It was Clarke who broke first.

As she pulled her sweater halfway over her head, fabric bunched at her shoulders, she froze. The words pushed up her throat like they had been waiting all along.

“Lexa.”

Her voice was small, tentative. Lexa’s fingers stilled at the buttons of her shirt, gaze snapping toward her instantly.

Clarke stared at the floor, her throat tightening. “Yesterday, you asked me about Finn.” She drew in a breath. “So I have to ask too. Did you… did you sleep with Costia?”

The silence was immediate. Heavy. Longer than Clarke had expected. Her chest began to ache with each second that passed, the stillness loud enough that she almost wished she could take the question back. Against her better judgment, she finally looked over — and found Lexa watching her.

Green eyes sharp, steady, but softer at the edges, as if she knew what was at stake.

Finally, Lexa shook her head, slow and deliberate. “No,” she said, firm enough to slice through the silence. “I never did. I never even stepped foot into her dorm room.”

Relief slammed through Clarke so fast it almost buckled her knees. She nodded quickly, her gaze dropping back down to her hands just to steady herself.

But Lexa wasn’t done.

“There were times I thought about it,” she admitted, her voice low, scraping raw against the edges of Clarke’s chest. “She offered — more than once. And there were nights where I thought maybe if I said yes, if I let myself go there, then maybe it would make the ache stop.” Lexa’s jaw tightened, her gaze finally breaking away. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. She wasn’t you.”

Clarke blinked hard, her eyes stinging though she wasn’t sure if it was from relief or the sharp ache of knowing just how close Lexa had come. Before she could answer, Lexa let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“I guess I’m not much different than you were with Finn,” she said. “Reaching for something, anything, to fill the space. Even if it was the wrong something. Even if it hurt worse after.”

The sound of that laugh cut at Clarke more than anything else could have.

They both fell into silence again, the kind that pressed down heavy, filling all the corners of the room. Clarke tugged her sweater down into place, fingers fumbling at the hem, her chest so tight it was hard to breathe.

By the time they finally stepped out of the room, whatever they hadn’t said still clung to the edges of their clothes and their skin. Fragile, unresolved, but too heavy to carry out into the noise of the others.

The kitchen was alive with sound. The smell of coffee hung in the air, mingling with toasted bread and the faint crackle of the fireplace Anya and Lincoln were coaxing to life with a fresh stack of logs.

“Finally!” Raven’s voice cracked through the room the second they entered. She leaned back in her chair, grinning like she’d been waiting hours. “I was beginning to think you two killed each other in there.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Disappoint?” Raven smirked, raising a brow. “Please. If anyone’s gonna break something, my money’s on you, princess.”

Anya snorted, dropping the logs into the basket beside the hearth. “You’d lose that bet. Lexa’s been breaking her for years.”

“Anya,” Lexa groaned, shooting her cousin a look that made Clarke choke back a laugh into her coffee cup.

The banter bled into the chaos of breakfast. Lincoln moved quietly, setting plates down in his steady way. Octavia leaned against the window with her mug, cheeks flushed pink as she watched the snow pile higher outside.

“So,” Raven started around a mouthful of toast, “today’s the day. Snowboarding. Who’s in?”

“Not happening,” Anya cut her off instantly. “You already got us banned once, or did you forget?”

Clarke smirked as Raven groaned dramatically.

“That was not my fault!” Raven insisted. “Okay, maybe partially my fault—”

“Partially?” Anya arched a brow, swatting Raven on the backside as she passed. “Try entirely.”

Raven’s cheeks lit up bright red, making Octavia snort and Clarke laugh despite the weight still sitting in her chest.

“I vote the lake,” Octavia spoke up suddenly, her voice softer but sure. She kept her gaze on the frozen water beyond the glass. “The water’s probably solid, but it’s still beautiful. I want to see it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lincoln said immediately, no hesitation in his tone.

“Boring,” Raven muttered, slumping against the table dramatically.

“Then you and I will find something else to do,” Anya said smoothly, snagging the snowmobile keys off the hook with a pointed look.

That got Raven’s attention. She perked up instantly, all traces of pouting gone. “Now that I can do.”

Lexa, quiet until now, finally spoke. “I’d like to walk the trail around the lake.” Her voice was calm, but her gaze cut toward Clarke briefly, pointed.

Clarke caught it instantly, her chest giving the faintest tug. She nodded, not needing words. That was their space, their chance. She’d told Lexa the first night she wanted to walk the trail. Lexa remembered.

The decision came easy after that. Raven and Anya were gone in a flurry of snowmobile plans, Octavia and Lincoln gathering scarves and gloves for the lake, and Clarke lingered near Lexa, bracing herself for whatever might come next.

Because there was still so much more to say.

They left the cabin in a scatter of hot breath and wool—Raven and Anya already arguing over who got to ride shotgun on the snowmobile, Octavia fastening Lincoln’s scarf with exaggerated care, Lincoln pretending not to grin when she jabbed him in the ribs for slowness. The easy rhythms of the group—teasing, nudges, quick jokes—filled the yard like smoke before the quiet. Clarke had a paper cup of coffee warming her palms; Lexa took the other, fingers brushing over the cardboard rim, that small contact steadying and ordinary in a way the night had not been.

“Try not to come back with frostbite this time,” Octavia called, already marching toward the lake with Lincoln at her heels. “We’ll be waiting with hot chocolate and looks of smug superiority.”

“Hot chocolate is a lie,” Raven retorted, hopping onto the snowmobile with a whoop. She looped an arm through Anya’s, both of them grinning like they’d planned an escape route from responsibility. “Also, I will not be controlled by you, O’Feely.”

The good-natured turmoil tugged a half-smile out of Clarke. She watched the group break up, the pairs choosing their own small adventures for the day—the snowmobile’s engine coughing to life, boots crunching, scarves flapping—and felt the familiar tug of tension under everything: the talk they’d left half-started last night like an unresolved chord. Lexa’s fingers tightened once around the coffee cup, then let go, and Clarke rose to fall into step beside her.

They moved down the trail at a deliberate pace. The world outside the ring of the cabin felt untouched—snow kept its promises here. Pine branches hung low with white, and the trail opened and closed like a slow exhale. Each step made the cold settle into their cheeks; their breath came out in little puffs that melted seconds after they left the air. For a while they didn’t speak; the silence between them felt safe enough that neither thought to fill it.

Clarke felt that taut anticipation—expecting heat, the flare of old arguments—and she braced for the first word to be an accusation or a flare. It was the sense of being walked toward and the knowing that what came next could either cleave them again or begin to stitch the edges back together.

When Lexa finally broke the hush, her voice surprised Clarke by how quiet and calm it was. No commander’s bark. No sharp edge. Just a simple, steady thing that folded into the cold.

“We blew past each other,” Lexa said. “Not in a night. Not in a fight. We just… drifted.”

Clarke slowed, matching her pace to Lexa’s. She had rehearsed answers in her head—the sharp retorts and defenses that had kept her awake in other nights—but Lexa’s tone splintered them. It felt like an invitation, not a saber.

Lexa looked at the trees more than at Clarke as she spoke, as if drawing strength from their roots. “My first year here, it took everything. Practice, extra training, meetings, endless drills. Coach was on me every hour. I had to be better, harder, or I lost the scholarship that… that keeps me here. I told myself I was doing it for us, for a future. But I didn’t realize how much of me it ate—how many evenings I was gone, how many dinners I missed.” She paused, the confession soft. “I thought you understood. I thought you knew it wasn’t about not wanting to be with you. I thought you’d… be okay with that because I was doing it for both of us.”

Clarke felt the ache of that; she remembered the bleachers at midnight, the empty stands, the breath gone cold. But Lexa kept going—owning the shape of it made the whole thing feel smaller, painted in one human color.

“You said you tried,” Clarke murmured, because Lexa had asked her the same hard question the day before. She felt the memory again—sitting outside a class, seeing Lexa smile at Costia—and it tightened her chest. She wanted to speak, to tell Lexa she had been waiting, that she had shown up in those frigid hours outside practices and classrooms, but Lexa’s next words softened the edge of the truth.

Lexa turned her face toward Clarke then, and Clarke took her in—sunlight catching the line of her jaw, a small crease between her brows she’d always mistaken for concentration but was now stripped down to honest worry. “I know you showed up sometimes,” Lexa said. “And you were there in other ways. But you were also gone, Clarke. Not because you wanted to leave me—because you had your own… pull.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Your art took you places too. You stayed late at the studio; you cancelled dinners because of a critique or a piece. You’d apologize and I’d say it was fine, because I was tired and I didn’t have the energy to argue. But I felt that too. The steady withdraw.”

She’d convinced herself for months that Lexa’s absences had been the whole of it—Lexa’s practices, the team, the press. But standing on the trail with the world hushed, the truth she had avoided surged up, messy and human. “I thought I was doing what I had to do,” Clarke said. “I told myself art could wait if it had to, that I would be careful. But projects don’t end on their timeline for feelings. There are critiques, and shows, and professors who care more about the portfolio than my personal life. I convinced myself that I could balance it. That I should. And then if I picked the studio over you, I told myself I’d make up for it later.”

Lexa’s mouth flattened. “And you did. You picked the studio.” She didn’t say it like an accusation; she said it like a fact that had rolled into a slow avalanche. “You picked to show up for juries, for portfolio reviews, for professors who could make or break you. I get that. I did the same—except my teachers didn’t let me choose the night to train; my scholarship demanded presence. We were both making practical choices that looked like ambition. But—” She exhaled. “We didn’t make space for each other.”

There it was—the root. Not only absence, but the absence of conversation about the absence. Each decision read as pragmatic by the chooser and as abandonment by the other. Clarke could see it now as if someone had moved a lamp into a shadowed corner: a hundred small forfeitures—dinners missed, plans postponed, calls not returned—stacked into the kind of quiet that grows teeth.

Clarke thought of the night she had stood outside Lexa’s practice under stadium lights, waiting and losing daylight. She thought of the evenings Lexa had shown up in fragments, bone-weary, and how she had used Finn as a patch of warmth because a friend was easier to accept than the idea of risking Lexa’s ire. “I used distraction,” she admitted, voice thin. “I let someone else fill the space—not because I wanted them to, but because it hurt less than sitting in the silence.”

Lexa’s expression went small then—an old shield, cracked but not gone. “I used distraction too,” she said. “Different face, same desperate reach. That’s why Costia was… the idiot move. I thought if you could see me with someone else, you’d be jealous enough to come back. It was childish. I knew it then, but I did it anyway.” Her voice was almost wincing at the memory. “We both chose things that could be justified by ambition or pressure or survival…but we stopped choosing each other.”

They walked on, the lake opening up ahead like a pale mirror. Clarke’s throat was raw with all the apologies that balanced on the tip of her tongue. There were practical details that had fueled the rot—schedules and scholarships and deadlines—but there were also the softer injuries: pride that refused to say “I’m scared,” fear that speaking the vulnerable truth might fracture everything, the habit of letting the universe tell you where you belonged rather than saying it to each other.

“You were tired a lot,” Clarke said finally, because Lexa’s honesty had made it safer to be honest in return. “I thought I could shoulder it when you couldn’t. I thought the studio could wait. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. Either way, we never sat down and said: this is how much time we can give each other. We let assumptions do our arguing for us.”

“Assumptions,” Lexa echoed, and her voice held a small, bitter laugh. “We made assumptions like armor. And then we wondered why every time we met, it felt like two strangers trying to remember the same language.” She reached out, finding Clarke’s gloved hand and squeezing it once, slow. The touch was small. It was also a promise.

The lake glittered under the thin winter sun, and for a moment the world narrowed to the way their hands fit, the trail soft under their boots, the sound of their breath. Clarke let herself feel the full weight of what Lexa had named—ambition and duty and the quiet, corrosive growth of distance. There was still hurt, sure, and the residue of nights spent apart in bitterness. But in Lexa’s voice there was accountability, and in the line of her shoulders there was a tiredness that had nothing to do with victory.

“We made decisions,” Clarke said, folding herself around the truth. “We prioritized what scared us—what could make or break the life we wanted. But we didn’t prioritize us in the same way. Maybe because we were afraid that to choose us was to admit we were scared of losing what we wanted.” She let the words go like stones into the still water.

Lexa’s grip tightened, answering with the language they’d always used when words felt too brittle: the press of thumb against knuckles, the tilt of her head. “Then we fix it,” she said quietly, as if outlining tactics for practice. “Not by giving up everything that matters, but by making space. Not perfect, not all the time. But enough. We have to be more… deliberate. Less assuming. Less performing the part of the strong one so the other doesn’t have to.”

Clarke looked at her then—fully, no flinching—and saw the edges of the woman who had led teams and kept herself together enough to make a scholarship her lifeline. She also saw the smallness Lexa had never shown on a field: a woman who had sat with the ache of missing someone and made catastrophically poor choices trying to be seen.

“Okay,” Clarke said, and the word felt like the closing of a circle. “Okay. We try that. Not because it will magically fix everything, but because we owe it to each other to try honestly.”

They carried that pact down to the lake, where Octavia and Lincoln were already testing the ice’s edge, and the afternoon loosened into the warmth of group laughter and small adventures. Raven and Anya returned later with stories of airborne thrills and near-misses, and the cabin became a place that could hold both the storm and their small reconciliations.

Walking back up the trail toward the cabin, Clarke kept one eye on Lexa and the other on the way their friends moved—teasing, scolding, forgiving each other easily in ways two people in love couldn’t always manage. The path ahead wasn’t simple; there were things to untangle and more truths to lay out. But as the smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney and the others spilled in behind them with hot hands and rosy cheeks, Clarke realized the distance that had once defined them felt different now—measured, named, and somehow addressable.

She slid her hand into Lexa’s again and, without theatrics, squeezed. Lexa squeezed back. It was a small thing, but it was the beginning of something deliberate.

Chapter 14 Chapter Text

Lexa

The fire had burned down to a lazy glow, but the living room was alive with sound—laughter bouncing off the cabin walls, the soft clink of mugs being set down on the coffee table, the groan of old floorboards when someone shifted in their seat. Lexa sat tucked against the arm of the couch, one knee drawn up as she watched her friends sprawl in familiar chaos across the rug and the mismatched chairs they’d pulled closer to the fireplace. Clarke was sitting close enough that Lexa could feel the brush of her knee whenever Clarke leaned forward into the light of the flames, her laughter wrapping around Lexa like another blanket.

Anya had everyone’s attention, her voice rising with exaggerated drama as she gestured broadly. “I swear, if Lexa came into practice with so much as a wrinkle in her mood, we all knew what was coming. Suicides. Over and over. Didn’t matter if we’d just finished running drills, she’d line us up again. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes straight. Half the team would be ready to keel over.”

Lincoln threw his head back with a laugh, clapping his knee. “Oh, I remember those texts—‘send help, she’s trying to kill us.’” He tipped his mug in Lexa’s direction, his grin wide. “Classic Heda.”

Lexa grimaced, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the start of a reluctant smile. “It was discipline,” she said, but it came out softer, especially when Clarke nudged her knee knowingly under the blanket.

“Discipline?” Anya snorted, leaning forward as if she could drag the fire’s heat with her. “Please. That was punishment. Half the time I think you just enjoyed watching us suffer.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and Lexa rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She let herself sink back into the cushions, listening as Raven jumped in.

“Try dealing with professors who think you’re a walking hazard sign,” Raven said, throwing her arms up for emphasis. “I’m not even allowed to design my own project this semester. ‘Too much liability,’ they said. ‘What if you blow something up again?’ they said.”

Octavia practically doubled over, her giggles echoing. “Again! You mean like the time we had to evacuate the entire building? Because, yeah, that was legendary.”

“I told you,” Raven shot back, pointing a finger at her. “That explosion was controlled. Mostly. And anyway, the toxic gas warning was just them being overly cautious.”

“You mean terrified,” Lincoln added, grinning.

“They don’t understand genius,” Raven declared, chin high, as though daring anyone to challenge her.

The whole group burst out laughing again, Clarke among them, her shoulders shaking as she tipped forward, her hand pressed over her mouth to smother the sound. Lexa felt that laugh reverberate in her chest, tugging something warm and steady out of her.

When the noise quieted enough, Clarke leaned into the circle of light. “At least your professors let you have fun. Mine keep trying to push me into this whole big production—an entire show of my portraits, displayed like I’m supposed to stand there and explain the psychology of every brushstroke.” She gave an exaggerated groan. “One month, I just drew everyone I saw. Professors, classmates, people in the café line. They loved it.”

“You refused?” Raven asked, eyebrow arched.

“Of course I refused,” Clarke said, though the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. “Because most of the portraits weren’t exactly… random.” She glanced at Lexa then, the tiniest flicker of mischief in her eyes. “Everyone knew who they were of.”

Octavia clapped her hands together, her laughter sharp and bright. “Oh no way, it was Lexa, wasn’t it?”

Clarke scoffed, but the sound came softened by the warmth in her voice. “Don’t act like that’s news.”

Lexa felt her face heat, though she fought it with a grin she couldn’t quite contain. “At least it would’ve been something good to look at,” she said, her tone light but her gaze steady on Clarke.

Clarke’s scoff this time was paired with a roll of her eyes, but Lexa saw it—the soft curve at the corner of her mouth, the way her shoulders eased as though she welcomed the tease. That warmth tugged deep at Lexa’s chest, stronger than the fire blazing only a few feet away.

The group dissolved into easy chatter again, voices overlapping, inside jokes weaving through the air. But Lexa kept her eyes on Clarke a moment longer, the firelight painting her skin gold, her smile still curling even as she shook her head at Octavia’s dramatics. For the first time in what felt like a long while, the laughter didn’t ache with distance. It just felt like home.

The fire had burned lower, the room cast in that hazy kind of golden warmth that made everyone sink deeper into the floor pillows and blankets sprawled around the hearth. Cups had been refilled twice, some with cider, some with something stronger that Raven had smuggled into her thermos. The laughter that had started light was starting to ebb and flow differently now, threads of teasing pulling at older knots—stories they hadn’t all aired out until now.

Lexa was slouched on the couch, her back against the armrest, legs stretched long in front of her. From here, she could watch everyone else: Clarke cross-legged on the rug, cheeks still pink from laughing too hard; Octavia with her head tipped against Lincoln’s shoulder, grinning at every opening she could jump into; Raven practically vibrating with pent-up energy; Anya leaned back in one of the chairs, smirking like she had been waiting for this particular turn in conversation all night.

And then Raven, of course, threw the first stone.

“I still can’t believe,” she said, her voice rising with that familiar indignation, “that Lexa sent me—me—a photo of Clarke’s underwear in her dorm. Like, do you understand the level of trauma that gave me?”

Clarke immediately snorted, pressing a hand over her mouth as if she could smother it down, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as they slid toward Lexa.

Lexa groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Gods, Raven—”

“No, no, don’t even start,” Raven cut her off, sitting up straighter on her pillow. “You acted like it was evidence in a trial or something. ‘Look, she left them here, proof she was with me.’ You didn’t even think about how maybe I didn’t want Clarke’s lace lingerie as my morning wake-up text.”

Octavia fell over sideways, wheezing with laughter. “You sent it to Raven? Oh my god.”

Lincoln was chuckling under his breath, shaking his head. Even Anya looked like she was about to choke on her drink from holding back her grin.

Clarke, meanwhile, had lost all control, laughing openly now, her shoulders shaking, her curls falling into her face. “Oh my god, Lexa, you did not.”

Lexa pressed her palm harder over her face, ears blazing. “It was… it was a moment of frustration.”

Raven threw her hands up. “A moment of insanity, you mean!”

Anya finally leaned forward, her grin wicked. “Okay, but Clarke isn’t innocent here either. Remember that time after a game? Big win, whole team celebrating? Clarke shows up in that little black dress that left nothing to the imagination—”

Lexa felt her stomach drop. “Anya.”

“No, no, no,” Anya bulldozed right over her, pointing squarely at Clarke. “She wore it on purpose. Don’t even try to deny it. Lexa took one look, turned ten shades of red, and then left me to deal with the entire team celebrating alone. Just—vanished. Poof. Out the door.”

The room erupted. Octavia slapped Lincoln’s leg like she needed him to feel her glee. Raven actually cackled, clapping her hands. Clarke, for her part, leaned back on her hands, smirk curling across her lips, eyes twinkling as they landed on Lexa.

“Ohhh,” Clarke drawled, that infuriating note of amusement in her tone. “So that’s what happened. You never told me that.”

Lexa groaned again, dragging both hands down her face now, resisting the urge to sink into the cushions and disappear completely. “Because it’s mortifying.”

“Mortifying?” Raven snorted. “Try being the poor best friend who has to deal with the fallout. Do you two have any idea the chaos you created for the rest of us while you were busy doing your whole will-they-won’t-they Cold War?”

Lincoln raised his brows, calm as ever, but his grin betrayed him. “She’s not wrong. It was… an experience.”

Octavia leaned forward, her grin feral. “Oh, I loved it. It was like a soap opera unfolding in real time. You never knew who was going to storm out of whose room, or who was going to show up at practice pretending nothing happened.”

“Or the fights,” Raven added, pointing between Lexa and Clarke like she was laying out evidence. “The dramatic, door-slamming, earth-shaking fights. Do you know how many times I’ve had to crawl into Clarke’s bed to stop her from crying herself sick?”

Clarke’s laughter had softened into something gentler, though her cheeks were still pink. She shrugged, unapologetic. “Worth it.”

Lexa peeked through her fingers at her, heart stuttering in her chest at the sparkle in Clarke’s eyes, the warmth that sat underneath the teasing. Clarke didn’t look angry. She didn’t look bitter. She looked… amused. Fond, even.

And that—that was enough to let Lexa exhale, to let the teasing and their friends’ venting wash over her without bristling. Because they weren’t wrong. They had been dragged through the wreckage of Lexa and Clarke’s mess. And maybe they deserved to let it all out now, in the safety of this firelit cabin, where no one was storming out or slamming doors anymore.

So she let her face stay buried in her hands, even as her ears burned, even as her heart lurched when Clarke’s laugh twined around the warmth of the fire.

Because if Clarke could laugh about it now—maybe there was still a chance.

The fire popped, a log shifting deeper into the coals, sparks flaring briefly before settling back into the low, steady burn. The laughter had dulled into softer chuckles, the kind that lived in the corners of the room long after the story was told. But now the warmth of the banter started to thin, giving way to something heavier. Something all of them had carried for the last year, but never really put into words.

Raven, of course, was the first to steer them there.

“You know,” she said, picking at the frayed edge of the blanket draped over her legs, “it wasn’t just your drama. Like—yeah, you two were center stage, but the rest of us? We got pulled into the orbit.”

Lexa shifted where she sat, already dreading what was about to come.

Raven continued, her grin sharp but her eyes softer than her tone. “I had to run interference at least five times. Five. Times. Covering for Clarke when she was sneaking out of your dorm, or covering for you when you ghosted the team to chase Clarke down after she blew you off. Do you know how many excuses I had to make for you two? Professors probably think I’m some pathological liar by now.”

Clarke, ever quick on her feet, leaned back and raised her brows, all mock-innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Octavia snorted so hard she nearly choked on her drink. “Oh, don’t even start, Griffin. You were practically training me in espionage. ‘Octavia, distract Lexa so I can slip out. Octavia, walk me across campus so people don’t assume I’m going to her room again.’ Gaslighting us? Please. We were your accomplices.”

Clarke lifted a hand, feigning outrage. “I would never—”

“—lie straight to our faces?” Octavia cut in, grinning wickedly. “Yeah, you would. And you did. Repeatedly.”

Even Lincoln cracked a rare, deep laugh at that, shaking his head. “She’s got you there, Clarke.”

Lexa bit down on her smile, watching Clarke squirm under their laughter. It was a kind of retribution she’d been owed for months—years, maybe.

But then Anya, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now, tilted her head toward Lexa. “And don’t think you’re exempt, Woods. You were no better. Remember the time you told your coach you were sick—skipped practice, skipped film review—just to sit outside Clarke’s building like a stalker? You didn’t even go in. You just… sat there.”

Lexa sputtered, sitting up straighter, her ears instantly hot. “I was—”

“Pathetic,” Anya supplied, grinning like she’d been waiting to play that card.

“I was not pathetic,” Lexa argued, though the way Clarke’s mouth curved into a sly smile made her immediately regret opening hers. “I was… conflicted.”

Raven nearly fell over onto Anya’s lap, laughing. “Conflicted! That’s one word for it.”

Clarke shook her head, her curls bouncing, amusement bubbling on her lips. “See, I wasn’t the only one making questionable choices.”

Octavia raised a brow, smirking. “Gaslighting attempt number two, ladies and gentlemen. She’s pivoting.”

“I’m not pivoting!” Clarke insisted, laughter escaping despite herself.

“You are,” Octavia shot back, smug. “And it’s not gonna work this time either.”

The group dissolved again into overlapping voices, teasing and needling, trading barbs like cards at a table. Lexa endured it with her face in her hand, cheeks on fire, Clarke gleefully throwing her under the bus whenever the opportunity presented itself. But underneath the humor, the weight was there. They all felt it. The break-up hadn’t just fractured Lexa and Clarke—it had rippled outward, pulling their entire circle into the cracks.

It was Lincoln who finally cut through it all, his voice steady but firm, carrying over the fading laughter.

“Enough,” he said, the word not unkind but grounding, pulling them all back to the moment. His arm was draped casually around Octavia, but his gaze was fixed on Lexa and Clarke. “You’ve both heard us, right? How much we got dragged into it, how much we’ve had to watch from the sidelines. But what I really want to know—the only thing that actually matters—is what’s in front of us right now.”

The room quieted instantly.

Lincoln’s brows drew together slightly, his tone careful, deliberate. “Are you two… back together? Or…?”

Lexa’s heart lurched in her chest. The silence that followed stretched taut, heavy, every pair of eyes locked onto her and Clarke. She could feel Clarke’s presence at her side, warm and grounding, but she didn’t dare look at her—not yet.

Because this was the question that had been hanging unspoken in the room since the cabin trip began. The one that none of their friends could keep swallowing forever.

And now, under the low crackle of the fire and the weight of their shared history, it had finally been asked aloud.

The fire crackled, wood popping as it shifted in the hearth, filling the cabin with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat radiating from Lexa’s skin. Lincoln’s question still hung between them like mist, heavy and unavoidable, but Clarke’s answer had shifted everything.

“We’re… working on it,” Clarke had said.

Simple words, but in Clarke’s voice they weren’t simple at all. They were layered—threaded with guilt, hope, and the kind of honesty that cut straight through Lexa’s chest. Lexa had wanted to answer first, to shield them both from scrutiny, to tuck their fragile progress safely behind her own practiced composure. But Clarke beat her there. Clarke chose honesty over armor.

Now Clarke sat forward, elbows braced on her knees, hair falling loose around her face as she looked around at the group. Not hiding. Not deflecting.

“I know this trip isn’t what we planned,” Clarke admitted, voice low but steady. “And I know the past couple days haven’t exactly been easy for you guys either. You’ve had to give us more space than I think we’ve ever asked for. Probably more than you wanted to give.” Her mouth twisted, like she knew she was asking them to bear more than they should have. “But we’re trying. I’m trying. And it feels… like things are looking up.”

Lexa’s breath caught. For once, she didn’t care that everyone was watching. She wanted to memorize Clarke like this—unguarded, brave in her vulnerability, words soft but weighted with truth.

And then—because the universe never let her stay in moments like this for too long—Raven blew it up.

“Oh, yeah. Things are definitely looking up,” Raven said, her grin so sly it should’ve been illegal. “You know, based on the noises we hear coming out of your room every night.”

Lexa felt her entire body betray her. Heat surged across her face, her ears burning so hot she swore she heard them hum. “Raven Reyes!” she snapped, her voice cracking halfway between outrage and disbelief.

Raven just leaned back against Anya’s side, smirking like the devil. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Some of us are light sleepers. Those walls aren’t exactly thick.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively, drawing out the pause just enough to make Lexa want to melt into the floor.

Octavia howled, slapping her hand against her knee. “Oh my god, she’s not lying. The way Clarke sounded the other night? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was being murdered—”

“Octavia!” Clarke yelped, finally breaking into laughter despite the furious blush creeping up her neck.

Lincoln tried to stifle his laughter, but a deep rumble still escaped his chest. Even Anya, stoic and endlessly loyal, was shaking her head with the faintest of smirks tugging at her lips.

Lexa pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, groaning. “You are all insufferable.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Raven teased, her grin widening. “You should be proud. Very impressive stamina for someone who, what is it again? ‘Never wastes daylight’?”

Clarke’s laughter spilled out in earnest now, warm and rich, her shoulders shaking as she leaned just a little closer to Lexa. The brush of her shoulder against Lexa’s made her stomach flip. Clarke tilted her head toward her, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “She’s got you there, commander.”

Lexa jerked her head toward Clarke, scandalized. “Clarke.”

But Clarke only grinned wider, cheeks flushed, her voice a mix of mischief and tenderness. “What? It’s… nice to know we’re effective communicators.”

The group lost it then, laughter ringing through the cabin, bouncing off the wooden walls and into the smoky air. Octavia leaned so far back in her chair she nearly toppled, Lincoln wiping tears from his eyes as he chuckled, Anya shaking her head like she was too good for this while clearly enjoying herself anyway.

Lexa buried her face in both hands, the tips of her ears so hot she thought they might never cool. But beneath the embarrassment, beneath the relentless teasing, something softer stirred in her chest.

Because Clarke wasn’t denying it. Clarke wasn’t running from it. She was laughing with them, letting the group see the cracks in their armor without trying to plaster them shut. Letting them all know she was in this—really in this—with Lexa.

And that honesty—that choice—meant more than Lexa could ever say.

The laughter died down into lingering chuckles, Octavia wiping at her eyes, Raven smirking like she’d won a game only she knew they were playing. Clarke leaned back against the couch then, shoulders brushing Lexa’s again, her laughter still humming faintly in her chest.

Lexa peeked through her fingers, watching her. Watching how the firelight kissed the corners of Clarke’s mouth, how her eyes still shone like she was caught between amusement and affection.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Lexa let herself relax into the teasing. Let herself belong in it, even when she was the butt of the joke.

Because Raven’s words might have embarrassed her. Octavia’s jabs might have made her want to sink into the floor. But Clarke’s laughter? Clarke’s warmth pressed against her side? That made it worth every single second.

The fire crackled and spat, sparks winking up the chimney like fireflies, as the group sprawled across couches and floor cushions, nursing drinks and half-eaten bowls of popcorn. For a moment, it was light—their laughter blending with the pop of wood, warm and easy. But Lincoln’s voice cut through, low and steady, carrying a weight that pulled Lexa’s gaze from the flames to his face.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, “watching you two this past year… it hasn’t been easy.”

The air shifted. Lexa felt it crawl over her skin, heavy, inevitable.

Octavia groaned dramatically, flopping backward against the rug. “Oh my God, finally someone says it.” She turned her head toward Clarke, then Lexa, her smirk sharp. “You two have been the worst.”

Raven cackled, pointing with her drink. “No, seriously. Try living across the hall from Clarke’s dorm and listening to her stomp around after every fight. You think earplugs help? They don’t. Pretty sure I’ve got permanent trauma.”

Clarke’s face colored, lips twitching like she wanted to bite back, but Lexa’s chest constricted at the image Raven painted. Stomping. Shutting herself away. Had she really been that blind to Clarke’s hurt?

Anya, arms draped lazily over the armrest of her chair, hummed. “You’re not wrong. Lexa was a nightmare at practice. Barking orders like a drill sergeant, snapping at players who didn’t run fast enough. I thought half the team would quit. All because Clarke wouldn’t answer her calls.” Her sharp eyes slid to Lexa, pinning her. “Don’t think I didn’t know why.”

Heat flared in Lexa’s face. She pressed her lips into a thin line, resisting the urge to look away. There was no denying it.

Octavia sat up again, laughter bubbling out. “God, the glares! Lexa, you used to look at any poor guy who talked to Clarke like you were planning his funeral. And Clarke—” she swung her gaze, wicked, toward Clarke “—you weren’t exactly innocent. Showing up to games in those tight little tops just to mess with her? Yeah, don’t even deny it.”

Clarke let out a laugh, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you dare gaslight us,” Octavia shot back, pointing accusingly, while Raven doubled over laughing.

“Yeah, O’s right,” Raven added between snickers. “You wore that red dress to Lexa’s team party and nearly sent her combusting in the corner. Don’t even try to tell me that wasn’t calculated.”

Lexa buried her face in her hands, groaning, ears burning so hot she thought they’d catch fire. “God, kill me now.”

The laughter roared louder, rolling over her, teasing but not cruel. Clarke was giggling beside her, and when Lexa peeked through her fingers, she caught the glint in Clarke’s eyes—warm, mischievous, fond.

But then Lincoln spoke again, tone softer now, cutting through the noise. “The thing is… it wasn’t just amusing. It hurt. Watching you two dance around each other like that, one week all in, the next acting like the other didn’t exist.” He shook his head. “We care about you. Both of you. And when you were tearing each other apart, it felt like we were all stuck in the middle, trying not to get cut by the pieces.”

Lexa’s throat tightened. She wanted to defend herself, to say she hadn’t meant for any of it to spill onto the rest of them—but she couldn’t. Because Lincoln was right.

Raven, quieter now, said, “We were pissed, yeah. But we also… knew. That you weren’t done. Neither of you. If you had been, it wouldn’t have hurt this much. And we wouldn’t be sitting here right now, would we?”

Lexa’s eyes stung, though she blinked it back quickly, swallowing hard. She hadn’t realized the extent of what her silence, her mistakes, had done—not just to Clarke, but to everyone who loved them.

“I didn’t realize,” she forced out, her voice rough, quieter than she meant. “I didn’t realize how much it affected all of you.”

Clarke shifted closer, her shoulder brushing Lexa’s, subtle but grounding. Lexa clung to the touch, even as shame churned in her stomach.

Anya’s eyes softened for once, though her words still carried bite. “That’s because you two were too busy destroying each other to look up and see the wreckage.”

Octavia sighed, though a crooked grin pulled at her mouth. “Yeah, well. We survived. Barely. You’re lucky you’re cute, both of you.”

That cracked the tension. Clarke burst out laughing, bright and warm, and Lexa’s lips twitched despite herself.

Raven clinked her drink against Anya’s with exaggerated flair. “To surviving Clarke and Lexa’s Cold War.”

The group cheered, laughter spilling again, even as Lexa groaned into her hands. Clarke leaned in closer, whispering just low enough for Lexa to hear, “You know they’re never going to let us live this down, right?”

Lexa peeked at her, unable to stop the small grin tugging at her lips. “Unfortunately, I do.”

And then Clarke smiled—really smiled, soft and radiant—and the warmth in Lexa’s chest burned hotter than the fire itself.

The conversation shifted then, the group slipping back into easier banter, teasing stories, confessions softened by laughter. The weight of truth lingered, yes, but it was threaded with something gentler now—like the storm had passed and left them all standing, damp but still together.

For the first time in months, maybe longer, Lexa felt it in her bones: hope.

The laughter rolled on, lighter now, like they’d all silently agreed not to dig too deep anymore. The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing a golden wash across the room as bodies sank into couches and cushions, drowsy with warmth and comfort.

Octavia had stretched herself out across Lincoln’s lap, her head pillowed against his thigh while he idly brushed strands of hair out of her face. She was humming contentedly, eyes half-lidded, but still sharp enough to jab Clarke with, “So, if we’re handing out awards tonight, Clarke definitely wins ‘Most Dramatic Entrances.’ Every time she stormed into practice looking like she was ready to murder someone—always after fighting with you, Lexa, don’t deny it—it made the whole team scatter.”

Raven snorted into her glass. “I was about to put money on her strangling you one of those days, Lexa. Seriously.”

Clarke lifted her chin, mock-offended. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Anya arched a brow, grinning. “Princess, you once walked into the gym, glared at Lexa for five seconds, and left without saying a word. You made the whole damn team freeze like statues.”

That earned another round of laughter, Clarke covering her face with both hands. Lexa couldn’t help it—her lips curved into a grin, wide and helpless. She remembered that day perfectly. Clarke had been furious. She had also been breathtaking.

Lincoln raised his glass lazily. “And Lexa gets ‘Most Stoic Failure,’ for pretending none of this ever got to her when everyone knew it did.”

“I didn’t—” Lexa started, but the protest died quickly under their collective stares. She groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Fine. Maybe I wasn’t as… subtle as I thought.”

“Subtle?” Raven barked a laugh so loud it startled Octavia. “Lexa, you nearly broke my wrench in half once because Clarke was talking to Finn outside the garage. Subtle is not the word I’d use.”

Even Clarke couldn’t hold back at that, laughter bubbling out of her, soft and unrestrained, and the sound struck Lexa like a chord she’d been waiting years to hear again.

The teasing volleyed back and forth, dipping into memories that once felt raw but now came laced with warmth. The edges of old wounds smoothed under the weight of shared laughter. Lexa let herself sink into it, let the rhythm of their voices wash over her.

Every so often, she caught Clarke’s gaze across the circle—eyes soft, crinkled at the corners from smiling—and each time, it anchored her. The storm between them wasn’t gone, not by a long shot. But in these moments, with the fire low and their friends close, it felt survivable.

By the time Raven was half-dozing against Anya’s shoulder and Octavia was openly yawning into Lincoln’s shirt, the room had melted into quiet warmth. Someone poked at the fire, embers glowing bright and lazy.

Clarke stretched beside Lexa, stifling a yawn. Her shoulder brushed against Lexa’s arm, deliberate or not, and Lexa felt it all the way to her ribs.

She leaned in, her voice barely more than a whisper meant only for Clarke. “Ready to call it?”

Clarke’s lips twitched, a small, secret smile playing there. “Yeah. Before they start in on more stories I’ll never live down.”

Lexa pushed herself to her feet, careful not to draw too much attention. Clarke rose with her, casual but close, their shoulders brushing in the firelight.

They murmured quick goodnights, deflecting the smirks and knowing glances from their friends. Raven cracked one eye open just long enough to let out a low, exaggerated wolf-whistle that earned her a swat from Anya.

Lexa felt heat creep up her neck but didn’t pause, letting Clarke guide her toward the hallway. And when Clarke’s hand brushed hers, fingers curling just enough to hold, Lexa’s chest warmed with something softer, steadier than anything she’d felt in months.

For once, slipping away didn’t feel like retreat. It felt like choosing.

The door closed with a soft click, shutting out the warmth of the fire and the hum of their friends’ voices. For the first time all day, Lexa felt her shoulders drop, the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying finally loosening.

She stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle. It was so different from the chaos of earlier—the laughter, the teasing, the confessions that had felt like being flayed open in front of everyone. Here, in this silence, it was just them. Clarke.

She turned, eyes adjusting to the dark room. Clarke was still by the door, her back pressed against it, watching Lexa like she was waiting for her to set the pace. Lexa’s chest tightened at the look in her eyes—guarded, but soft around the edges.

Lexa moved first. She always did. Slow, careful steps across the room until she could reach for the lamp. The light bathed the space in gold, catching Clarke’s hair, painting her skin in warmth. Lexa’s throat worked as she swallowed. How many times had she looked at Clarke like this—like she was the only real thing in a world that moved too fast? Too many. Not enough.

Clarke pushed away from the door, coming toward her. Lexa didn’t breathe, not until she felt Clarke’s fingers brush her arm, sliding down to her wrist. The contact was small, but it lit something steady in her chest. Not fire, not hunger. Anchor.

She lifted her hand almost without thinking, brushing her knuckles along Clarke’s jaw. Her skin was warm, her pulse a flutter just beneath it. Lexa’s thumb caught on a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind Clarke’s ear. She didn’t speak. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray just how much she needed this.

Clarke’s eyes caught hers—blue steady on green—and Lexa felt the weight of it press into her. She saw the exhaustion there, the shadows of words they’d thrown like knives, but under it, something else. Something that looked dangerously like hope.

Her chest pulled tight. Lexa wanted to lean in, to kiss her, to fall into the pattern they always seemed to tumble back into. But Clarke’s hand was gliding across her arm, slow and grounding, and Lexa couldn’t bring herself to ruin it. Not tonight. Not when the silence between them finally felt like breathing instead of drowning.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” Clarke whispered, and the sound of her voice that soft nearly undid Lexa.

She frowned gently, voice low. “Like what?”

“Like we might actually survive this. That it won’t… break us.”

The words cut deep, but not with pain. They cut because Lexa recognized them, because she’d been afraid of the same thing for months. She let out a slow breath, pressing her palm more firmly to Clarke’s cheek. “We might,” she said, quiet but sure. “If we keep holding on.”

Clarke’s hand came up to cover hers, fingers curling over her wrist. Lexa’s chest ached at the feel of it, that silent agreement, that silent promise. She wanted to stay standing there forever.

But eventually, she guided Clarke toward the bed, nudging her gently, no urgency in the touch. Just the quiet plea: stay beside me. Clarke slipped under the blanket, and Lexa followed, settling on her side so they faced each other.

They didn’t collide like they so often did. They didn’t pull each other close until there was no space left. Instead, their hands found each other between them, fingers intertwining slowly. Clarke traced lazy circles over Lexa’s knuckles, while Lexa brushed her thumb over the back of Clarke’s hand, again and again, like a rhythm that could keep her steady.

Lexa let herself look at Clarke fully, eyes tracing the lines of her face, the softness at the corners of her mouth, the way her lashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked slow. She thought about how many nights she had stared at the ceiling, missing this exact thing—the quiet, the closeness, the possibility that they could make it work.

Clarke’s eyes held hers, unflinching, and Lexa saw the same hope reflected back. The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was warm. It was theirs.

By the time Clarke’s eyes drifted shut, Lexa was still watching, her thumb still brushing her skin. She let the warmth of Clarke’s hand in hers settle deep, and for the first time in a long time, Lexa thought maybe—just maybe—they weren’t standing on the edge of ruin. Maybe they were finally finding their way back.

Clarke’s breathing evened out before Lexa’s did.

She could feel it in the way Clarke’s chest rose against the space between them, the faintest rhythm she knew by heart. She remembered nights back in high school, lying tangled up in Clarke’s sheets, pretending to study until they both collapsed into sleep like this. Clarke had always been the first to drift off, and Lexa had always been the one left awake, too restless, too afraid of what the quiet would pull out of her.

Now was no different.

Clarke’s hand was still tangled in hers, warm and solid, her thumb twitching occasionally even in sleep like her body was still trying to reassure Lexa she was there. Lexa stared at the ceiling, the dim light of the lamp casting soft shadows across the beams. Her mind, though, didn’t still.

She thought about what Clarke had said—like we might actually survive this.

It should’ve filled her with relief. Instead, it sat heavy in her chest, a mixture of hope and guilt, joy and fear. Because she wasn’t sure she deserved it. Not after everything. Not after the way she’d let Costia linger too close just to prove a point, not after the nights she’d let anger lead her straight into Clarke’s bed without a word spoken, just hands and mouths and a desperation to feel something other than loss.

Lexa clenched her jaw, eyes squeezing shut. She hadn’t known how else to reach Clarke. Words had always been the battlefield she struggled on, and Clarke deserved words. Clarke deserved honesty, gentleness, explanations. All Lexa had managed to give her were touches—sometimes soft, sometimes sharp, always insufficient.

Her thumb moved absently across Clarke’s knuckles, tracing the curve again and again. Clarke never pulled away. Not then, not now.

That thought alone nearly undid her.

She turned her head, unable to resist looking at Clarke in the pale light. Her hair spilled across the pillow, strands catching golden against the blanket. Her face was relaxed in sleep, the tension from their fight gone, leaving her looking impossibly young, impossibly hers.

Lexa’s chest ached.

She wanted to believe this could be the start of something steady again. That maybe they weren’t doomed to repeat the cycle—distance, jealousy, fights, breakups that never felt final. But a voice deep inside whispered that she might break Clarke again, without meaning to. That football would pull her away. That her inability to say what she felt until it boiled over would ruin them one last time.

She blinked hard, willing the sting in her eyes to fade. She couldn’t cry. Not with Clarke’s hand in hers. Not when Clarke had looked at her tonight like maybe, just maybe, she still trusted her with her heart.

Lexa leaned in, pressing the barest brush of her lips against Clarke’s temple. She let them linger there, breathing her in, grounding herself in the warmth and reality of her.

Her voice barely existed when she whispered, “Don’t let me lose this again.”

Clarke shifted in her sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, her hand tightening briefly around Lexa’s. Lexa’s chest cracked wide open at the instinctive hold. She drew Clarke’s hand closer, pressing it to her chest like it could keep her alive.

For the first time in a long time, the storm in her mind eased, lulled by Clarke’s breathing and the steady beat of hope she didn’t want to admit out loud.

Lexa’s eyes finally slipped closed, the last thought anchoring her as sleep dragged her under: If we can survive this, I’ll make sure she never has to doubt me again.

Chapter 15 Chapter Text

Lexa

The bed was too warm when Lexa woke.

Her hand searched instinctively for Clarke, only to find empty sheets, still faintly warm where she had been. For a moment, panic flickered sharp through Lexa’s chest, but it dulled quickly. Clarke had probably just slipped out to the bathroom or to grab water. Still, the absence left a hollow ache.

Lexa exhaled slowly, steadying herself, and pushed back the covers.

Her body moved on instinct, reaching for the familiar armor: compression leggings, long-sleeve thermal, a thick hoodie, sneakers by the door. Training clothes, winter edition. The motions grounded her. Stretch, tie laces, braid her hair. Routine. Something solid she could control.

Because her mind? That was chaos.

Every word from last night lingered, heavy and jagged. Clarke’s confession, her own, the ache in Clarke’s voice when she asked about Costia, the way relief and pain and hope had collided between them until all they could do was cling. Then the way their friends’ laughter had softened the sharp edges, and the truth they’d been forced to confront—that their breakup hadn’t been just theirs. That everyone had been caught in the blast radius.

Lexa pressed her palms into the windowsill, staring out into the early gray light. Snow had fallen again overnight, frosting the world in silence. The lake stretched ahead like a sheet of glass, the trail curling around it, untouched tracks waiting.

She needed the cold air. The burn in her lungs. The sound of her feet crunching over snow. She needed space to think without Clarke’s steady blue eyes pulling everything raw from her chest.

Lexa slipped quietly out of the cabin, breath fogging instantly in the sharp morning air. The cold bit at her cheeks, but it felt clean. Bracing. She started slow, letting her legs find rhythm against the resistance of packed snow, arms pumping, breath clouding in steady bursts. Each step shook loose the weight on her chest, just a little.

It wasn’t long before she heard another set of footsteps crunching behind her.

“You’re seriously insane,” came Anya’s dry voice. “Who chooses to run when it’s basically the ice age outside?”

Lexa didn’t glance back, though she couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from twitching. “You’re out here too.”

“That’s because I saw you sneaking out and figured if you’re gonna freeze to death, someone should be there to drag your body back.”

Lexa huffed, not quite a laugh. “Touching.”

Anya fell into stride beside her with little effort—her build made for this, strong and sure-footed. For a few beats, the only sound was their synchronized crunch of sneakers against snow, their breaths sharp in the frigid air.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Anya finally asked, not unkindly.

Lexa shook her head. “Too much in my head.”

Anya gave a low hum, like she’d expected that answer. “You and Clarke sure know how to keep everyone entertained.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened. She focused on her breathing, the rhythm of it. In, out, clouds of white.

“You don’t have to talk,” Anya added after a beat. “I just figured—sometimes it’s easier when someone else is around.”

Lexa slowed, enough that the pounding in her chest wasn’t just from the run. She glanced at her cousin, whose eyes were sharp but steady, like she could wait out Lexa’s silence forever.

For a moment Lexa considered brushing it all off. Saying she was fine, that she just needed the air, the trail, the solitude. But her throat ached with all the words she hadn’t been able to say to Clarke last night—words she hadn’t even been able to admit to herself.

And maybe, she realized, Anya was right. Maybe she needed to let some of them out before they ate her alive.

Lexa slowed further, eventually dropping into a jog, then a walk. Her breath still came harsh, white clouds in the morning air. She dragged her hands down her thighs, searching for words.

“She deserves better than me,” Lexa admitted finally, voice low. “And I don’t know how to prove that I can be better. That I can…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Anya didn’t interrupt. She just let Lexa’s words hang, their echoes loud in the empty winter morning.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but weighted—like the lake itself was listening. The world felt untouched, new snow muffling everything but the faint crunch of their feet. Breath fogged white and dissolved. Bare branches stretched overhead, brittle against a pale sky.

Lexa kept her eyes forward, scanning the winding path, letting the rhythm of their pace tether her. One step, another. The world narrowed into that motion. But her thoughts—her thoughts refused to be quiet.

She thought about Clarke’s face the night before, flushed in firelight, blue eyes flickering with exhaustion and stubbornness. About the sharp way she’d asked if Lexa had slept with Costia, and how Lexa had seen herself reflected in Clarke’s hesitation—how they both had been carrying that same ache, that same gnawing doubt, for a year.

She thought about the way relief had softened Clarke’s mouth when Lexa said no.

She thought about the fragile way they had held each other afterward. Not desperate, not reckless, but like two people afraid that if they let go, the whole thing would collapse.

Lexa dragged in a breath, sharp against her lungs.

Because the truth—the part she hadn’t been able to voice last night, not even when Clarke was pressed against her chest—was that she was terrified.

Terrified that this trip wasn’t healing them, only holding them together by threads of old love and new habit. Terrified that Clarke would look at her one morning and realize the weight wasn’t worth carrying anymore. Terrified that no matter what they confessed, no matter how much they peeled themselves open, they’d never find their way back to the people they used to be.

She flexed her fingers absently, watching them curl into fists inside her gloves.

Football had trained her to move through fear. To harness it, to sharpen it into fuel. But this wasn’t the field. There was no playbook here, no whistle to call time-out, no guaranteed second half to make up for a bad first.

And last night had reminded her how much damage she had already done. The photo she sent. The times she’d ignored Clarke’s calls, punishing her because she was angry instead of just saying it. The silence that had stretched like barbed wire between them until all they could do was cut themselves on it.

Lexa’s throat tightened.

Anya didn’t say anything. She just walked beside her, steady, present. And that gave Lexa space to think the thought that scared her most:

That maybe she didn’t know how to love Clarke the right way anymore.

She glanced sideways at her cousin, just briefly. Anya’s eyes were forward, her posture loose, but Lexa knew better. She knew Anya was reading every twitch of her shoulders, every shift in her breath.

She looked away quickly, focusing instead on the trail curling ahead, the snow unbroken.

Her mind betrayed her with memory. Clarke waiting after practice, paint staining her fingers, her smile tired but bright as she leaned against the hood of her car. Clarke’s laughter spilling into her dorm late at night when they should’ve been asleep. Clarke’s hands tracing lines across her ribs like she was a canvas she was learning to know by heart.

And then—Costia. The kiss that wasn’t hers. The look on Clarke’s face the night she saw it, a look Lexa would never forget.

Her chest ached.

She hadn’t been able to tell Clarke the whole truth about that moment last night. Not yet. That maybe some part of her had let it happen because she was angry, because she wanted Clarke to hurt the way she was hurting. Because it was easier to make a mistake than to admit she felt abandoned.

Her jaw clenched. Snow crunched under her shoes.

The quiet between her and Anya thickened, a pressure in her ears, until finally, it started to feel suffocating.

She knew Anya would wait forever. But if she didn’t say something soon, Lexa feared she might choke on her own silence.

The trail stretched quiet around them, blanketed in white. Every step crunched, sharp against the hush of morning. Lexa tried to focus on the rhythm—the steady drag of her breath, the sting of cold air in her lungs, the burn in her throat. But her thoughts refused to still. They spun and circled, louder with every passing minute, until she couldn’t hold them down anymore.

The words broke free before she even meant them to.

“Clarke and I…” Lexa started, her voice low, uneven. Her jaw clenched, as though that might keep the weakness from spilling out. She tried again, slower. “We’ve been… talking. More these past two days than we have in months.”

Anya gave a soft hum, no pressure, just presence. Somehow, that quiet patience made it harder. Lexa’s hands flexed inside her gloves.

“It feels right when we talk. It feels necessary. But…” She trailed off, gaze fixed on the path curving ahead, the snow-laced branches arching over them. “I can’t tell if we’re actually fixing things or just clinging to scraps of what we used to have. Like neither of us is brave enough to admit that maybe it’s over, so we keep… pretending.”

Her throat locked around the words, forcing her to swallow hard.

“I want it to work,” she whispered, almost to herself. “God, I want it to work. But sometimes when she touches me… I don’t know if she’s touching me now or the ghost of who I used to be to her. And I don’t know if I’m doing the same thing.”

Her chest ached, sharp and hollow. She exhaled a shaky breath, mist curling out into the air, vanishing too fast.

“And yesterday morning…” The admission came softer, reluctant. She slowed her pace without realizing, boots crunching quieter now against the packed snow. “She asked me if I’d slept with Costia.”

Anya’s head tilted slightly, a flick of attention, but she didn’t speak. Lexa’s pulse hammered.

“I told her no. Because I didn’t.” Her voice was firmer here, steadier—but it shook again on the next breath. “But I didn’t tell her everything.”

The guilt pressed sharp and jagged against her ribs. She dragged a gloved hand down her face, rough against chilled skin, as if she could scrub it away.

“That night after the Arkadia game, when Costia kissed me—everyone saw it. Clarke saw it. And the truth is…” Lexa’s voice cracked. “For one second, I didn’t stop it. Because I thought Clarke had already kissed Finn.”

The name left her lips like poison, bitter and heavy. Her hands balled into fists inside her gloves, nails biting through fabric.

“I thought—this is it. She’s already crossed that line, already chosen him. And I was the fool, sitting there waiting. So I let it happen. I thought if I hurt her back, maybe it would… even the score somehow.”

Her chest heaved, breaths too fast, too thin. Shame burned hot across her face, her ears.

“But the second it happened, I hated it.” Her voice dropped, trembling. “I hated her for doing it, but I hated myself more for letting it. Because it wasn’t Clarke. It was never going to be Clarke. And all I wanted was her.”

The confession bled out into the silence, thick, heavy, impossible to take back. The frozen lake came into view between the trees, sunlight skating across its glassy surface, brittle and fragile. Just like she felt inside.

“I don’t know if telling her that will help,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, torn. “Or if it’ll destroy us for good.”

At last, she turned her head, forcing herself to meet Anya’s gaze. And in that moment, all the armor was gone. No captain, no leader, no front. Just Lexa—eyes bright with unshed tears she couldn’t let fall, bracing for judgment, terrified she might deserve it.

Anya didn’t say anything right away. Her boots crunched steadily beside Lexa’s, her stride calm, her breath even. Lexa almost wished for her silence to stretch on, to let the confession dissolve into the cold air, unacknowledged. But Anya wasn’t built for that.

Finally, Anya snorted, sharp and low. “You’re a damn idiot, you know that?”

Lexa’s head jerked toward her, eyes narrowing. “Anya—”

“No.” Anya cut her off clean, a gloved finger flicking toward her chest like a blade. “You’re really gonna stand here, pour all that out, and then act like what you and Clarke have isn’t being mended? Please.” She huffed, a white cloud of breath curling between them. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Hell, everyone has. That girl’s eyes go soft and sharp all at once, like she can’t decide if she wants to strangle you or kiss you senseless. And you—you look back like you’ve been starved for air and she’s the only one who knows how to breathe for you.”

Lexa’s throat tightened. She dropped her gaze to the snow, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. “It doesn’t erase what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Anya’s tone was steel, but it wasn’t unkind. “And it shouldn’t. That mess—Costia, Finn, the silence, the fights—it happened. You both screwed up, both bled out on each other. But don’t stand here pretending it’s not changing. Because two people don’t sit pressed together on a couch in front of their friends, looking like the world could fall apart and they’d still only see each other, if nothing’s healing.”

Lexa’s chest twisted at the memory—Clarke tucked against her side, the heat of her thigh searing through fabric, the weight of her laugh brushing warm against her shoulder. She swallowed, hard. “You think that’s enough? That wanting her—loving her—makes up for all the ways we failed?”

Anya scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward like she was asking for patience. “Love isn’t a free pass, Lexa. You know that. But it is the reason you fight to do better. And don’t give me that crap about not knowing if you’re fixing things. Because you are. Slowly, painfully, like stitching up a wound that keeps tearing open again. But you’re stitching it. Together.”

Lexa shook her head, frustrated, a bitter laugh slipping out. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is.” Anya shot her a sharp look, eyes narrowing. “You complicate it. You and Clarke both. You hide behind football and art, you swallow words until they rot inside you, and then you explode like children when it’s too much. But underneath all that noise? It’s simple. She loves you. You love her. You’re either brave enough to fix it or you’re not.”

Lexa bristled, instinct ready to argue, to say it wasn’t that black and white. But Anya cut her off again, voice slicing through.

“And don’t even try to tell me you don’t know if she loves you still,” Anya snapped, reading her like an open book. “Ask Raven. Ask Octavia. They were with her the night Costia kissed you on TV. They saw her face. That wasn’t a girl who didn’t care anymore. That was a girl gutted. And yesterday morning, when she asked you about it—”

Lexa flinched.

“Yeah,” Anya pressed, voice hard. “She asked because she still cares. Because it matters to her. If she was done, if she’d moved on? She wouldn’t have bothered. She’d have let you rot in your own guilt. But she didn’t. She asked. She wanted the truth from you. And that tells me all I need to know.”

Lexa opened her mouth, searching for words, for some edge to hold onto. “She—she doesn’t trust me the way she used to.”

“Good.” Anya’s answer was so swift it stunned Lexa into silence.

Anya’s eyes were sharp, unyielding. “Trust isn’t something you just get to have after breaking it. You earn it back. Day by day. And she’s giving you that chance. Don’t insult her—or yourself—by pretending otherwise.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Lexa blinked against the sting in her eyes, trying to steady the tremor in her breath. The lake stretched wide in front of them now, frozen, gleaming pale in the morning light. Fragile, but whole.

Anya slowed her pace, softened her voice just enough. “You’re stupid if you think this isn’t progress, Heda. Two people don’t look at each other the way you two do lately unless something’s mending. Don’t waste it because you’re too afraid it won’t be perfect.”

For a long moment, Lexa couldn’t answer. Her throat felt raw, scraped clean of excuses. The truth sat heavy, undeniable. And Anya—sharp, steady Anya—just let it hang there, giving her nowhere to hide.

Lexa’s breath clouded in front of her, the silence between her and Anya stretching long enough that the crunch of their boots became the only sound. Her chest felt tight, like the air itself was pressing against her ribs. For a while she thought she might just let the moment end there, let Anya’s words settle without reply. But then—like a crack in ice she couldn’t stop widening—her voice slipped out, low, almost ashamed.

“I still carry it.”

Anya’s head turned sharply, brows pulling together. “Carry what?”

Lexa kept her eyes fixed ahead, the frozen lake glinting pale gold under the morning light. “The ring.” Her fingers twitched instinctively toward her chest, where the chain lay hidden under layers of thermal fabric. “The one I gave her. The one that was supposed to mean forever.”

Anya’s mouth parted, but Lexa pushed on, voice rough. “I’ve had it on me for weeks. Since before this trip. Since I started to feel like—like maybe there was a shift again. Like maybe we weren’t circling the drain anymore. I can’t explain it, but I couldn’t leave it behind.”

Finally, her hand moved. She tugged down the collar of her jacket just enough to slip the chain free, the small, simple band catching what little sun managed to cut through the trees. It gleamed faintly, fragile, and yet so impossibly heavy.

Anya’s eyes flickered from the ring to Lexa’s face, but she didn’t interrupt.

Lexa let out a shaky breath, her throat tight. “But I haven’t seen hers. Not once. Not peeking out from under a shirt, not stashed on a chain, not even tucked into her pocket like it used to be when she was afraid of losing it in the studio. Nothing.” Her jaw clenched, a bitter laugh scraping out of her. “So maybe I’m just being pathetic. Carrying this around like it still means something to her. Like she didn’t let it go when she let me go.”

The ring dangled between them, swaying slightly in the wind. Lexa closed her hand around it, pressing it tight against her chest as if it could steady her racing heart.

Anya exhaled slowly, her sharpness dimmed but not gone. “Lexa.”

Lexa shook her head, forcing the words out, raw and unsteady. “Do you know how many times I’ve almost asked her? Almost said, ‘Do you still have it? Do you still care?’ But I don’t. Because if she says no—if she looks me in the eye and tells me it’s gone—I don’t know if I’ll survive that.”

Her voice cracked, just barely, but enough. She shoved the ring back under her layers, as if hiding it could hide the confession too. “So I keep carrying it. Pretending it still ties us together. Pretending it isn’t just me.”

Anya’s expression softened, though her eyes stayed piercing. She didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to ease the weight with platitudes. Instead, she let the silence sit for a beat, the frozen world around them holding still. Then she said, with that sharp, unflinching clarity only she had:

“You’re wrong.”

Lexa blinked, startled.

“You think Clarke’s the type to just toss something like that away? After five years? After everything?” Anya shook her head, scoffing. “You don’t see her the way the rest of us do, Lex. You’re too close. But I do. Raven does. Octavia does. That girl still carries every piece of you whether you notice it or not. So if you’re holding onto that ring, it’s not pathetic. It’s proof. Of what you want. Of what you’re still fighting for.”

Her voice cut sharper, grounding Lexa whether she wanted it or not. “So stop acting like you’re the only one clinging. Because you’re not.”

Lexa’s chest burned, the truth of it pulling her ribs tight. She wanted to argue, to doubt, but the image of Clarke’s eyes—the way they softened last night when Lexa had finally let herself hold her without fear—rose up unbidden. She swallowed hard, unable to find words.

For the first time since they’d started this walk, it wasn’t the cold that made her shiver.

Chapter 16 Chapter Text

Clarke

The morning had teeth. Clarke could feel it in her bones as soon as she stepped onto the deck. The air was so sharp it almost felt clean, every breath she pulled in stinging her lungs in a way that woke her more than coffee ever could. She was wrapped in layers—two sweaters under her jacket, leggings beneath her jeans, wool socks thick enough to choke her boots. Still, the cold slipped through every crack, biting at her cheeks and reddening the tip of her nose.

She tucked her chin deeper into her scarf, blanket draped over her shoulders like a shield, and settled into the wooden chair with her sketchbook. The pencil found the page before she even decided what to draw. That was how it always happened—her emotions bled out through lines before she could name them.

Her hand was steady, but inside she felt a restless current. Too much had been said these last two days. Too much left unsaid. Every time she thought she could take a full breath, another thought of Lexa’s eyes, Lexa’s words, Lexa’s silences would clamp tight around her chest again.

She was so deep into her sketching that she didn’t hear the sliding door until it clicked shut. Clarke glanced up, pencil pausing, to see Octavia shuffling out onto the deck. Her hair was a mess, dark strands falling into her face, and she was drowning in one of Lincoln’s hoodies. The mug of coffee in her hand sent ribbons of steam into the frigid air.

Octavia’s eyes softened when they landed on Clarke. “Lincoln’s making breakfast. Coffee’s almost ready. Raven’s still dead to the world. Anya’s gone.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, lips quirking faintly. “Which probably means she followed Lexa. Wherever Lexa goes to punish herself at dawn.”

Clarke’s lips twitched in something like a smile, though she didn’t lift her eyes from the page. She hummed quietly, pencil scratching again, her shoulders hunched under the blanket.

Octavia dropped into the chair across from her, curling one leg beneath herself. She sipped her coffee, watching Clarke with that sharp, knowing stare. For a few minutes, she let the silence hold. But Clarke could feel it, the way Octavia was coiling words on her tongue, waiting for the right moment to slip them free.

Finally, Clarke let out a sigh. She leaned back in her chair, the blanket sliding down one shoulder, and lifted her sketchbook. “Here,” she muttered, turning it toward Octavia.

Octavia leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she studied the page.

The sketch wasn’t Lexa, not exactly, but there was no mistaking her. The strong cut of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders, the weight in her eyes. But Clarke hadn’t drawn her stoic or unreadable the way Lexa usually presented herself. She’d drawn her tired. Fragile. Carrying something too heavy for too long.

Clarke stared at the image herself, throat tightening. “I don’t even know when I started this,” she admitted. “But I think it says everything I haven’t been able to.”

Octavia’s mouth twisted into something halfway between sympathy and pride. “You always did draw her different,” she said softly. “Like you were the only one who could see what was really under all that armor.”

Clarke huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t bitter. Just… small. She lowered the sketchbook again, pressing her hand flat against the cover like she was sealing the image away. Her eyes drifted toward the tree line, the pines frosted white and unmoving.

“I feel like things are finally looking up,” she said after a long moment. “And I wasn’t lying last night when I told everyone we were working on it. Because we are. But—” her jaw clenched, her voice thinning with frustration, “I can feel the hesitation from her. Like she’s holding something back. Like she’s afraid to believe it.”

Her laugh cracked out of her before she could stop it, humorless and sharp. She flipped the sketchbook open again, pencil moving hard and fast. “It’s so Lexa. Always in her head. Always punishing herself.”

Octavia didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, just let her keep going.

“She thinks everything she’s done is unforgivable,” Clarke pressed, pencil gouging lines deeper into the page than she intended. “That she’s the villain in all of this. And me?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “She thinks I get a free pass. Like whatever I did doesn’t even measure against her mistakes.”

The pencil slipped from her hand, clattering against the wood. Clarke leaned back, eyes burning. “It’s bullshit. She’s wrong. I know she’s wrong. Because I hurt her just as much as she hurt me. I know it. But she won’t let herself believe that.”

Her voice dropped, raw. “She’s carrying all of it herself. The guilt, the blame, every shard of what we broke. And it scares me, O. Because if she keeps holding it like that, if she keeps drowning herself in it, I don’t know if she’ll ever see me. Not really. Not standing here, still fighting for us. Wanting to carry it with her.”

The words cracked in the cold air, disappearing into the frost like they weren’t supposed to linger. Clarke felt wrung out, chest heavy, heart too exposed.

Octavia finally set her mug down on the railing, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Her voice was gentler than Clarke expected, but no less fierce. “Clarke, you’re right. She does that. She always has. Shoulders the whole damn world until she collapses under it. But don’t forget—” Octavia tilted her head, lips tugging into a sharp smile, “—you’re the only one who’s ever been able to pull her out of it.”

Clarke swallowed hard, her throat tight.

Octavia sat back, sipping from her mug again. “Look, Lexa might be scared. She might still be punishing herself. But I’ve watched her. I’ve seen the way she looks at you now, the way she’s been… softer. Different. You’ve got her, Clarke. You always have. She just hasn’t realized she’s allowed to have you too.”

Clarke let her hand drift across the closed sketchbook again, fingers brushing the worn cover. She didn’t answer, not right away. But something in her chest eased, like maybe—for once—she could believe Octavia was right.

Clarke leaned back in her chair, blanket slipping lower against her arms. The morning air seeped into her, cold and clean, grounding her as she stared out toward the lake. Octavia didn’t say anything right away, didn’t rush to fill the silence. She just sipped her coffee and studied Clarke like she was bracing herself to say something heavier.

Finally, Octavia let out a quiet sigh. “You know,” she said, voice softer than Clarke expected, “you’re not wrong. About her punishing herself. But you do the same thing, Clarke. Just… differently.”

Clarke blinked at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Octavia tilted her head, eyes narrowing a little as if she was choosing her words carefully. “When you two broke up, you didn’t collapse. You didn’t spiral. You buried yourself in your art. In late nights at the studio. In pretending you were fine. You punished yourself by pretending you weren’t hurting, when we could all see that you were.”

Clarke pressed her lips together, a lump forming in her throat.

“And yeah,” Octavia continued, more steady now, “Lexa’s the one who always looks like she’s carrying the world on her shoulders. But you? You carry it by hiding. By putting on this front that you’re okay when you’re not. It’s the same coin, Clarke. Just flipped.”

Clarke stared down at her hands, fingers picking absently at the edge of the blanket. She hated how true it sounded.

Octavia leaned forward, voice low but firm. “And I know you think Lexa doesn’t forgive herself. But I also know you’re not giving yourself enough credit for the ways you hurt too. You’re right—you did just as much damage. But you’re not owning it to yourself. You’re waiting for her to say it out loud so you don’t have to.”

The words hit sharp, but not cruel. Octavia never pulled punches, but she didn’t need to. Clarke felt them sink into her chest, settling somewhere she’d been avoiding.

Clarke scoffed weakly, but it cracked at the edges. “So what? We’re both disasters, and everyone else just had to sit back and watch us self-destruct?”

Octavia let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Pretty much.” Then, softer: “But you’ve always been worth it. Both of you. Even when you drove us insane.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from Clarke, the kind that twisted her chest with warmth and ache all at once.

Octavia sat back, blowing on her coffee. “You want to know what I saw, Clarke? I saw you, every time Lexa walked into a room. No matter how pissed you were, no matter how broken you two were, your eyes would find her. Every time. Like you couldn’t stop yourself. And I saw Lexa do the exact same thing. Even when she was pretending she didn’t care.”

Clarke’s heart thudded painfully, a mix of guilt and longing swelling in her chest.

“You both hurt each other,” Octavia said firmly. “No one’s denying that. But don’t you dare think for a second that you weren’t both in it the whole time. You couldn’t let go, even when you thought you had. And that’s why you’re sitting here now, Clarke. Because whatever the hell this is between you—it’s not done.”

Clarke swallowed hard, throat tight as she stared at Octavia.

“And for the record?” Octavia smirked, tilting her head toward the sketchbook resting in Clarke’s lap. “That’s not the kind of thing you draw about someone you’re just… clinging to out of habit. That’s love, Clarke. Messy, brutal, stupid love. But it’s love.”

The word landed like a blow and a balm all at once. Clarke felt her eyes sting, but for the first time in days, maybe weeks, she didn’t fight it. She let the warmth of it settle into her chest, let the ache feel a little less heavy.

Octavia grinned when Clarke didn’t immediately argue back. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She sipped her coffee, smug but kind. “You two might still be figuring it out, but from where I’m sitting? You’ve already started fixing it. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

Clarke shook her head, a choked laugh spilling out of her. “God, I hate when you sound this smart.”

“Get used to it,” Octavia shot back with a smirk. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

Clarke leaned back in her chair again, blanket pulled up around her chin. She let herself breathe. Really breathe. For the first time that morning, the air didn’t burn quite as much.

Clarke let out a slow breath, gaze fixed on the lines she’d sketched, shading dark and heavy across the page. The drawing didn’t feel like release anymore—it felt like reflection, like all the weight she couldn’t put into words had spilled out in graphite.

Octavia leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching her. “You know what else I saw, Clarke?”

Clarke glanced up, wary. “Do I want to?”

“Probably not,” Octavia said with a wry smile. “But you need to hear it.”

Clarke rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Octavia sat back, folding her arms. “When you and Lexa split, you told yourself it was because she was too wrapped up in football. That she was too distracted. That she didn’t notice you anymore. And sure, there was some truth to that. But you…” She shook her head, letting out a short laugh. “You didn’t see yourself, Clarke. You didn’t see how checked out you looked half the time.”

Clarke frowned, defensive instinct pricking at her chest. “I wasn’t checked out. I was—”

“—hurting. I know.” Octavia cut in sharply. “But that’s the thing—you shut down. You smiled at everyone else, but with her? You went cold. And you didn’t even notice it.”

The words stung, but Clarke bit her tongue.

Octavia softened, though her eyes stayed firm. “Even Lexa didn’t notice it right away. She thought you were just tired, or busy, or stressed. But I saw it. I saw how you started looking away when she laughed. How you’d get this hard edge in your eyes when she missed a dinner, or didn’t text back right away. And instead of saying something, instead of owning that you were pissed, you stuffed it down and made her guess. And Clarke…” She sighed. “She’s smart, yeah. But she’s not a mind reader.”

Clarke’s chest tightened, a sick twist of guilt rolling through her stomach.

“And the worst part?” Octavia leaned forward again, pinning her with that unwavering gaze. “You wanted her to notice. You wanted her to chase it out of you. But when she tried, you brushed it off. Said it was fine. Said you didn’t care. God, Clarke, you wanted her to fight you for the truth, but you never gave her a chance.”

Clarke gripped her pencil tighter, knuckles whitening. “That’s not fair—”

“It’s true,” Octavia interrupted, no malice in her tone, just blunt certainty. “And don’t get me wrong, Lexa had her own crap. She should’ve pushed harder. She should’ve trusted what she felt instead of shutting down into herself. But you can’t sit here and act like you didn’t make it impossible sometimes. You can’t act like you didn’t want her to do the work for you.”

Clarke looked away, jaw tight. She hated how right it sounded.

Octavia let the silence stretch, then spoke softer. “I never said any of this before because… well, you’re my best friend. When you wanted to rant, I let you rant. When you wanted to pretend Lexa was the villain, I let you. Because that’s what best friends do—they pick a side. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re full of shit. And you were full of shit sometimes, Clarke.”

That pulled Clarke’s gaze back, blue eyes narrowing, but Octavia only smirked faintly.

“You wanted me to hate her with you, so I played along. I entertained your delulu. I let you cry on my shoulder and scream about how unfair it was. And yeah, sometimes I didn’t agree with you, but I bit my tongue. Because you needed someone to listen, not someone to tell you you were wrong.”

Clarke felt the sting of tears press at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Octavia’s voice softened further. “But I’m not biting my tongue anymore. Not now. Because if you really want to fix this, Clarke, you need to stop waiting for Lexa to lay out all your sins for you. You need to own them. Say them. To yourself. To her. Stop pretending you were just the girl who got left behind, because that’s not the truth. You cut pieces out of this relationship too.”

Clarke pressed her fist to her mouth, exhaling hard against it.

Octavia leaned back again, giving her space but not letting her wriggle free. “You think Lexa’s punishing herself? Sure. She always does. But you punish yourself in quieter ways, and you punish her by never saying what you really mean until it’s already festered too long. And if you don’t admit that to her? If you don’t let her hear that you know what you did? Then all of this?” She gestured vaguely between Clarke and the sketchbook. “It’s just running in circles. And you both deserve better than that.”

Clarke swallowed hard, throat raw, the weight of Octavia’s words pressing into her chest like a truth she’d been dodging for far too long.

“Clarke,” Octavia added, gentler now, “you love her. That’s obvious. But you’ve got to stop acting like love makes you the victim. Love makes you responsible. For yourself, for her, for what you do to each other. You want her to stop punishing herself? Then stop hiding. Admit you hurt her too. Out loud. No more waiting for her to drag it out of you.”

Clarke sat in silence, pencil loose between her fingers, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the world for a beat.

And for the first time, she couldn’t find a way to argue.

Clarke stayed quiet for a long moment after Octavia’s last words, the sound of her pencil scratching faintly against the page until even that noise faded. Her hand stilled, suspended above the paper, the sketch unfinished.

She finally let out a bitter chuckle, not looking up. “God, O, you always know how to cut through me like a knife.”

“That’s because you let me,” Octavia said simply, sitting back with a satisfied shrug.

Clarke tilted her head, finally glancing up. “Maybe because I know you won’t let me get away with anything. Not really.”

Octavia smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You’re damn right I won’t.”

The back door creaked open then, and Lincoln stepped out with two mugs in hand. Steam curled into the morning chill, carrying the earthy scent of coffee. His calm eyes met theirs, a small, polite smile tugging at his lips. “You both looked like you could use this.”

Clarke blinked at him, startled by the sudden warmth offered, and then felt Octavia’s elbow jab lightly against her arm as Lincoln set the cups down.

“Thanks,” Clarke said softly, wrapping her hands around the mug.

Lincoln gave her that quiet, reassuring look that always seemed to see more than it said. He turned slightly, ready to go back inside, but Octavia’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, tugging him toward the chair beside her. “Sit.”

He raised a brow. “O—”

“Sit!” Octavia said again, grinning ear to ear. “Trust me.”

With a small shake of his head and the faintest of amused sighs, Lincoln lowered himself into the chair, glancing between the two women with patient curiosity.

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

Octavia pointed a finger at Lincoln, her grin wicked now. “Practice.”

“Practice what?” Clarke asked warily.

Octavia leaned forward, practically glowing with mischief. “Say it. To him. Everything you’ve been dancing around. Pretend he’s Lexa.”

Clarke’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not even a little.” Octavia sat back, smug.

Lincoln lifted his hands in mild protest. “Clarke, you really don’t have to—”

“No, no,” Octavia cut in, wagging her finger. “She does. Because I had to run interference for her a hundred times this year. All those times she needed help sneaking out of Lexa's dorm house? Guess who got stuck playing the valiant knight. Guess who had to distract the dorm attendants. So yeah, Clarke owes me this moment of pure entertainment.”

Clarke groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

Clarke muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like ‘this is payback’ before letting out a long, resigned sigh. She turned slowly toward Lincoln, who was watching her with that calm, steady patience that somehow made her feel both safe and exposed at the same time.

“Fine,” Clarke said. “Let’s just… get this over with.”

Lincoln inclined his head, voice gentle. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Clarke’s throat tightened, the weight of words she’d been carrying pressing against her ribs. She glanced down at her sketchbook again, then forced herself to look up—at Lincoln, but beyond him, into the image of Lexa she painted in her mind.

“I hurt you,” Clarke began, her voice rough at the edges. “And I know I did. Not just once, not just in the fight we had before everything ended. But in all those little moments before. I shut down. I pulled away. I made you guess what was wrong instead of just saying it.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on.

“I wanted you to notice. To fight for me. But when you tried, I brushed you off. I made you think it was fine. And I told myself that was your failure, not mine. That you should’ve known. That you should’ve read me anyway. But the truth is—I didn’t make it possible for you. And I… punished you for it.”

Octavia was watching her with wide eyes now, lips pressed together, but Clarke didn’t dare look at her too long.

“I let myself believe I was the one left behind,” Clarke continued, softer now, “when really… I was the one leaving in little pieces every day. I kept score in my head—how many times you missed dinner, how many times you didn’t call back—but I never once admitted how many times I chose my art over you. How many times I stayed at the studio instead of coming home. How many times I told myself my dreams were more important in that moment than us.”

She exhaled sharply, chest tight.

“I wanted you to fight harder. To never let me slip away. But I never admitted I was slipping away too. That I was making it impossible for us to hold on.”

Silence lingered, heavy but not suffocating. Clarke’s heart pounded, her palms damp against her mug.

Lincoln gave a slow nod, voice low. “That’s… a lot of truth, Clarke.”

Clarke huffed out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s about time.”

Octavia smirked, leaning back with her coffee. “See? That wasn’t so bad. And now you’ve had practice. No excuses later.”

Clarke shot her a glare, though there was no heat in it. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Lincoln, ever the steady anchor, offered Clarke a small, encouraging smile. “Lexa will want to hear that. From you. Not just hints, not just what she thinks you mean. The way you said it now.”

Clarke’s chest tightened again, but this time with something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Clarke stared at Lincoln, throat tight. His patience only made it harder. He didn’t flinch, didn’t laugh, didn’t give her an out. He just sat there with that steady calm that said: I can take this. So say it.

She swallowed hard. “I—” Her voice caught, and she laughed bitterly, running a hand down her face. “God, this is ridiculous.”

“Nope,” Octavia said brightly, sipping her coffee like it was popcorn at a show. “It’s riveting. Keep going.”

Clarke shot her a glare, but Lincoln just gave the smallest nod, encouraging.

Clarke exhaled shakily, forcing herself to look straight at him, to see Lexa in the set of his shoulders, in the quiet strength of his gaze.

“You think you ruined us,” she said, the words trembling on the way out. “I know you do. Because that’s what you always do—you take every broken thing and stack it all on your own shoulders like it’s yours to carry. Like you’re the only one who failed. But you’re not. I failed too.”

Her voice grew steadier with each word, sharper, truer.

“I made you feel like you weren’t enough. Like nothing you did would measure up. And I—I hate myself for that. Because you were enough. You’ve always been enough.” Her eyes burned, but she didn’t look away. “It was me who wasn’t. I didn’t trust you enough to tell you when I was drowning. I thought if I said it out loud, it would make me weak. So I let it rot inside me and then I blamed you for not saving me.”

Lincoln’s jaw tightened just barely, not from judgment, but because he was holding the weight of her words like Lexa would have. Like a wall that didn’t crumble.

Clarke leaned forward slightly, her hands tightening on the edge of her sketchbook. “And then, when we broke, I wanted you to hurt the way I did. I wanted you to feel it. So I played games. I made you jealous. I—I wore things I knew would get under your skin. I left pieces of myself behind in your space, like landmines. So you couldn’t escape me even when you tried.”

Octavia let out a low whistle. “Finally admitting that one, huh?”

“Shut up,” Clarke muttered, but there was no bite in it. She took a shaky breath and kept her eyes on Lincoln. “I did all of that because I couldn’t admit how terrified I was. Because if you didn’t fight for me, if you didn’t chase me, then maybe it meant you didn’t want me. And if I said the words myself, then I’d have to face the truth of what I did. So I punished you instead.”

Her chest rose and fell too fast now, but she didn’t stop.

“And you—God, you still made space for me. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I made it impossible. You still…” Her throat closed, and she shook her head. “You still loved me. And that’s what made it hurt the most, because I couldn’t figure out why. I couldn’t figure out how you could.”

The silence that followed stretched long. Clarke’s heart thundered in her ears, and for a moment she thought she might break apart under the weight of her own words.

Then Lincoln leaned forward, his voice even, almost soft. “And if she were here right now? If Lexa were the one sitting across from you instead of me? What do you want her to take from all of that?”

Clarke blinked rapidly, her vision blurring. She dragged in a shaky breath, forcing the words past the knot in her chest.

“That I never stopped,” she whispered. “Even when I was angry, even when I hated you, I never stopped loving you. Not once. Not for a second.”

Her voice broke, but she pushed through it, her whole body trembling with the release. “And I don’t want to keep punishing you anymore. Or myself. I just want us to be us again. Not perfect. Not pretending. Just… us. Whatever that looks like now.”

Octavia was quiet, for once, her smirk gone and her eyes suspiciously shiny.

Lincoln nodded once, firmly, as if sealing her words in stone. “That’s what you tell her. Exactly like that. No games. No deflection. Just that.”

Clarke let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her hands loosening on the sketchbook. She slumped back in her chair, drained but lighter, like something had been pulled out of her chest at last.

Octavia gave a little hum, a lopsided smile tugging at her lips. “Well, look at that. Clarke Griffin, professional talker-through-other-people. You’ll survive telling Lexa after all.”

Clarke groaned, hiding her face in her hands, though a weak laugh slipped out. “I hate you so much right now.”

“You love me.”

Clarke peeked at her through her fingers, voice muffled. “Unfortunately.”

Chapter 17 Chapter Text

Clarke

The crunch of boots on snow had Clarke lifting her head before Octavia even motioned. She didn’t need the signal—she felt it, like the invisible pull that always seemed to tighten whenever Lexa was near. Still, when Octavia tipped her chin toward the edge of the trees with that mischievous grin, Clarke found herself smiling too, soft and unguarded, her hand lifting in a small wave.

Lexa looked up at the movement, her eyes locking onto Clarke’s like it was instinct. She didn’t smile—Lexa never smiled big in public—but the corner of her mouth curved the way Clarke had always secretly loved, subtle and warm, just for her.

Beside her, Anya trudged along, muttering something about frost in her eyelashes. By the time they reached the deck, Anya let out a low groan, rolling her shoulders. “Unbelievable. Raven is still asleep. I swear, if she doesn’t get up in the next ten minutes, I’m dumping a bucket of snow on her.”

Clarke snorted, tucking her sketchbook closer to her chest. “She’ll kill you in your sleep for that.”

Anya only grinned, wolfish. “Worth it.” She pushed past them with a mock salute. “Anyway, I’m going to rouse the dead.”

Octavia was already standing, brushing snow off her jeans. “And I’m going to help Lincoln before he burns breakfast.” She threw Clarke one last pointed look, the kind of look that screamed don’t waste this before heading inside.

Just like that, Clarke and Lexa were left alone on the deck.

The silence stretched at first, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was thick, charged, the way silence always seemed to be with them. Clarke tilted her head, breaking it with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“So,” she said, blue eyes glinting as she studied Lexa, “did Anya give you as much of a lecture as Octavia gave me? Because if we’re keeping score, I think my ears are still ringing.”

Lexa’s brows arched faintly as she came closer, her mouth tugging into that wry almost-smile again. “She doesn’t lecture,” Lexa said, low and dry. “She… cuts.”

Clarke laughed, a real one, light and bright in the cold morning air. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lexa sank down into the chair beside her, the scrape of wood against wood muffled by the snow underfoot. She settled with that deliberate kind of grace Clarke always noticed, even now, and for a long moment she didn’t look at Clarke at all. Her eyes had caught on the sketchbook in Clarke’s lap.

Clarke froze as Lexa leaned forward, gloved fingers brushing against the edge before gently pulling it toward her. She opened it to the page Clarke had been working on earlier—the one she hadn’t meant for anyone to see just yet.

Lexa studied it silently. Her green eyes moved over every line, every curve of graphite on paper, her expression unreadable in that way that used to drive Clarke crazy.

Clarke chewed her bottom lip, her chest tight. Finally, she said quietly, “You know you can’t really hide from me, right?”

Lexa’s head tilted slightly, but her eyes never left the page. “Is that what this is? Me hiding?”

Clarke shifted in her seat, her blanket slipping off one shoulder. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t. “You think you can carry everything in silence, that no one sees. But I see it. I always have. Even when I didn’t want to.” Her voice softened, earnest now. “And sometimes, it’s easier to draw it than to say it. But it’s the same thing. It’s you, Lexa. It’s always been you.”

That made Lexa’s gaze finally lift. Her green eyes met Clarke’s, sharp and soft all at once, her fingers still resting on the edge of the sketchbook like it was tethering her.

For a long moment, Lexa said nothing. The winter air seemed to hold still around them, breath turning into small clouds between them. Then, barely above a whisper, she asked, “Do you really mean that? That it’s always been me?”

Clarke’s throat felt thick, but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said simply. “Even when I was angry. Even when I hated you. It was still you.”

Lexa blinked once, slowly, as though absorbing it, and Clarke thought—no, she knew—that the words had landed. That something in Lexa’s rigid stillness had cracked, just enough for the warmth to start seeping through.

Lexa’s gaze lingered on her, longer than Clarke could stand, longer than she thought she deserved. The sketchbook still lay open in her lap, the lines of her drawing exposed between them, but Clarke barely cared anymore. It was Lexa’s eyes—softened now, wide in a way Clarke rarely saw—that stole the air right out of her lungs.

Lexa’s hand shifted, the barest movement, her gloved thumb brushing across the paper as though grounding herself. Then her voice came, low and unsteady.

“I don’t… know how you can still look at me like that,” she admitted, eyes flicking back down to the sketch. “Like I’m worth putting on paper. Worth capturing.”

Clarke’s chest ached. “Because you are.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching there, but her silence wasn’t dismissal. It was deliberation. She always weighed her words as though they might shatter if spoken wrong.

“I’ve made it harder than it needed to be,” Lexa finally said, quieter now, a confession slipping out like steam in the cold. “And maybe I thought if I stayed quiet, if I kept everything inside, I could spare you the worst of me. But you… you don’t let me. You never have.”

Clarke leaned forward, blanket slipping down further, exposing the knit sleeve of her sweater. Her fingers, almost without thinking, found Lexa’s wrist where it rested on the sketchbook. Just a touch—warm skin against leather.

“Because the silence was worse,” Clarke whispered. “It always was. Do you know how many nights I would’ve rather heard you scream at me than sit in that distance we created? You weren’t sparing me, Lexa. You were drowning me.”

The words landed heavy, and Clarke half expected Lexa to flinch. But instead, Lexa let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging under some invisible weight. She looked at Clarke like the words both hurt and healed, a mirror to the same wound they both carried.

“You deserved more than the version of me I gave you this past year,” Lexa murmured. “All those late nights when I didn’t call, when I didn’t show up—I told myself I was giving you space, but really, I was afraid. Afraid you’d already moved on. Afraid that if I reached out, I’d find nothing waiting on the other side.”

Clarke’s hand tightened over Lexa’s wrist, her voice trembling now. “And I told myself I hated you for not reaching out. But I was just as afraid. So I hid in my art instead, told myself it was enough. But it wasn’t. Nothing was.”

The silence between them now wasn’t heavy—it was raw. Bare. The kind that scraped away the last of their defenses until only the truth remained.

Lexa finally pulled her gaze from the sketch, closing the book gently and setting it back into Clarke’s lap. She didn’t release Clarke’s wrist though. Instead, she shifted, their knees brushing, her hand sliding down until their fingers tangled loosely together.

“I don’t want to keep hiding from you,” Lexa admitted, voice rough. “Not anymore.”

Clarke swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion. “Then don’t.”

Lexa exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years. The faintest smile ghosted over her lips, but it wasn’t the careful, practiced kind Clarke had grown used to. It was small, hesitant, but real.

The world beyond the deck was quiet—the snow still falling softly, the house hushed behind them—but Clarke barely noticed. She only saw Lexa. Only felt the press of their fingers, the warmth seeping into her even through the cold.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Clarke thought: maybe we’ll be okay.

Clarke inhaled, slow and sharp, like the cold air might give her courage. The deck was hushed except for the faint groan of wood under shifting snow and the steady fall of flakes beyond them. She felt Lexa’s fingers still twined with hers, warm, grounding, steady in a way her voice wasn’t yet.

Her chest rose and fell, but she forced the words out anyway.

“I know what you’re doing,” Clarke said softly, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “You’re carrying all of this like it’s only yours to bear. Like if you keep blaming yourself hard enough, then somehow it’ll erase what I did. Like forgiving me is easier than forgiving yourself.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.

Clarke finally looked up, meeting those green eyes that always cut her open. “But that’s not fair. And it’s not true. Because I wasn’t some innocent bystander in all of this, Lexa. I failed you too. I failed us.”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The words spilled like they’d been waiting years to finally surface.

“I chose my art over you, more times than I want to admit. I stayed late at the studio knowing we had plans. I brushed off your jealousy when Finn kept circling like some vulture, because it was easier than dealing with the truth of it. Easier than facing what it was doing to us.”

Lexa’s eyes flickered, pain flashing like lightning across her face, but Clarke pressed on. Her throat burned, her chest ached, but she kept her gaze locked.

“And I let myself resent you for football. For being too busy. For not showing up when I wanted you to, even though I knew how much it mattered, how much you’d worked for it. I didn’t give you grace. I didn’t fight for you when it got hard. I just… let the distance swallow us.”

Her voice dropped lower, softer, like she was finally confessing something to the bone. “And I hated myself for it. But instead of admitting that, I punished you. With silence. With coldness. With games I shouldn’t have played.”

The admission left Clarke trembling, the chill biting at her skin even through the blanket. But she didn’t look away. Not this time. Not anymore.

Lexa’s hand twitched against hers, her fingers tightening like she needed something solid to hold onto. Her lips parted, but Clarke cut her off gently, leaning forward, her words almost a plea.

“You don’t get to shoulder all the blame, Lexa. You don’t. Because I broke us too. Maybe just as much as you did. And I’m done pretending that I didn’t.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with everything they hadn’t said for months. Their breath mingled in the frigid air between them, visible proof of just how close they were, how alive this conversation was.

Clarke could see Lexa’s eyes shining, the green turned storm-dark, her throat working as though she was trying to swallow down everything threatening to spill out.

The charged weight of it nearly made Clarke cave—made her want to throw herself into Lexa’s arms and bury it all under the warmth of her skin. But she held steady. She’d promised herself, promised them, that they wouldn’t run this time. Not from the truth.

So she just sat there, fingers tangled in Lexa’s, chest open and aching, waiting.

The words hung between them like smoke, curling and refusing to fade. Clarke’s chest felt raw, scraped clean from the inside out, but she didn’t stop—because if she stopped now, she’d never start again.

Her fingers twitched against Lexa’s, and she pulled in a shaky breath. “When I told Octavia this morning… I realized how much I’ve let you do all the bleeding for us. I let you take on the guilt. I let you wear it like armor while I pretended I was just… collateral damage. But that was a lie. And I’m done lying to myself about it.”

Lexa blinked, slow, her expression unreadable. Clarke’s stomach twisted. But she pressed on.

“I punished you,” she whispered, the words sharp in the cold air. “I iced you out, blocked your number, walked past you on campus like you didn’t exist—because I wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. I wanted you to feel it. And that wasn’t fair, Lexa. That wasn’t love. That was cruelty.”

The last word landed heavy. Her throat closed up, but Clarke forced herself not to look away.

She bit her lip, her voice dropping even lower. “And Finn… I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve listened to you. But instead I let him hover, let him orbit me when you weren’t there. Not because I wanted him, but because some messed-up part of me wanted you to see. Wanted you to notice, to react. Like I was dangling him there to test if you still cared.”

Lexa’s jaw ticked, but she stayed silent, and Clarke felt her heart pound harder.

“I told myself he was harmless,” Clarke went on, bitter at herself. “But it wasn’t harmless, was it? Not to you. Not to us. I let him close enough that you doubted me, doubted us. And I can’t take that back. I can’t erase how much it must’ve felt like betrayal every time he waved too hard or stood too close.”

Her hands were trembling now, so she pulled one free, swiping it quickly over her eyes before her tears froze in the air. She steadied herself with another breath, staring out at the lake as though it could give her strength.

“And when you didn’t show up—when football took you away from me—I didn’t give you the grace you deserved. I blamed you for chasing your dream, even though I was doing the exact same thing. Staying late at the studio, canceling plans, letting my work become my whole world. I wanted you to bend around me, but I wouldn’t bend around you. How is that fair?”

Her voice cracked again, and she let out a shaky laugh, more broken than amused. “It wasn’t. It was selfish. I was selfish.”

Finally, she turned back to Lexa. The look in her eyes was fierce despite the wetness clinging to her lashes. “So stop pretending I’m some victim you wronged beyond repair. Stop forgiving me for things you won’t forgive yourself for. Because I broke us too. Just as much as you did. Maybe more.”

The silence after felt endless. Clarke could feel her pulse thudding in her throat, her skin prickling from both the cold and the sheer vulnerability of what she’d just laid down at Lexa’s feet.

She leaned back in her chair, but her gaze never wavered from Lexa’s. “That’s the truth, Lexa. All of it. And I needed you to hear it from me—not from Octavia, not from anyone else. From me.”

Her chest rose and fell, and for the first time in months, maybe years, Clarke felt stripped bare in a way that wasn’t just about hurt—it was about honesty. Brutal, unflinching honesty.

She waited, every muscle tight with anticipation, for Lexa to breathe, to speak, to do something. But in the stillness, Clarke realized something: she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of losing Lexa, not of hearing the worst. She’d already torn herself wide open. There was nothing left to hide.

The quiet between them was almost unbearable. Clarke could hear it—could feel it—the heavy, aching silence like snow settling over the lake. She had thrown everything out, ripped herself raw, and now she waited, half-dreading, half-hoping for Lexa to move, to say something.

Her eyes searched Lexa’s face the way an artist studies a canvas. Every flicker of her lashes, the twitch in her jaw, the way her lips pressed together just a little too tightly. Clarke catalogued it all, looking for any sign of what storm she might have stirred up inside Lexa.

Her stomach twisted. Was Lexa angry? Relieved? Disgusted? Did she see Clarke differently now that all the truth was laid bare? The anticipation gnawed at her insides until it almost hurt to breathe.

Clarke’s heart hammered in her ears. She thought back to last night, the way Lexa had curled into her, the way her touch had been grounding instead of hungry. She thought of Lexa’s confession—the promise ring, the guilt, the endless weight she carried alone. And she realized she was afraid. Afraid that this silence wasn’t processing—it was a wall, the kind Lexa could build in an instant and never let down again.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. A hundred thoughts raced through her head, all tangled together: Say something. Please. Hate me. Forgive me. Just… don’t sit there and say nothing.

Then, at last, Lexa shifted. A small movement—her hand tightening on the armrest, her shoulders drawing in like she was trying to contain something too big for her body. When she finally looked up, her green eyes were bright, wet at the corners. The sight made Clarke’s chest seize.

And Lexa’s voice, when it finally came, was so quiet Clarke almost didn’t catch it.

“I hear you,” she said, each word deliberate, heavy. “And… I believe you.”

Clarke’s breath caught, a sharp, involuntary gasp of relief.

Lexa blinked, a single tear slipping free despite the way she clenched her jaw. A quiet, ragged sob broke out of her—half-swallowed, like she hated giving it air.

That was all it took. Clarke surged forward out of her chair, abandoning her sketchbook, and closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. She wrapped her arms around Lexa’s shoulders, holding her like if she let go even for a second the whole world would collapse. Lexa didn’t resist. She fell into Clarke’s arms with the same desperate force, clutching her back like she was afraid Clarke might vanish.

For a long time, they didn’t speak. They just clung to each other, breaths mingling in the cold, foreheads pressed together as though silence itself could stitch their torn edges closer.

Clarke buried her face into Lexa’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of snow and cedar clinging to her skin. Her hands smoothed down Lexa’s back, not to coax her into anything more, not to distract, but to anchor. To say: I’m here. I’m not letting go.

Lexa’s grip trembled against her spine, but Clarke only held tighter, as if she could absorb the weight Lexa had been carrying alone.

The conversation wasn’t finished. They still had jagged pieces between them, wounds that needed to be cleaned out and stitched. But right now, this was enough. Tonight, in this fragile, quiet moment—it was enough.

Clarke didn’t know how long they stayed out there like that—arms tangled, breaths syncing, the quiet wrapping around them like its own kind of blanket. Time had lost its edges. It was just them, the faint crackle of the frozen lake, the pale stretch of morning light spilling across the deck.

When Lexa finally shifted, it wasn’t to pull away—it was to adjust, her arms tightening around Clarke’s waist like she couldn’t quite bear the thought of space between them yet. Clarke leaned back just enough to see her face, her thumb brushing the dampness under Lexa’s eye.

Lexa tried to look away, as if ashamed of the tears, but Clarke caught her chin gently and shook her head.
“No,” she whispered, soft but firm. “Don’t hide from me.”

For a beat, Lexa just looked at her, something raw and unguarded in her gaze, like she wasn’t sure Clarke could handle what she saw. But Clarke only let her thumb trace the line of Lexa’s jaw, slow and steady, promising she could. That she would.

The cold finally began to sink into Clarke’s bones, but she barely noticed until Lexa shivered against her. That tiny involuntary shudder broke the stillness, and Clarke smiled faintly, pressing her forehead against Lexa’s for one last beat of closeness before murmuring, “Come on. Let’s go inside before we freeze.”

Lexa hesitated, then nodded, letting Clarke tug her up from the chair. Their hands didn’t separate—fingers threaded tight together, like the very thought of breaking contact was unbearable. Clarke led them toward the door, her blanket slipping from her shoulders, trailing across the deck. Lexa caught it with her free hand, draping it back around Clarke as though the simple act of keeping her warm was the most natural instinct in the world.

The cabin was warmer than Clarke expected when they stepped back in, the smell of coffee and something buttery from the kitchen wrapping around them instantly. Clarke could hear Lincoln moving about, pots clinking, and Raven’s muffled voice—clearly awake now and already complaining about something.

She half-expected Lexa to drop her hand at the sound of the others, but she didn’t. She only squeezed it tighter, her knuckles brushing Clarke’s in a silent reassurance. Clarke’s chest ached at the stubbornness of it, at how much it meant after a year of half-steps and almost-words.

They paused just inside the living room, the fire from last night long since burned out but the faint smell of ash still lingering. Clarke turned, looking up at Lexa. The early light caught in Lexa’s hair, framing her face in soft gold, and for a second Clarke’s breath hitched.

Lexa was watching her too, green eyes searching—like she was still waiting for Clarke to pull away, to realize this was all too much, too soon. Clarke felt that hesitation like a blade balanced between them. So she did the only thing she could: she let her free hand lift, sliding across Lexa’s chest, over her shoulder, anchoring her there.

“I meant what I said,” Clarke whispered, low so it wouldn’t carry to the kitchen, but steady all the same. “Last night. This morning. Just now. All of it.”

Lexa’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. She looked down at Clarke’s hand on her shoulder, then back at her, lips parting like there was something she wanted to say—but couldn’t quite yet. Instead, she brought their joined hands up, brushing Clarke’s knuckles with her lips in a gesture so quiet, so reverent, it made Clarke’s eyes sting.

They stood like that for another breath before Lincoln’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Breakfast’s almost ready!”

Clarke huffed a quiet laugh, the sound shaky but real. Lexa let out something that almost passed for a chuckle, her shoulders loosening a fraction. They weren’t ready to face everyone else just yet—not after this. But breakfast meant reality was waiting.

Still, Clarke leaned in, pressing her temple against Lexa’s for one last lingering moment of silence. “We’ll be okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to Lexa, but Lexa nodded against her all the same.

Then, together, still hand in hand, they moved toward the smell of coffee and warmth, ready to face whatever came next—but unwilling to let go of each other, not this time.

The kitchen smelled like heaven—coffee, eggs, and something Lincoln must’ve buttered and slid into the oven. Clarke’s stomach twisted with hunger, but more than that, with nerves. She and Lexa still hadn’t dropped each other’s hands. Their fingers were laced so tightly that Clarke half expected Raven to notice instantly and start running her mouth.

Sure enough, Raven was perched on a barstool, hair a mess, mug clutched like her life depended on it. Her eyes landed on their joined hands and her lips curved in slow mischief. “Well, well,” she drawled, lifting the mug to hide her grin. “Morning, lovebirds.”

Clarke flushed instantly. Lexa’s jaw flexed, but instead of pulling away, she tightened her grip. Clarke felt it—felt the deliberate choice to stay tethered despite Raven’s teasing—and her chest swelled with something sharp and soft all at once.

Octavia appeared from the hallway, tugging her hair up into a messy bun. She followed Raven’s gaze, then grinned wide when she saw them. “About time,” she muttered, reaching past Clarke for a plate. “Took you two long enough to stop pretending.”

Lexa exhaled through her nose, the faintest huff of amusement. Clarke risked a glance up at her, caught the twitch of a smile pulling at her mouth. Their eyes met for just a second—green and blue in silent understanding—before Clarke let herself smile back, soft and almost shy.

“Sit,” Lincoln’s voice came firm but warm, shepherding them toward the table like a patient big brother. “Food’s ready.” He placed a pan of scrambled eggs on the table, then slid slices of toasted bread onto a plate. The man cooked like he lived: steady, intentional, always making sure there was enough for everyone.

Clarke and Lexa settled side by side. Their hands finally parted, but only so they could fill plates. Lexa brushed Clarke’s knee under the table as she reached for the eggs, and Clarke’s pulse leapt.

Anya strolled in then, hair damp from the cold, cheeks flushed. She muttered something under her breath about the “damn lake trail” before dropping into a chair. Raven raised her brows knowingly. “So, did Lexa get her head out of her ass on your little walk?”

Lexa choked slightly on her coffee. Clarke bit her lip to keep from laughing outright. Anya, of course, didn’t flinch. She speared a piece of toast and smirked. “Let’s just say, progress was made. You all might actually get some peace before this trip is over.”

“God, finally,” Raven said, dramatically rolling her eyes. “I was starting to wonder if I needed to lock you two in a closet and throw away the key.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Octavia added with a laugh, nudging Clarke with her shoulder. Clarke groaned into her coffee but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

Lincoln gave them all a look—equal parts amused and exasperated—before setting another dish on the table. “Let them breathe. They’ve already had enough of your meddling.”

Clarke glanced sideways at Lexa. Her hair was still slightly mussed from the walk, her cheeks pink from the cold, and yet there was a softness in her posture Clarke hadn’t seen in months. Lexa met her gaze, and for a moment the room fell away. It was just the two of them, a fragile thread of understanding pulling tighter.

But then Octavia cleared her throat loudly, dragging Clarke’s attention back. “See, this is the problem. They get that look and the rest of us might as well not exist.”

Raven leaned across the table, eyes wide in mock horror. “Don’t. Do. That. I’ve seen enough of those looks to last me a lifetime. You two need a warning label.”

Clarke’s face burned, but laughter bubbled out of her anyway. Lexa covered her mouth with her hand, as though hiding her smile, but Clarke saw it—the crinkle at her eyes, the curve she couldn’t quite suppress.

They all dug into breakfast then, the table full of chatter. Octavia talked about wanting to drag them all out to the lake again later. Anya argued she deserved a nap after Lexa’s “death march.” Raven insisted on trying to find a snowmobile and not crashing it this time, and Lincoln just shook his head, already resigned to being the responsible one.

Clarke listened, smiling along, but her focus kept circling back to Lexa. The warmth of her knee against Clarke’s under the table. The way she passed her the salt without needing to ask. The way her gaze lingered, soft but steady, like she was still hearing Clarke’s confession out on the deck.

The tenderness didn’t dissolve into the group’s noise—it wove itself into it. Like the edges of a wound beginning to stitch together, fragile but real. And Clarke knew, as she sipped her coffee and felt Lexa’s touch anchor her, that maybe they really would survive this trip after all.

The breakfast table was loud in the best way. Coffee cups clinked, plates scraped, voices overlapped and bounced off the log walls of the cabin. Clarke felt the warmth of it settle somewhere deep in her chest, filling spaces she hadn’t realized were hollow until now.

Anya leaned back in her chair, smirking at Lincoln over the rim of her mug. “Hey, remember that time in gym class when you tried to show off and completely ate it on the pull-up bar?”

Lincoln groaned, shaking his head with a laugh. “I told you not to bring that up.”

Octavia slapped her palm flat against the table, eyes bright with delight. “Oh my god, I forgot about that! You fell so hard the entire gym went silent.”

Raven wheezed, nearly choking on her toast. “The sound was like a tree hitting the ground. I swear half of us thought you’d broken your spine.”

Lincoln chuckled, eyes warm despite the teasing. “I landed on my feet—eventually.”

“After smacking your head on the mat,” Anya added helpfully.

Even Clarke joined in, pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle her laugh. She stole a glance at Lexa across the table, who had her lips pressed together tightly, like she was trying not to smile. Their eyes met, and Clarke arched a brow. Lexa shook her head once, but Clarke saw it—the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She was losing the battle.

“Fine,” Lincoln said finally, smirking in surrender. “I fell. But at least I didn’t get detention for starting a food fight sophomore year.” He aimed that one squarely at Raven.

Raven gasped dramatically, stabbing her fork in his direction. “That was not my fault! Someone hit me first!”

“Because you were throwing tater tots at Murphy,” Octavia pointed out, grinning.

“He deserved it!” Raven snapped, throwing her hands up.

“Yeah,” Clarke added, unable to resist. “But you didn’t have to launch a whole tray like a frisbee.”

The entire table roared. Raven groaned, burying her face in her hands, though Clarke could see the smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, oh,” Octavia said, leaning forward eagerly, “what about the time Clarke almost set the chemistry lab on fire?”

Clarke sputtered, nearly spilling her coffee. “That was not me!”

Anya arched a brow. “Pretty sure you knocked over the Bunsen burner.”

Clarke pointed accusingly at Raven. “Pretty sure it was her experiment that blew up in the first place!”

“That’s not the point,” Octavia teased, smirking. “The point is Mr. Kane was yelling ‘Evacuate!’ like it was the end of the world, and Clarke was standing there with her sketchbook like she didn’t even notice the flames behind her.”

Clarke buried her face in her hands, groaning as laughter erupted again. Even Lexa was laughing softly now, shaking her head with that quiet, controlled amusement she always carried—but Clarke could see the warmth in her eyes when she looked across the table.

More stories followed, spilling out like the group couldn’t stop once they started.

Anya told the tale of Raven hot-wiring Principal Jaha’s golf cart and racing it down the football field at midnight. Raven proudly raised her coffee like a toast, Octavia cackling so hard she nearly tipped her chair.

Lincoln confessed he’d once accidentally called a teacher “Mom” in the middle of class, and Raven nearly spit coffee across the table.

Octavia, not to be outdone, brought up Clarke’s disastrous attempt at joining the school choir—“you went up there to audition and forgot all the lyrics!” she howled—and Clarke groaned, shoving her playfully.

Through it all, Clarke couldn’t stop smiling. She felt lighter, freer, the sound of her friends’ laughter wrapping around her like a blanket. Under the table, her knee brushed Lexa’s. Not an accident. She didn’t move it away, and Lexa didn’t either.

And while the table roared with another round of Raven’s denials, Clarke glanced sideways at Lexa. She caught her profile softened by the morning light, her eyes crinkling slightly at the edges from suppressed laughter. Clarke’s chest tightened, affection and longing mixing together until it almost hurt.

For the first time in a long time, Clarke thought maybe—just maybe—they could really do this. Survive it. Heal it..

The plates were mostly empty now, crumbs and coffee rings marking the table like evidence of how much noise and warmth had been shared here. Clarke leaned back in her chair, listening as the laughter wound down into little chuckles, the way embers burn down in a fire but still glow.

Lincoln pushed his chair back with a stretch. “I should probably help shovel out the deck stairs before someone breaks their neck on the ice.”

Anya snorted. “You just want an excuse to get outside.”

“Guilty,” he said, grinning. “Feels weird being cooped up this long.”

Lexa finally spoke, voice calm and even. “I was going to take the football out for a while. Toss it around, keep warm. Anyone else?”

Anya perked up immediately, sitting straighter in her chair. “Hell yes. Haven’t run routes in the snow in years.”

Lincoln groaned good-naturedly. “I should’ve known better than to give you an excuse.” Still, his smile betrayed him.

Raven let out a theatrical groan, dropping her forehead against the table. “Of course. Of course the three of you would look at two feet of snow and think, ‘You know what would make this better? Tackling each other in it.’”

“Just tossing,” Lexa corrected, though Clarke caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Crazy,” Raven muttered, shaking her head, though her grin was already spreading. “Completely unhinged. All of you.”

Octavia leaned toward Clarke, voice dropping low in mock conspiracy. “Bet you five bucks they come back soaked through and shivering in less than an hour.”

Clarke chuckled, her eyes flicking to Lexa for a beat—green eyes already sharp, alive with anticipation of the game. “You’re on.”

The decision came easy after that. Lexa, Anya, and Lincoln heading for the door, already grabbing their coats and gloves, the football tucked under Lexa’s arm like it had been waiting for its chance. Raven watched them from the couch, shaking her head as the door slammed shut and a gust of cold air slipped in.

“They’re insane,” she declared, curling into her seat with her mug clutched between her palms. “Snow up to our knees, and their first thought is: sports.”

Octavia plopped down next to her, tucking a blanket across her lap. “What else do you expect? That’s just them.”

Clarke settled in on the other side, sinking into the cushions, the fire’s glow painting the room in soft gold. She pulled her own blanket over her knees, sketchbook nearby on the coffee table but untouched for now. The hum of conversation wrapped around her like something she hadn’t realized she’d been missing—a calm that didn’t demand anything, didn’t threaten to unravel her.

Raven stretched her legs across the ottoman, sighing. “Alright, let’s talk about something less life-threatening than hypothermia. Classes. Who else already regrets signing up for the spring semester?”

Octavia groaned loudly, tilting her head back against the couch. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. My literature seminar is already shaping up to be hell. The professor assigned three novels before the semester even starts. Who does that?”

Clarke laughed softly. “That’s brutal.”

“I’m not even joking,” Octavia said, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended her. “He expects discussion posts up on the first day. First. Day.”

Raven whistled low. “Cold-blooded.”

Clarke hummed, her fingers playing with the edge of her blanket. “I’ve got a senior studio class this term. Which is exciting, but also…” She trailed off, chewing at her lip.

“Terrifying?” Octavia supplied with a grin.

“Terrifying,” Clarke agreed, chuckling. “It’s the biggest showcase before graduation. Everything has to be cohesive, polished. It’s…a lot.”

Raven nudged her knee. “You’ll crush it. You always do.”

Clarke felt warmth stir in her chest, quiet but steady. “Thanks.”

“And me,” Raven said with a dramatic groan, “my mech systems professor still refuses to let me build my own projects. Like, hello? How am I supposed to learn if I can’t blow something up once in a while?”

Clarke laughed, leaning back into the cushions. Octavia snickered. “Honestly, I think they’re just trying to protect the rest of the class.”

“Cowards,” Raven muttered, though the glint in her eyes was pure mischief.

The fire crackled, snow tapping faintly at the windows. The cabin felt smaller somehow, warmer. Clarke let herself sink into the moment—her friends around her, laughter easy, the world outside muffled and distant. She could almost pretend there weren’t cracks to fix, wounds to stitch back together. Almost.

But then her gaze flicked briefly toward the door, out to where Lexa was. A small smile ghosted her lips before she turned back to the couch, grounding herself here, in this soft cocoon with Raven and Octavia.

The fire had burned itself into a steady rhythm, the soft hiss and pop filling in the pauses between conversation. Clarke was curled into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped snug around her shoulders, sketchbook balanced across her lap more as a shield than something she was actually working on.

Octavia was mid–rant about her latest law seminar when Raven cut her off with a smirk.

“Don’t even pretend you don’t love it. You’re the only one I know who can turn a mock trial into an actual screaming match.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah, didn’t Miller say the other side looked like they wanted to crawl under the table last week?”

Octavia rolled her eyes, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her pride. “They deserved it. Tried to bring up some weird angle about negligence that didn’t even make sense. I could’ve objected and sat down, but no—I had to listen to them spin this nonsense like it was gospel.”

“So you yelled,” Raven said dryly, sipping from her mug.

“Professionally yelled,” Octavia countered, jabbing a finger at her. “There’s a difference.”

Clarke laughed softly. “I’m not sure the judge saw it that way.”

“Please.” Octavia leaned back, smug. “He practically thanked me afterward. Said it was the most entertainment he’d had in months.”

Raven shook her head, grinning. “You’re going to scare the crap out of a real jury one day.”

“Good,” Octavia said simply, the grin widening. “If they’re scared, they’ll listen.”

Clarke’s laughter mingled with Raven’s, the warmth of it filling the living room. It felt…easy, the kind of banter that had always come naturally with the three of them. For once, it wasn’t about her and Lexa. It was about Octavia being Octavia—sharp edges, unrelenting fire, and somehow both intimidating and endearing all at once.

But then Octavia shifted, setting her mug down on the table with a quiet clink. The grin softened, nervous energy humming just beneath it.

“So…” She hesitated, glanced between them, then let the words tumble out. “Lincoln asked me to move in with him. After graduation.”

Clarke blinked, caught off guard before warmth surged through her chest. She caught the sparkle in Octavia’s eyes—the way her walls softened in that rare, private way.

“Oh my god,” Raven gasped, leaning forward so fast she nearly sloshed coffee on herself. Her grin was wide, teasing but bright with genuine happiness. “Look at you, little miss domestic. Sharing closets and arguing over dishes.”

Octavia groaned, but her cheeks flushed pink. “It’s not like that.” She paused, then admitted with a softer smile, “Okay, it is, but it’s also…more. We’re going to start looking at apartments. Close to campus for now. Just…planning a life, I guess.”

“That’s amazing,” Clarke said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m really happy for you, O.”

Raven clinked her mug against Octavia’s with a loud laugh. “Impressive. You’ve officially beat the odds. Most couples implode by junior year, and you’re out here making long-term plans.”

“That’s because he’s patient enough to deal with me,” Octavia shot back, but her voice was laced with love. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel this sure about someone.”

The words settled warm and heavy in Clarke’s chest. She wanted to bask in that glow for her best friend. And she did—but it also tugged something else loose inside her.

Raven filled the space with her own confession, leaning back with a sly smile. “Anya hasn’t asked me outright—we’ve got time before we’re done with school—but…I can feel it. She wants to.”

“Wants what?” Clarke asked, though she already knew.

“To live together. Long term,” Raven said simply. “It’s coming. I can see it in the way she looks at me.”

Octavia smirked. “You already live at her place half the time. Might as well make it official.”

Raven waved her off, but her smile was soft. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll get there.”

Clarke stayed quiet, listening, soaking in their warmth. Watching them glow with certainty about their futures. And her thoughts—inevitably—slipped elsewhere. To Lexa. To green eyes and quiet touches, to laughter carried faintly on the snow outside where she was probably tossing a football with Anya and Lincoln.

Her friends were moving forward. Building. Rooting themselves into futures with people they loved. And Clarke?

She swallowed around the tightness in her chest. The truth was—they were fixing things, she and Lexa. Tentative, raw, but real. Anyone else would already call them together again. The way they looked at each other gave them away.

But what about later? What about after?

“You’re thinking about her,” Octavia said suddenly, pulling Clarke back. Her eyes were sharp, knowing.

Clarke’s lips parted, but no words came.

Octavia leaned in, serious now. “So what about you? What do you want after graduation?”

Clarke hesitated, then let it spill, honest and steady. “I want to open a gallery. Maybe more than one, eventually. Or at least…showcase my work in different cities. Around the world, if I can.”

“That’s amazing,” Raven said quickly, smiling.

But Octavia didn’t let her stop there. She tilted her head, expression soft but pointed. “And Lexa?”

The question hit like a weight. Clarke hummed low, thoughtful, her gaze dropping to her blanket. “We haven’t gotten that far. Right now it’s just about…” She exhaled slowly. “Making it through college. Healing.”

Silence stretched for a beat, the fire crackling behind them. Then Raven reached over, brushing her hand against Clarke’s.

“One step at a time,” she said softly.

Clarke nodded, the tightness in her chest loosening just a little. But still—her mind kept circling the same thought: that maybe, just maybe, she and Lexa could find a way not just to survive college, but to carry each other beyond it.

Clarke sat back deeper into the couch cushions, letting Octavia’s question hang in the air a moment longer than it probably needed to. What about Lexa?

She knew the answer—or at least, the shape of it—but saying it aloud was something else entirely.

“She’ll probably go pro,” Clarke murmured finally. Her voice was quiet but steady, like she’d been rehearsing the words in her head long before now. “NFL. That’s…that’s where she’s headed.”

Octavia’s lips quirked. “You sound almost annoyed by that.”

“I’m not,” Clarke said quickly. Then, softer: “It’s just…a big life. A demanding one.”

Raven leaned back, crossing her legs on the coffee table. “You mean the travel, the schedules, the constant spotlight.”

Clarke nodded, her mind already spiraling. She could see it—Lexa with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, boarding planes week after week. Clarke in a studio space, surrounded by canvases, fingers smudged with charcoal, her phone buzzing with Lexa’s name across the screen. The missed calls. The long nights apart. The mornings where she’d wake up and the bed would be empty because Lexa had to be at practice before dawn.

Her chest tightened at the thought.

“I’d have to work around it,” Clarke admitted slowly, almost as if the words were fragile things she didn’t want to break. “My art—galleries, shows…all of that. If we were together, it wouldn’t be simple. I’d have to really…plan around her season.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Raven asked gently.

Clarke blinked at her. “It’s not just about me. Lexa deserves someone who can keep up with her life. Who doesn’t—” She cut herself off, the old fear gnawing at her throat.

Octavia leaned forward, her expression sharp but kind. “Clarke. Don’t you dare start talking like you’re not enough for her. You’ve always been enough for her.”

Clarke swallowed, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I just…imagine us, you know? I’m working in my studio while she’s on the road. We’d have to carve out time, not just stumble into it like we do now. I’d have to maybe even put shows on hold during football season if I wanted to actually see her. Travel with her sometimes.”

“And?” Raven tilted her head.

Clarke hesitated, then let herself breathe out the truth: “I don’t mind. Actually…it sounds kind of perfect. It’d give me time. Space to create without feeling like I’m running against a clock all the time. Then, when the season slows, I could come up for air and actually share the work.”

The picture formed clearer in her mind as she spoke. Her sketchbook open on her lap while she sat in the stands, watching Lexa on the field. Late nights back at their place, Clarke painting while Lexa iced her shoulder on the couch, watching film for her next game. Holidays that might be late, birthdays that might be early, anniversaries celebrated in quiet corners of hotel rooms—but still together.

She felt her throat tighten, but this time it wasn’t just fear. It was longing.

Octavia leaned back, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds like you’ve already figured out how to make it work.”

Clarke blinked at her. “I don’t know if it’s that simple.”

“It is,” Raven said, her grin lopsided but full of warmth. “You love her. She loves you. Everything else is logistics. And you—” she pointed at Clarke with mock sternness “—are a planner. You’ll schedule the hell out of those weekends if you have to.”

Clarke let out a laugh, soft and a little shaky. But she couldn’t deny the truth in Raven’s words.

Maybe it wouldn’t be perfect. Maybe it would be messy, exhausting, full of compromises and calendars marked with countdowns. But sitting there, in the golden morning light with her best friends watching her carefully, Clarke realized something:

She wasn’t afraid of the work it would take. Not anymore.

She just wanted Lexa in it with her.

The living room had grown comfortable, the kind of cozy stillness that came after an hour of teasing, talking, and looping back through the same conversations about classes and futures. Clarke had almost forgotten about the others, out there somewhere in the snow.

Until the front door banged open.

The sound of it was followed by laughter—loud, unrestrained, full-bellied laughter that carried through the cabin walls like a rolling wave. Clarke turned her head just in time to see Anya stumble through first, her beanie lopsided and half-frozen clumps of snow clinging to her braids. Lincoln followed behind, grinning so wide his teeth shone against the chill-red of his cheeks. And Lexa…Lexa brought up the rear, trying to keep her balance as Lincoln shoved her shoulder, snowflakes still glittering in her dark hair.

They looked alive. Not just from the cold, but from the hours of play.

Clarke felt her lips curve into an involuntary smile, warmth blooming in her chest at the sight.

Octavia groaned beside her, dramatic as ever, throwing her head back against the couch cushion. “Ugh, I knew it! I told you they’d stay out there for two hours at least. And I bet against it. Guess I owe you five bucks, Clarke.”

Raven snorted, stretching out her legs as she stood. “Told you. Those three and a football? We’re lucky they didn’t pitch tents out there.”

The three of them pushed themselves off the couch at once, the natural pull of greeting the ones they’d missed too strong to resist.

Octavia went straight for Lincoln, brushing clumps of snow from his jacket with mock annoyance. “You’re dripping all over the floor. You’re impossible.”

Lincoln grinned at her, pulling her in by the waist anyway, ignoring her fussing.

Anya shook her head like a dog, sending a spray of melting snow across the entryway. “You’re welcome,” she said flatly, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. Raven cursed under her breath, ducking back from the spray, then stepped forward anyway to loop her arms around Anya’s neck.

Clarke lingered a second longer, watching Lexa stand there, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright with a joy she hadn’t seen in a long time. Lexa met her gaze, like she felt the weight of it.

Clarke’s feet carried her forward. She reached up without thinking, brushing the bits of snow from Lexa’s hair, her fingers gliding gently through damp strands. “You’re a mess,” Clarke teased softly.

Lexa’s answering smile was radiant, wide enough that it nearly knocked the breath out of Clarke.

Clarke’s hand lingered a moment too long at her temple before she leaned in, pressing the lightest kiss against her lips. A greeting. A homecoming.

“Hi,” Clarke whispered when she pulled back.

“Hi,” Lexa returned, her voice soft, almost reverent.

And then she beamed—an unguarded, unrestrained expression that made Clarke feel like maybe, just maybe, the cold outside had been worth it just to bring this glow back to her face.

Chapter 18 Chapter Text

Lexa

The cabin was full of noise—Raven’s crow of victory from the kitchen, Anya’s sharp retorts, Octavia and Lincoln laughing at the table. Life spilled through the walls, loud and unrestrained.

But here, in the narrow alcove of the hallway, everything was muted.

Clarke’s thumb traced the back of Lexa’s hand, a quiet tether in the soft glow of the lamp. The words between them were hushed, fragile things.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispered.

Lexa’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry too,” she said, voice low, steady even as her heart quaked. “For…not knowing how to hold on when I should have. For letting the silence grow.”

The forgiveness that followed wasn’t grand or sweeping. It was delicate, the kind that could shatter if handled too roughly.

Lexa thought that was where it would end.

Then Clarke straightened. Her whole body seemed to harden with decision—spine tall, shoulders squared. She held Lexa’s gaze. “Wait here.”

Lexa frowned, breath catching in her chest. “Clarke?”

But Clarke had already turned, walking down the hall, her hair catching the light before she disappeared.

Lexa leaned back against the wall, pulse drumming fast in her ears. Waiting had never felt so unbearable. She could feel the past year pressing in, crowding her chest—the silence, the cold sting of seeing Clarke’s bare hand after she’d taken off the ring first. That moment had gutted her. Lexa had slipped hers off, too, not long after, unable to bear the sight of the promise still gleaming on her finger when Clarke’s was gone. She’d tucked it away, hidden, because looking at it had been too much.

But weeks before this trip, when something in Clarke’s eyes began to shift again—when Lexa felt the faint, desperate stirring of hope—she had dug it out from its hiding place. She had strung it on a chain and hung it around her neck. Close to her chest. Not as surrender, but as a vow. A reminder of the promise they’d made senior year. A decision to fight for Clarke, no matter how hard it would be.

Footsteps returned. Lexa looked up—and froze.

Clarke stood in front of her, framed in lamplight, her cheeks flushed pink. Shy, embarrassed even, but steady. Strong in the way Clarke always was when she chose to be.

In her hands was a ring box.

Lexa’s heart stopped.

Clarke opened it with her thumb, and silver gleamed from within.

The match to the ring Lexa wore around her neck.

“I never got rid of it,” Clarke said, her voice soft but unshaking.

Lexa felt the air punch out of her lungs.

“I know I was the first to take it off,” Clarke went on, her blue eyes unwavering. “And I know what that must have done to you. What it must have said without me saying anything.”

Lexa remembered it too vividly—the hollowness, the way her chest had caved in when she noticed Clarke’s hand bare. She’d told herself she was foolish for believing in forever. That night, slipping her own ring off had felt like swallowing glass.

But Clarke’s voice cut through the memory.

“I couldn’t throw it away,” she whispered. Her fingers curled around the box like she was guarding it. “Even when everything felt broken, I couldn’t get rid of us. I couldn’t let go.”

Lexa’s vision blurred for a moment. Clarke’s words sank deep, her cheeks blazing with pink, but her spine remained unbent, her eyes piercing straight through Lexa’s chest.

The world beyond the alcove—Anya and Raven’s bickering, Octavia’s laughter, the clatter of pans—faded until there was only this.

Clarke still had her ring. Clarke still had them.

And Lexa, even when she’d hidden hers away, had never been able to let it go either. When she’d finally pulled it out, weeks ago, when she’d chosen to hang it over her heart—it hadn’t been weakness. It had been resolve.

The air felt charged, heavy, like a moment that would split the world into before and after. Lexa’s chest ached, her throat raw with words she hadn’t yet found.

Clarke hadn’t thrown it away. And neither had she.

And that meant something. Everything.

Lexa’s chest tightened the moment Clarke flipped open the small box, the silver glint of the ring catching in the light. Clarke’s words—soft, steady, I never got rid of it—echoed like a pulse between them.

Her fingers instinctively brushed her collarbone, where the weight of her own ring pressed warm against her skin. She tugged it free, the chain sliding over her shirt until the silver band dangled into her palm.

Clarke’s eyes flicked down, then up again, her mouth pulling into a soft, almost shy smile.

“I’ve already seen it,” she whispered.

Lexa blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Clarke’s cheeks colored, but there was no hesitation in her gaze. “That night,” she said, her voice low, laced with memory. “Before the trip. After we… after we slept together.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You’d fallen asleep. We were both—” she faltered, heat rising in her face, “—naked. And the chain slipped out. It was just there, against your chest. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.”

Lexa’s stomach clenched, her breath stalling. The image hit her with brutal clarity: Clarke beside her, both of them bare, Lexa asleep and unguarded, the ring lying in the open. She hadn’t even realized.

“And you didn’t say anything,” Lexa murmured, voice tight, shame and longing coiled in her chest.

Clarke’s lashes lowered, then lifted again, her resolve burning steady. “I couldn’t. Not then. I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t trust myself to ask.” She drew in a long breath, exhaling slowly as her hand closed around the small ring box. “But right now? Right now feels like the only time that makes sense.”

Her fingers slipped into the box, lifting the silver band with careful reverence. The light caught against the metal, flickering like a small flame. Clarke studied it, lips parted, before slowly sliding it back onto her finger.

The air thickened around them. Lexa’s throat constricted. It was such a small motion, such an ordinary gesture, and yet it struck her harder than any words could. The sight of Clarke wearing that ring again—it felt like a vow whispered straight into her bones.

Her own ring pressed heavy into her palm, warm from her skin.

Clarke lowered her hand, the silver band catching the glow, and then leaned forward to press it against Lexa’s chest, right where her ring still dangled from its chain. Her voice was quiet, but unwavering.

“You thought I let go. But I didn’t. Even when I was furious. Even when I hated how much it hurt—I couldn’t let go of you.”

The words broke something raw and fragile open inside Lexa. Her jaw locked as she tried to contain it, eyes burning. “I took mine off when I saw yours was gone,” she confessed, her voice rough. “I couldn’t wear it knowing you weren’t. But weeks ago…I pulled it back out. Made it into this.” Her fingers curled over the chain. “Because something between us was shifting. And I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I needed the reminder. I needed to fight for you.”

Clarke pressed harder, her palm steady, her eyes fierce. “Then don’t fight alone this time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, charged, like the world had drawn itself down to this one fragile, unshakable moment—two rings, two promises, and the quiet, undeniable truth binding them together.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Clarke’s hand stayed pressed over Lexa’s chest, her ring catching the dim glow from the hallway, her eyes locked unwaveringly onto Lexa’s. The world outside—the laughter from the kitchen, the clatter of pots and Raven’s loud voice—faded into nothing. It was only them. The fragile, burning space they occupied together.

Lexa could feel her pulse hammering beneath Clarke’s palm. Her throat felt raw, her lungs tight, as though one wrong breath might shatter the entire moment. Clarke had put her ring back on—Lexa had watched it, felt it sear into her chest like a brand—and yet she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not yet. She needed to let it sit, to feel it settle into her bones.

Finally, Clarke’s hand slipped back, leaving Lexa’s chest suddenly cold. The absence almost made Lexa lurch forward.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the chain around her neck. She tugged it free, let the silver band dangle in the space between them. For a beat, she just stared at it—the ring that had once felt too heavy to wear, the one she’d hidden away in a drawer when she thought Clarke had given up. Now it shone like a lifeline.

Clarke’s eyes softened as she watched her. No pressure, no demand, just an open space between them.

Lexa slipped the chain from the ring, the cool metal brushing her skin as the ring came free. She held it in her fingers, her chest tightening so hard she thought she might splinter. And then, slowly, deliberately, she slid it back onto her finger.

The band fit as though it had never left.

Her breath left her in a shaky rush. “It feels like coming home,” she whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Clarke’s lips parted, her gaze flicking down at Lexa’s hand, then back up to her face. A tear welled and broke free, trailing down her cheek. “That’s because we are,” she said, voice trembling but strong. “We’re home again.”

Something inside Lexa cracked open at those words. No hesitation, no fear. She leaned forward, closing the small space between them, and pressed her mouth to Clarke’s. It wasn’t desperate—not this time. It was steady, grounding, like two pieces slotting back into place. Clarke’s fingers slid into her hair, Lexa’s hand curled against Clarke’s jaw, and the kiss deepened only just enough to taste that truth, that promise.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling. Clarke’s hand covered Lexa’s once more, both rings pressing warm between their palms.

Neither of them spoke again. They didn’t need to.

They were home.

They stayed there in the alcove, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, the hallway light casting them in soft shadows. Everything else—the laughter from the kitchen, the faint clatter of pots and pans—fell away into background noise.

Clarke’s fingers tightened around Lexa’s, their joined hands hanging between them like a vow renewed. The cool press of the rings where they touched was impossible to ignore. Clarke’s thumb moved slow over the back of Lexa’s hand, a touch so careful it made Lexa’s chest ache. She let her eyes linger on Clarke’s face, memorizing the soft pull of her mouth, the faint pink still high on her cheeks, the way she looked both steady and fragile at once.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence was full—charged—with everything that didn’t require words.

Lexa leaned just slightly forward, close enough to feel Clarke’s breath brush warm across her lips. Clarke tipped her head, their foreheads meeting in a touch so gentle it made the rest of the world seem unworthy of notice. For the first time in too long, Lexa felt completely at ease in Clarke’s presence. No walls. No weight. Just her.

From the kitchen, the sound of Raven’s voice split through the house, brash and unmissable:

“Dinner is—finally—done! You’re welcome, people!”

The words jolted them both, pulling them back to the present. Clarke huffed a quiet laugh against Lexa’s cheek, shaking her head. Lexa’s lips curved upward too, unable to stop the small smile that broke across her face.

Clarke gave Lexa’s hand a firmer squeeze. “Guess that’s our cue,” she said softly, a teasing lilt hiding beneath the tenderness.

Lexa didn’t let go. If anything, she anchored herself more firmly to Clarke, their rings catching the hallway light as she lifted their joined hands slightly, like a promise held out in plain sight. Clarke’s eyes flickered down to the shine before lifting back to Lexa’s, brighter than before.

Together, they stepped out of the alcove, the warmth of their secret lingering between them as they moved toward the dining room. Their hands stayed linked, rings glinting with every shift of the light. No hesitation. No hiding.

They were walking back into the noise, the chaos of friends, but this—the quiet truth tethered in their palms—was theirs. And it felt like home.

Lexa sat at the edge of the bed, still in the clothes she’d worn through dinner, her elbows propped against her knees, hands clasped together like she was holding herself together. The room was dim except for the soft amber glow of the lamp on the nightstand. Clarke was across the room by her duffel, her back half-turned, pulling out a pair of worn sleep shorts and a t-shirt. The sight should’ve been grounding, comforting even—their quiet, normal end to the day—but instead it only made the knot in Lexa’s stomach coil tighter.

Clarke moved with such ease now, like she trusted this moment, this safety between them. And that trust made Lexa’s chest ache. Because beneath her ribs sat a truth she’d never given Clarke, and if she left it unsaid, it would fester. But if she spoke it aloud, if Clarke heard it, would she still look at her like this? With softness in her shoulders, with no walls between them?

She debated it for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d arrived here. Maybe she could let it go. Bury it, like she had so many other sharp-edged regrets. But the thought wouldn’t leave her—it never did. That kiss. That night.

The memory carved through her chest as clear as if it had just happened: the blinding arena lights, Costia’s hand catching her arm, the sudden pull forward, lips pressing against hers before Lexa even processed it. The shock that had frozen her for a split second, that awful, awful pause. And then the fallout—Clarke’s face later, etched with betrayal, her voice sharp with accusation: You let her.

Lexa pressed her palms hard against her thighs, as if the pressure could drown out the echo of Clarke’s voice.

She had explained herself then. She had said she hadn’t wanted it, that she had been stunned, blindsided. And that had been true. Every word of it was true.

But it hadn’t been the whole truth.

And now, sitting here, watching Clarke fold her shirt with steady hands, her blonde hair catching the lamplight like strands of gold, Lexa knew she couldn’t build a future with Clarke if she wasn’t brave enough to give her all of it. Even the ugliest parts.

She dragged in a slow breath, trying to steady the hammering of her heart. Her throat felt tight, like the words were blades pressing upward, demanding release.

“Clarke.”

Her voice came out rougher than she intended, breaking the quiet.

Clarke’s movements stilled, her head tilting just slightly. The hum she gave in response was soft, distracted, as she folded the shirt neatly over her arm. But when she glanced back, her eyes found Lexa’s face, searching.

Lexa’s mouth went dry, but she forced herself to keep going. “I… I need to talk about something. About that night. When Costia kissed me.”

The air in the room shifted immediately. Clarke froze outright this time, the shirt forgotten in her hands, her gaze snapping to Lexa’s. Her shoulders tightened, a subtle brace, and Lexa felt the sting of it—how even now, weeks later, the wound was still tender.

“I told you the truth that night,” Lexa began, slowly, carefully. Every word felt weighted, like it could shatter what fragile peace they’d built. “That I didn’t want it. That I didn’t ask for it. She didn’t ask me. It just—happened. I was stunned. I didn’t even move at first because I didn’t know what was happening.”

She paused, swallowing hard. She could see it playing again in her head—the shock, the frozen second where she had done nothing, and how damning that nothing had been. “That part hasn’t changed. That was the truth. Every word of it. I never wanted her.”

Clarke’s eyes softened only slightly, some of the stiffness leaving her arms, but she stayed quiet. And that quiet was unbearable.

Lexa dropped her gaze for a moment, her voice lower now, rougher. “But… there’s another part I never told you. And you deserve to hear it. All of it.”

Her chest tightened, shame rising hot in her throat, but she forced the words out. “I think… one of the reasons I didn’t push her away immediately was because some part of me—some ugly, broken part—assumed that you and Finn had already kissed. That you’d already… crossed that line.”

Clarke’s face flickered, but Lexa pushed through, unable to stop now.

“And I—” her jaw locked, every word burning, “I think I let myself believe that if you had, then it was… fair. That I could let it happen, too.”

The silence that followed pressed down on her, thick and suffocating. Clarke didn’t move, didn’t breathe, her eyes locked on Lexa’s like she was trying to see straight through her.

Lexa exhaled, her breath shaking. She forced herself to keep her gaze up now, to meet Clarke’s head-on. “I hated myself for it the moment it was over. I hate myself for it still. Because even if it was just a flicker of weakness, even if I shoved her away right after, it meant that a part of me thought hurting you back was acceptable.”

Her voice broke on the last word, barely more than a whisper. “And it never was. It never will be.”

Her hands were trembling in her lap, and she pressed them together harder, as if she could hold all of herself in. Then, softer, almost pleading: “I’m sorry.”

Clarke still hadn’t moved. The silence stretched and stretched, until Lexa could hear nothing but her own pulse thundering in her ears. She braced herself for whatever came next—Clarke’s anger, her disappointment, her turning away. She had prepared herself for the worst.

But nothing could have prepared her for the silence of Clarke’s eyes, fixed and unreadable, holding Lexa’s confession like a weight in her own chest.

And so Lexa sat there, waiting, the ache in her lungs sharp, wondering if this was the moment everything unraveled again—or the moment they finally, finally began to stitch it back together.

For a long, agonizing heartbeat, Lexa thought Clarke might walk away. The silence stretched sharp and cutting, and she could feel her own pulse thrumming in her ears, too loud, too uneven. She’d braced herself for it—anger, disbelief, rejection. She deserved all of it, and more.

But then Clarke’s body softened. Lexa saw it—the way her shoulders lowered, the tightness in her face unraveling, the storm in her eyes easing like clouds breaking after a brutal downpour.

Forgiveness.

Lexa almost didn’t trust her own eyes. Forgiveness was not something she had ever expected to find in Clarke’s gaze again, not when she replayed that night in her head over and over.

She blinked, hardly breathing, as Clarke set the shirt she’d been holding onto the edge of the bed. Then, without a word, Clarke moved toward her.

Bare feet padded against the floor, each step deliberate, slow, like Clarke knew the weight of what she was about to do. Lexa tracked every movement, unable to look anywhere else, her heart hammering faster with each inch Clarke closed between them.

The mattress dipped as Clarke climbed onto the bed, her knees sinking into the sheets. Lexa’s whole body went taut, her hands curling into fists at her sides to keep from reaching first, to keep from breaking whatever fragile thread Clarke was spinning between them.

Then Clarke leaned forward, and Lexa stopped breathing altogether.

Fingers brushed against her cheek—soft, sure, grounding. Clarke’s palm cupped her face with a gentleness Lexa hadn’t felt in so long it almost hurt. Warmth spread under Clarke’s touch, crawling down Lexa’s jaw, her throat, her chest, until she felt as though her ribs couldn’t contain it.

And then Clarke whispered, low and certain, the words so soft Lexa almost thought she’d imagined them.

“I know.”

Lexa’s eyes widened, her lips parting soundlessly. She wanted to ask how? She wanted to demand why? She wanted to cling to those two syllables and never let them go.

Clarke sighed, a sound heavy and weary but not sharp, not cutting. It brushed over Lexa’s lips with the closeness between them, and then Clarke leaned her forehead against Lexa’s.

The world stilled.

Her voice was quiet, steady, brushing against Lexa’s skin as she spoke. “There’s a reason I was so angry. I knew you would’ve pushed her away immediately if we hadn’t been where we were at the time.”

The words slid through Lexa like truth she’d always known but never dared to let herself believe. Her chest constricted, shame and longing tangling together, but before it could swallow her whole—Clarke chuckled.

The sound startled her, made her lean back just enough to search Clarke’s face.

Clarke’s lips curved, not in mockery, but in something almost tender. Blue eyes glowed with an intensity that made Lexa feel both seen and undone.

“I’d already forgiven you for that. That very same night. Regardless.”

Lexa’s breath caught hard in her throat. She searched Clarke’s face, desperate to find a crack, a lie, a hesitation. But there was none. Only truth, laid bare, steady and unyielding.

Her own eyes stung as she tried to form words, but they caught somewhere in her chest, caught between relief and disbelief.

The weight she had carried since that night—the guilt, the gnawing shame, the self-inflicted punishment—shifted. It didn’t vanish, but it lightened. As though Clarke’s words had reached inside her and taken hold of the burden, just enough to remind Lexa she wasn’t meant to carry it alone.

Clarke’s thumb brushed along her cheekbone, feather-light. Their foreheads still pressed, their breaths mingled, and Lexa felt like she was finally exhaling after holding it all in for months.

Her heart whispered the truth she didn’t yet dare to speak aloud: This is what home feels like. This is what it feels like to be found again.

For a long moment, Lexa stayed frozen, forehead pressed against Clarke’s, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter what was holding them here. The truth still hummed in her ears, Clarke’s voice repeating over and over—I’d already forgiven you.

Forgiven.

Lexa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and it trembled. Clarke stayed steady against her, thumb brushing her cheek in that soft, absent way that made Lexa feel more known than she ever thought possible. She wanted to say something back, anything to meet the enormity of what Clarke had just given her, but her throat burned too tight to form words.

Instead, she leaned the tiniest bit closer, brushing her lips against Clarke’s temple. A silent thank you. A silent plea. A silent promise.

Clarke shifted, just enough to tilt her face upward, and their eyes met. Lexa saw it again there—the warmth, the forgiveness, the choice. And when Clarke leaned in to press her lips gently against hers, Lexa let herself fall into it without hesitation.

The kiss wasn’t hungry or sharp. It wasn’t about need. It was soft, slow, steady—like two people stitching themselves back together thread by thread. Clarke lingered against her mouth, exhaling a breath that Lexa caught and swallowed like it was the air she needed to live.

When Clarke finally pulled back, her smile was small, tired, but real. She whispered, “Come on, we should get some sleep.”

Lexa’s chest ached with how badly she didn’t want this moment to end, but Clarke’s hand slipped into hers, tugging her gently backward across the bed. Lexa followed without resistance.

The sheets rustled as they climbed beneath them, Clarke tugging the blanket up and over both of their bodies. The world dimmed around them, the only sound the soft shift of fabric and the faint creak of the mattress as they settled in side by side.

Clarke turned toward her, face half-buried in the pillow, and Lexa felt her arm reach instinctively, curling around Clarke’s waist. Clarke responded in kind, tucking her head against Lexa’s chest.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t desperate. It was grounding. Clarke’s weight against her, Clarke’s warmth seeping into her, the steady thump of her heart syncing to Lexa’s own.

Lexa let her hand trace lightly along the curve of Clarke’s back, memorizing every rise and fall, every soft breath. Her other hand threaded with Clarke’s beneath the blanket, their rings catching briefly in the low light before disappearing into the dark. The sight etched itself into Lexa’s chest, a reminder she knew she’d carry even in her dreams: two rings, not discarded, but worn again.

Her eyes burned, but not from guilt this time. From relief. From the terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, they could really make it through this.

Clarke shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, her breath brushing against Lexa’s collarbone. “Goodnight, Lexa,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep but threaded with something that sounded like trust.

Lexa closed her eyes, pressing her lips into Clarke’s hair. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

They didn’t say more. They didn’t need to.

The silence between them was no longer sharp, no longer filled with unsaid accusations or heavy what-ifs. It was warm. Whole. A silence that held them, rather than divided them.

Lexa let her breathing fall in rhythm with Clarke’s, her body easing, her mind finally quieting. And as sleep began to pull at her, one thought lingered, steady and sure:

They might still be mending, but tonight, they were home again.

Chapter 19 Chapter Text

Clarke

The pale blue of dawn seeped through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting Clarke’s eyelids in that reluctant glow that only made her want to burrow deeper into the warmth of the bed. She could feel the slow rise and fall of Lexa’s chest pressed against her back, the steady heartbeat under her palm, the soft brush of breath stirring strands of her hair. For one suspended moment, Clarke thought maybe she could convince the world to wait—hold off the day, keep them wrapped up here, just the two of them.

But then came the muffled thud of a door opening down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of Anya’s voice echoing much too brightly for this hour: “Raven, get up. Now.”

Clarke cracked one eye open, her groan muffled against the pillow. Lexa shifted behind her, and when Clarke tilted her head slightly, she caught the amused gleam in her girlfriend’s—no, in Lexa’s—green eyes.

“We should get up before that storm blows into here,” Lexa murmured, her voice still low and husky from sleep.

Clarke groaned louder, flopping dramatically onto her back and throwing an arm across her eyes. “Or—and hear me out—we wait a few more hours. Let Anya drag Raven out by her hair, and then we leave after a civilized amount of sleep.”

The deep chuckle Lexa gave in response sent a ripple of warmth through Clarke’s chest. It wasn’t fair, how easily that sound cut through her irritation. Before Clarke could grumble again, she felt Lexa shift, her weight leaning over her, and then the gentle press of lips against her temple. A fleeting kiss, soft and grounding, before Lexa all but rolled herself out of bed in one smooth, annoyingly energetic motion.

Clarke squinted after her as she padded across the room, the hem of her sleep shirt brushing against toned thighs, her hair an untamed mess. And then Lexa—her Lexa—started humming. Humming. Like it was nothing, like dawn wasn’t cruel, like Clarke wasn’t half-dead with sleep.

With a resigned sigh, Clarke shoved herself upright, rubbing the grit from her eyes. She caught herself smiling, though, as she watched Lexa move through the room, methodical yet relaxed, gathering her belongings, folding things neatly, tucking them into her duffel bag.

Clarke bent down to start on her own things, only to pause when she noticed Lexa crouched at the foot of the bed, carefully zipping Clarke’s sketchbook into the front pocket of her bag, stacking her folded clothes beside it. Lexa was packing for her—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Clarke leaned her shoulder against the bedpost, letting herself watch quietly. There was something so ordinary, so profoundly intimate about it—that casual way Lexa wove herself into Clarke’s routine without question, without ceremony. Like it had always been this way, and like it always would be.

Her lips tugged into a smile, sleepy but warm. She didn’t bother saying thank you. Not yet. She wanted to savor this, hold onto it for as long as she could, before the day really began.

Clarke didn’t move right away, didn’t even pretend to start folding the pile of sweaters she had abandoned at the end of the bed. She just watched Lexa. The way she moved through the small room with unhurried purpose, neat and deliberate, humming softly like she was carrying her own private rhythm. It wasn’t the humming itself—it was the picture it painted in Clarke’s mind. The ordinary quiet of it.

Her chest tightened with something that was equal parts ache and awe.

Because she could see it. Clear as day. This was what she’d imagined when Raven and Octavia had pressed her about the future a few nights ago, sprawled across the couch. Clarke had stumbled through words back then—gallery dreams, travel, maybe compromises if Lexa’s path went the way everyone expected it would—but now, watching Lexa casually tuck Clarke’s worn flannel into her duffel bag, it wasn’t abstract anymore. It was tangible.

She could see them in hotel rooms, in borrowed apartments, in unfamiliar cities—Lexa packing up her gear for training, Clarke sketchbook balanced on her knees, mornings like this one stretching out between them. She could see herself stealing kisses before Lexa left for practice, could feel the weight of Lexa’s ring (now back on her finger) catching light while she sketched in some quiet corner of an arena. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t the wild picture of fame people painted around the NFL. It was just… them.

Clarke exhaled softly, her lips curving even as her heart tumbled over itself.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice still rough from sleep, “you’re setting a dangerous precedent here.”

Lexa turned, brow raised, a sock in one hand. “How so?”

Clarke’s smile widened. “Packing my things for me. You keep this up, and I’m going to start expecting it every trip. Every time.”

Lexa smirked faintly, slipping the sock into her own bag instead of Clarke’s—clearly on purpose. “Maybe I like taking care of you.”

The warmth that spread through Clarke at those words was immediate, unstoppable. She rolled her eyes anyway, because if she didn’t, Lexa would see right through her. “Dangerous. Reckless, even.” She stood, padding over barefoot, and caught Lexa’s wrist lightly as she tried to zip the duffel closed. “Next thing I know, you’ll be doing my laundry too.”

Lexa tilted her head, that maddening little half-smile tugging at her lips. “Would that be so terrible?”

Clarke huffed a laugh, but it came out softer than she meant it to. She leaned in, pressing a quick, grateful kiss against Lexa’s cheek before letting her hand trail down, fingertips brushing over the back of Lexa’s knuckles. Just a small touch, barely there, but grounding.

“Thank you,” Clarke said quietly, the levity fading into something tender. She wasn’t just talking about the packing, and she knew Lexa knew it.

Lexa’s green eyes softened, searching her face for a long beat, and Clarke could feel the weight of that look settle over her—steady, unshakable. Lexa turned her hand palm-up, lacing their fingers together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Clarke’s heart squeezed.

And just like that, she was lost again in the glimpse of the future—of their future. The ordinary beauty of it. Trips, laughter, shared routines. Her art. Lexa’s football. Quiet mornings just like this one.

She leaned forward until her forehead brushed Lexa’s temple, letting herself rest there a moment, the faint hum of Lexa’s tune still buzzing in her ears. “Yeah,” Clarke whispered, almost to herself, “I could get used to this.”

Lexa gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Then do.”

Clarke’s lips parted on a soft exhale, equal parts surprise and relief at the simplicity of it. She pulled back just enough to see Lexa’s face, her own lips curving as she kissed her this time—not rushed, not just a fleeting thank you, but something a little deeper, lingering. A promise tucked into the quiet dawn.

When they parted, Lexa smiled at her, still close enough that Clarke could feel her breath on her skin. Clarke laughed softly, brushing her thumb over the back of Lexa’s hand before finally pulling away. “Fine. But you’re still not doing my laundry.”

Lexa chuckled, low and amused, and Clarke felt it ripple through her chest like something permanent.

Clarke didn’t let go of Lexa’s hand right away. Even when she pulled back from that kiss, even when the teasing had softened into silence, her fingers stayed curled against Lexa’s, as if the thought of breaking that small tether was unbearable. The room was dim in the dawn light, the edges of the curtains glowing faintly with the snow-muted sunrise, and for a few suspended minutes, it felt like the world beyond their four walls didn’t exist.

Lexa sat back on the edge of the bed, their hands still joined, and Clarke followed, perching beside her. The bags half-packed, clothes scattered, all of it could wait. Right now, there was only the warmth of Lexa’s palm against hers and the quiet steadiness of her presence.

“You’re staring,” Lexa said after a moment, her voice soft, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.

Clarke hummed, leaning her temple against Lexa’s shoulder, not even pretending to deny it. “Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

Clarke’s mouth tugged into a small, wistful grin. “Because it feels like I blink and you’re just… here. Like all the noise from before doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did. Like I almost lost this and somehow I didn’t.”

Lexa turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Clarke’s hair. The motion was so subtle, so gentle, that Clarke nearly closed her eyes just to sink into it.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmured, the syllables weighted, thick with something Clarke couldn’t quite name.

Clarke pulled back, just enough to see Lexa’s face, and what she found in those green eyes made her chest tighten all over again. That mix of steadiness and fragility—of someone holding strong while still fearing the ground might give way beneath them. Clarke lifted her free hand and traced her knuckles down the line of Lexa’s jaw, the simple touch an anchor.

“You’re not the only one who almost lost something,” Clarke whispered. “I almost let go too. I don’t want to do that again.”

Lexa exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a release, and leaned into her touch. For a moment, neither of them moved—just breathing, just existing in the fragile warmth between them.

Finally, Lexa shifted, their joined hands lowering until their fingers rested loosely against Clarke’s thigh. “Then don’t,” she said simply, as if it were that easy. Maybe, Clarke thought, it could be.

Clarke smiled, faint but real, and pressed another kiss—this time to the corner of Lexa’s mouth, slow and deliberate. Lexa’s lips curved under hers, a smile breaking through the tenderness, and Clarke felt her chest flood with something like hope.

“God,” Clarke muttered, pulling back just enough to meet Lexa’s gaze again, “if they come banging on the door right now, I swear I’ll murder them.”

Lexa chuckled low, brushing her thumb over Clarke’s knuckles. “Then we should stay quiet. Maybe they’ll forget we’re in here.”

“Mm,” Clarke hummed, tipping her forehead to Lexa’s once more. “If only.”

The room fell quiet again, just the faint sounds of the cabin waking around them—muffled voices, the thud of footsteps, Anya’s sharp call to Raven in the distance. Clarke ignored it all, soaking in the precious few minutes they had left. Just them, in their small bubble of quiet, holding onto what they’d reclaimed.

And when the noise inevitably grew closer, when the day began to pull them back into its rhythm, Clarke let out a small sigh and squeezed Lexa’s hand one last time before pulling away to finish packing. But even then, the warmth lingered. The tether held.

The morning glow that crept in through the curtains was soft, almost merciful, giving the room that in–between haze Clarke never wanted to leave. She and Lexa had fallen into a silence again, one that felt thick but comforting—like their own little cocoon against the rest of the world. Clarke sat on the bed with her knees folded beneath her, their fingers still threaded together loosely, her thumb brushing idly across the back of Lexa’s hand.

Neither of them seemed in a rush to break the spell. Clarke could hear the faint murmur of voices down the hall, the low scrape of someone moving around in the kitchen, but here—in this bubble—it was just the two of them, suspended in something both fragile and grounding.

Lexa tilted her head, studying her, and Clarke almost laughed at the way her expression softened like she was memorizing every detail of Clarke’s face for later.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Clarke murmured, though she didn’t pull away.

“Like what?” Lexa asked, lips twitching, her voice low and even.

“Like you’re—” Clarke faltered, heart jumping, before she smirked faintly to save herself. “—plotting something.”

Lexa’s smile deepened, that subtle curl at the edge of her lips that always betrayed her calm facade. “Maybe I am.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and leaned in to brush her nose against Lexa’s shoulder. The intimacy of it was delicate, almost reverent, and she felt her chest ache with how much she wanted to freeze this exact moment.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

The door banged open so suddenly Clarke nearly jumped. Raven tumbled inside like she was being hunted, wide–eyed and disheveled, her hair sticking out in directions that screamed she had absolutely not brushed it. She made a beeline for Clarke, skidding to the side of the bed and grabbing Clarke’s shoulders with both hands.

“Hide me,” Raven hissed, looking desperate, her voice breaking like she hadn’t slept a second. “Clarke, please, for the love of god, hide me.”

Clarke blinked at her, half–amused and half–concerned. “What—”

“She’s on a warpath,” Raven continued quickly, shaking Clarke lightly like she needed her to understand the severity of the situation. “I just need a corner to crash in. Just, like, shove me under the bed, throw a blanket over me, tell her I ran away, I don’t care. I cannot—”

Lexa arched an eyebrow from her spot on the bed, lips pressed together in a smirk she was clearly trying not to let free. “Anya?” she guessed, her voice calm but tinged with humor.

“Yes!” Raven whisper–yelled, as though speaking Anya’s name too loudly might summon her. “She’s insane. She looked at my bag and said it wasn’t ‘up to standard.’ What does that even mean?!”

Clarke’s lips twitched, fighting the laugh that threatened to bubble out. “Raven, I don’t think—”

But she didn’t get the chance to finish before the doorway filled with a much taller, far more menacing presence. Anya stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp, every inch of her radiating danger.

“Reyes,” Anya drawled, her voice so low it could have been mistaken for a growl.

Raven froze, her grip on Clarke’s shoulders tightening. “Don’t let her take me, Clarke,” she whispered urgently. “This is how I die.”

Anya strode into the room with purpose, and in two swift steps she had Raven by the back of her collar. Raven squawked indignantly, her heels dragging against the floor as Anya hauled her back toward the hall.

“If you think,” Anya said, her tone flat but lethal, “that half–assed pile you call packing is going to fly, you are dead wrong.”

“Let me go! I’m innocent!” Raven cried, flailing uselessly as she was dragged across the threshold.

Lexa finally let out a laugh, low and warm, while Clarke gave up entirely and laughed outright, pressing a hand over her mouth as she watched the chaos unfold. Raven shot her one last betrayed look before disappearing down the hallway in Anya’s iron grip.

The silence that followed was immediate and thick, broken only by Clarke’s breathless chuckle as she leaned into Lexa’s shoulder. “Well,” she said between laughs, “that’s one way to kill the mood.”

Lexa shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes, her arm brushing Clarke’s as she stood to finish packing. “We should probably take that as our cue.”

Clarke groaned but pushed herself up, her smile lingering as she moved to gather the last of her things. It didn’t take long—the two of them worked in quiet tandem, moving around each other with a comfort that came from years of being tangled in each other’s space. Clarke folded the last sweater, Lexa zipped the final bag, and together they hefted their luggage toward the door.

When they stepped out into the hall, laughter and noise drifted in from the kitchen. Octavia and Lincoln were already standing there near the table, both wearing identical amused expressions that made Clarke suspect they had witnessed at least part of Raven’s dramatic downfall.

“How,” Clarke asked, narrowing her eyes at Octavia as she shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, “are you this awake right now?”

Octavia only smirked, tossing her braid over one shoulder with theatrical flair. “Two words, Griffin. Law student.”

Clarke groaned, rolling her eyes, but Lexa’s soft laugh at her side made her grin anyway. The morning was loud now, the bubble broken, but Clarke didn’t mind. Not when Lexa’s shoulder brushed hers with every step, their rings catching the morning light as if reminding her that whatever chaos swirled around them, some things were solid again.

The cabin became a storm of noise the moment Clarke and Lexa emerged with their bags. It was almost comical how quickly the quiet cocoon of their room dissolved into a chorus of voices, shuffling feet, and the clatter of zippers.

Anya’s stern commands echoed down the hall as Raven whined in protest, trying to negotiate for five more minutes to “optimize her system.” Lincoln and Octavia stood near the door with their bags already neatly stacked, watching the chaos unfold with the smug serenity of people who had finished packing the night before. Octavia caught Clarke’s eye and smirked knowingly, as if to say, this is what you get for waiting.

Clarke shot her a look but couldn’t hide her grin, especially when Lexa brushed past her to set their bags neatly by the others. The little efficiency of her movements—checking the straps, making sure Clarke’s zipper was fully closed—made Clarke’s chest ache with warmth.

“Raven,” Anya barked again, appearing at the far end of the hall with Raven still in tow. “Shoes. Now.”

“I don’t need shoes,” Raven shot back, digging her heels into the wooden floor as Anya pulled her along. “We’re just sitting in the car for hours!”

“You’ll need them when I throw you out on the highway,” Anya replied dryly, not breaking stride.

Octavia leaned into Lincoln, whispering loud enough for Clarke and Lexa to hear, “And people say I’m dramatic.”

Raven twisted around, pointing a finger at her. “Shut it, O! At least I didn’t spend half the trip threatening to mock–trial the snow for existing!”

Octavia’s smirk deepened, eyes glittering. “I won that argument.”

Lincoln covered his mouth, clearly fighting back laughter, while Clarke chuckled outright, her shoulders shaking. Lexa stood beside her, hands in her pockets, watching the whole scene unfold with the kind of patience she usually reserved for referees making bad calls.

“Remind me again why we thought this would be a relaxing trip?” Clarke muttered toward Lexa, her lips quirking.

Lexa glanced sideways at her, green eyes warm. “Because we’re idiots?”

Clarke laughed and nudged her lightly with her shoulder, rewarded by the soft curve of Lexa’s mouth in return.

Meanwhile, Anya had finally wrangled Raven into sitting on the bench by the door to wrestle her sneakers on. Raven groaned like she was being tortured, head thrown back dramatically as if Anya had demanded she run a marathon instead of tie her laces.

“Somebody save me,” she pleaded, eyes darting around the room. “Lincoln, Clarke, Lexa—you’re supposed to be my friends.”

“Correction,” Anya said evenly, tugging the knot on Raven’s shoelace tighter. “We are your keepers.”

Octavia laughed so hard she nearly tipped over her duffel bag. “God, I missed this.”

The sound of it—the bickering, the laughter, the chaos—warmed Clarke’s chest. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel fractured or fragile. It felt whole again. The pieces of them, jagged as they had been, seemed to fit just a little better than before.

Lexa caught her staring, and Clarke ducked her head quickly, biting back a smile as she bent to grab her coat. She could feel Lexa’s quiet amusement at her side, that silent thread tying them together even in the middle of the whirlwind.

By the time everyone was finally zipped, laced, and loaded down with bags, the cabin looked like a tornado had swept through. Chairs pushed out, blankets half–folded, stray socks peeking out from under the couch. But the sight of her friends crowded by the door, cheeks flushed, voices overlapping as they argued about car snacks—it made Clarke’s chest ache in the best way.

“Alright,” Lincoln said, hefting the last of the bags toward the door, “let’s move out before someone changes their mind.”

“Too late,” Raven muttered, tugging her hood over her head dramatically.

Anya didn’t even dignify her with a response, just pushed the door open, letting in a rush of crisp air that made everyone groan and shiver.

Lexa brushed her hand against Clarke’s as they followed the group out, a quiet grounding gesture in the middle of all the noise. Clarke glanced up at her, catching the glint of a smile that was just for her before they both stepped into the morning cold.

The chaos didn’t end at the cabin door. If anything, it doubled the second everyone saw the van.

Snow crunched under boots as they shuffled into the driveway, a puff of cold air with every exhale. The van sat there waiting, its sides frosted, the roof dusted in white. Lincoln opened the trunk, and that was the unofficial signal for the first wave of disaster.

“Bags in first!” he announced, hoisting his duffel with an ease that made Clarke roll her eyes. “We’ll sort out seats after.”

“Seats first,” Raven argued immediately, trying to slip past him toward the sliding door. “Dibs on the back.”

“No, you’re not disappearing into the back corner again,” Anya snapped, intercepting her by grabbing the strap of her backpack. “You’ll pretend to sleep the whole way and then complain about your neck hurting when we stop.”

Raven gasped. “Wow. Attacked. Violated. Singled out.”

“Observed,” Anya corrected coolly, yanking the bag out of her hands and tossing it into the trunk.

Octavia and Clarke both snorted at the same time. Octavia threw Clarke a conspiratorial grin. “Bet she still ends up in the back anyway.”

“Bet you’re right,” Clarke said under her breath, earning a quiet chuckle from Lexa at her side.

Lexa took the duffel Clarke was carrying before she could argue and stacked it neatly in the trunk, sliding it into place like she’d done this a hundred times before. The domesticity of it hit Clarke in the ribs—Lexa, calm in the middle of all this chaos, making space for her without even asking.

Meanwhile, Raven had circled back, determined. “Fine, if I can’t be in the back, then I’m co–pilot.”

“No,” Anya and Octavia said in unison, their voices sharp with sibling–like finality.

Raven sputtered. “What is this, a mutiny? I called shotgun last night!”

“You were drunk,” Octavia reminded her flatly. “And you called shotgun on a chair first, so your dibs are invalid.”

Lexa’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, and Clarke reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly. It grounded her against the whirlwind around them.

By the time the bags were jammed into every possible corner of the trunk, everyone had already started half–arguing, half–negotiating the seating arrangement.

“Lincoln has to drive,” Anya declared, slamming the trunk shut. “We’d actually like to survive the trip.”

“Wow,” Octavia deadpanned. “That’s slander against my driving record.”

“You’ve almost killed us three separate times,” Lincoln said mildly as he opened the driver’s side door.

Octavia huffed but didn’t deny it.

“Fine, fine,” Raven said, sliding the side door open with a dramatic flourish. “But I’m not sitting in the middle row. My knees need space. Science requires it.”

“Your knees require therapy,” Anya muttered, shoving her lightly toward the open van.

Clarke hung back with Lexa, watching the chaos unfold like a spectator sport. Their breath mingled in the cold air, their shoulders brushing, the smallest bubble of quiet between them.

Finally, Raven was wrangled into the middle row beside Octavia—who was already smirking at her impending suffering—and Anya climbed in next, clearly satisfied with her victory. Clarke climbed in after them, sliding toward the window seat.

That left Lexa to take the spot beside her. She slid in smoothly, their thighs pressed together in the cramped row. The warmth of her thigh against Clarke’s in the freezing morning sent a small jolt through Clarke’s chest. Lexa glanced at her, and the corner of her mouth curved up just slightly, like she knew exactly what Clarke was thinking.

The last door thunked shut, and Lincoln started the engine. The van roared to life, and just like that, the trip home was officially underway.

The van hummed down the highway, snow–dusted trees blurring past the windows in streaks of white and dark green. Inside, warmth spread unevenly, pockets of chaos and laughter pushing up against stretches of quiet.

Octavia, true to form, had somehow maneuvered her way into the passenger seat. Clarke had missed the moment it happened—one second Raven was whining about shotgun, the next Octavia was propped up with her chin on her palm, looking smug while Lincoln adjusted the mirrors like this was totally normal.

“Unbelievable,” Raven muttered from the middle row, her head lolling against the seat. “She Houdini’d her way up there.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” Anya warned, her voice sharp enough to snap the air between them. She nudged Raven’s leg with the back of her hand. “You’re staying awake the whole way.”

Raven groaned like it was a personal attack. “Torture. Illegal. Someone call Amnesty International.”

“Not listening to your whining later is a human right,” Anya shot back, earning a snort from Octavia up front.

Clarke leaned her head against the window, hiding a smile. Beside her, Lexa shifted just enough that their shoulders touched, solid and grounding. Clarke let herself drift into that warmth.

It was easy, in the cramped space, to fold into their own little world. Between Raven’s dramatics and Octavia’s endless commentary to Lincoln, no one was paying much attention to them anyway. Lexa bent her head close, her voice pitched so low it was only for Clarke.

“How long do you think before Raven actually knocks out?” she murmured, her breath stirring against Clarke’s hair.

Clarke smirked. “Ten minutes. Fifteen, if Anya keeps jabbing her.”

Lexa’s lips curved in amusement. “I give it seven.”

“Bet?” Clarke whispered back, her eyes glinting.

“Always.”

They fell into a rhythm, trading whispered bets and soft laughter, like children conspiring at the back of a classroom. Clarke’s hand slid to Lexa’s under the pretense of shifting in her seat, their fingers tangling loosely for a moment before letting go. Each brush of contact felt deliberate, stolen.

When Lincoln switched on the radio, Octavia immediately reached to change it, sparking a ridiculous tug–of–war with him until Anya barked, “Leave it or I’m driving.” The car erupted in laughter.

Clarke turned to Lexa in the midst of it, catching the flicker of a smile on her lips, the quiet glow in her eyes. For a moment, everything else faded—just the sound of Lexa’s soft laugh, the closeness of her, the way her knuckles brushed against Clarke’s knee in the shuffle of movement.

The ride stretched like that: bursts of noise and teasing from their friends, then the soft cocoon Clarke and Lexa built between them in the spaces between.

It was during one of those quieter stretches—Clarke leaning closer, whispering something that made Lexa chuckle under her breath—that Raven struck.

“Unreal,” Raven drawled, suddenly looming between the seats in front of them. Her arms hooked over the headrests, her grin sharp and tired all at once. “You two whispering back there like middle schoolers passing notes? Disgusting. Absolutely vile.”

Clarke’s head whipped toward her, startled, but Lexa only arched a brow, her face calm as ever.

“You’re just jealous,” Clarke shot back, though the flush creeping into her cheeks betrayed her.

Raven gasped dramatically, slapping a hand to her chest. “Me? Jealous? Of you two making heart eyes for three straight hours? Please.”

“Three hours?” Octavia twisted in her seat, catching on immediately. “God, that explains the quiet. You’ve basically been in your own rom–com back there.”

Heat climbed Clarke’s neck as Raven smirked even wider, and she felt Lexa’s steady presence beside her, unfazed. Lexa’s knee pressed against hers, grounding her.

“Rom–coms usually end in weddings,” Raven sing–songed. “Just saying.”

Clarke groaned, burying her face in her hands while Octavia cackled.

Lexa, though, leaned close enough that only Clarke could hear her next words, her voice as steady as the hum of the van: “Ignore them. They’ve clearly run out of material.”

Clarke peeked at her through her fingers, laughter bubbling up despite herself. And just like that, the teasing turned into background noise again, the two of them retreating back into their quiet, stolen world.

The drive stretched on forever, six long hours of cramped legs, shifting playlists, and the oddest balance of chaos and quiet. Somewhere between Lincoln’s steady patience behind the wheel, Octavia’s constant commentary, Anya’s merciless jabs at Raven, and Raven’s relentless whining, Clarke lost all sense of time.

But when the van finally pulled into the campus lot, the sun already beginning its dip, exhaustion pressed down on all of them.

Everyone moved quickly, their fatigue giving them tunnel vision. Bags were pulled from the back of the van in a flurry of half-hearted curses and groans. Octavia slung her duffel over one shoulder and muttered something about needing an actual bed before she collapsed. Raven barely managed to drag her suitcase upright, her hood pulled low, muttering, “Dead. I am dead. Tell my professors.” Even Anya looked softened around the edges, her sharp energy dulled by the hours on the road.

It was a strange sort of chaos—rushed, muted, fueled by the singular desire to get back into familiar rooms and silence.

Clarke, however, lingered. Her bag sat at her feet, forgotten for the moment. She turned, searching, and found Lexa just a few feet away. Lexa had her duffel strap slung across her chest, her hair mussed from the long drive, her expression calm in a way that always made Clarke’s chest ache.

The noise around them blurred as Clarke held her hand out, palm open, a silent invitation.

Lexa didn’t hesitate. She shifted her duffel higher and reached out, her fingers sliding into Clarke’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. The simple touch made Clarke’s shoulders loosen, her chest expand.

Wordlessly, they fell into step together, moving past the others who scattered toward their dorms. Clarke felt the weight of their silence—comfortable, grounding, but charged with the awareness of what waited to be said now that they were back here, at the threshold of the real world again.

It was Clarke who broke it first. Her voice was quiet but steady, cutting through the tired din of footsteps and wheels dragging over pavement.

“Lexa… we should probably talk about where we stand. Now that we’re back.”

Lexa squeezed her hand gently, her profile calm as she glanced down at her. “I was thinking the same thing.”

They veered toward Clarke’s dorm without speaking, their pace unhurried, their hands linked openly for anyone to see. Clarke didn’t care who noticed. She wanted the world to know.

“I want to try again,” Clarke said finally, her words slipping out with the clarity she’d been holding tight for days now. “Really try. No more pushing it aside. No more pretending we’re not… this.” She gestured between them with their joined hands, her throat thick. “After everything this week—after all the talks, after… us—I think we’re finally in a place where we can heal. Together. Not apart.”

Her heart thudded painfully as she waited for Lexa to respond.

But Lexa only stopped walking, tugging Clarke gently so they stood face to face. The expression on her face was so steady, so sure, that Clarke’s breath caught.

“I want that too,” Lexa said simply. Her voice didn’t waver. “I’ve always wanted that, Clarke. But this time… this time, we do it right.”

Clarke nodded, relief and determination crashing together inside her. “That means I need to talk to Finn. Set the record straight. Not just for him—but for you.” Her thumb brushed against the back of Lexa’s hand. “I don’t want anything hanging over us that makes you feel the way you were before. I can’t… I won’t put you through that again.”

Lexa’s eyes softened, but there was a flicker of understanding there, too. “And I need to talk to Costia. She deserves to hear it from me. Where I stand. What this is. No more in-between.” Her jaw tightened, just slightly. “I owe her the truth, the same way you owe Finn.”

The honesty between them made Clarke’s chest ache, but in the best way. Like pulling a splinter out at last.

“Then we both do it,” Clarke said quietly, her fingers tightening around Lexa’s. “Separately. You with her, me with him. No more half-answers. No more blurred lines.”

Lexa nodded once, firm, her gaze steady. “It’s the best way forward. Neither of us is willing to hurt the other any more than we already have.”

They stood there for a moment, caught in the weight of their words, in the relief of finally saying them out loud. Then Clarke let out a shaky breath, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“So… it’s settled?” she asked, a hopeful lilt in her tone.

Lexa’s lips curved into the smallest, softest smile, the kind that Clarke felt all the way down to her bones. “It’s settled.”

Their joined hands swung slightly between them as they resumed walking, slower now, deliberate. The dorm loomed ahead, familiar and ordinary, but Clarke felt anything but. She felt new. She felt seen. She felt like they were both choosing—consciously, openly—what they hadn’t been ready for before.

Clarke glanced down at their fingers tangled together, catching the glint of their rings in the dim campus lights. It was a quiet promise, a visible tether, a reminder of everything they had reclaimed in that snowy cabin.

And for the first time in a long time, Clarke didn’t just hope. She believed.

The dorm hallways were hushed, only the occasional door creak or muffled laugh slipping through. Everyone had scattered off, too tired to linger. Clarke led the way, her bag tugging at her shoulder, Lexa’s fingers still woven with hers.

When they reached Clarke’s door, she hesitated a beat, looking at Lexa with a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to head back to your room tonight,” she said softly. “Stay here. Just us.”

Lexa didn’t even pretend to argue. She just nodded once, her mouth twitching in that quiet way of hers that always gave Clarke away. They slipped inside.

The dorm room was familiar and cluttered in its lived-in way—half-finished sketches pinned to the wall, a throw blanket tangled on the bed, the faint smell of Clarke’s candles lingering in the air. Safe. Hers.

Lexa dropped her duffel by the door and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her hoodie off with a sigh. Clarke tossed her bag aside and crossed to her, perching beside her with her knees tucked up. For a moment, they just sat in silence, letting the quiet wash over them after hours of chaos and laughter.

It was Clarke who broke it.

“Lexa,” she said, her voice tentative but steady, “do you think you’ll go pro? With football, I mean.”

Lexa blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t hesitate. “That’s the plan,” she admitted, her tone low but sure. “If I’m drafted, I’ll take it. I’ve been working for that since before college.” She tilted her head toward Clarke, watching her carefully. “Why?”

Clarke bit her lip, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “Because I want to know what that means. For us.”

Lexa shifted closer, her hand brushing against Clarke’s thigh in silent encouragement. Clarke drew in a breath.

“I’ve been thinking about what I want,” Clarke continued, the words spilling slowly at first, then steadier. “I want to open my own gallery. Maybe even more than one someday. Or… get my work shown around the world. I want to build something. Something that feels like me.”

Her eyes flicked up to Lexa’s. “But if you’re in the NFL, and I’m chasing galleries across countries, we’re going to have to figure it out. Plan it. Make it work.”

Lexa studied her for a long moment, her face unreadable at first, then softening in that way Clarke had come to crave. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” Lexa murmured.

Clarke laughed quietly, nervous but earnest. “Raven and Octavia forced me to. They cornered me on the couch a few days ago.” She shook her head. “But I’m glad they did, because… I can see it now. You with your career, me with mine. Different worlds, but still choosing each other in the middle of it.”

Lexa hummed softly, her hand finding Clarke’s and threading their fingers together. “We’d have to plan,” she agreed. “Carefully. Schedules. Seasons. Travel. All of it.”

Clarke smiled faintly. “I know. Maybe I’d take time off during football season, just so I could be with you. Or… I’d just spend those months creating. Filling up sketchbooks until I couldn’t anymore. Then when you had time, we’d go away somewhere. Just us.”

Lexa’s thumb brushed over Clarke’s knuckles, thoughtful. “It would be hard. But… I don’t think either of us has ever been afraid of hard.”

Clarke let out a quiet laugh, her chest loosening with relief at the truth of that. “No. We haven’t.”

They sat like that for a while, their dreams laid out between them—not as impossible barriers, but as pieces of a puzzle they both wanted to solve. Clarke leaned her head onto Lexa’s shoulder, the weight of it grounding her, filling her with something warm and certain.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t scared of what was coming next. She was hopeful.

Clarke didn’t lift her head from Lexa’s shoulder right away. She let herself sink into the warmth there, her cheek pressed into the soft cotton of Lexa’s shirt, listening to the steady beat of her heart. That sound had always been grounding. Now it was a tether to something bigger—the life they were daring to imagine.

“I keep seeing pieces of it,” Clarke whispered, breaking the stillness. “What it could look like. Us. A future.”

Lexa tilted her head slightly, brushing her temple against Clarke’s hair. “Tell me.”

Clarke hesitated, then pulled back just enough to meet Lexa’s eyes. Blue to green, steady and unflinching. “I see us traveling. You flying out for away games, me flying in when I can. Spending days in hotel rooms, you exhausted, me sketching you when you’re asleep because it’s the only time you hold still.”

That earned her a soft, surprised laugh from Lexa, her lips tugging into a grin.

Clarke continued, emboldened by the warmth in her eyes. “Or… I see us in some city I’ve never been before, where my art is hanging in a gallery. You walking in after a game, still in your team jacket, and everyone’s looking at you but you’re only looking at me.”

Lexa’s chest rose and fell slowly, her hand squeezing Clarke’s. She didn’t interrupt, just listened, eyes glimmering with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

Clarke exhaled, softer now. “And sometimes I see us just… here. In a place of our own. Quiet mornings. You making coffee, me cursing because I spilled paint on the floor again. Nothing big. Just… us. Choosing each other every day.”

Silence settled, thick but not heavy. Lexa reached up, her fingers brushing lightly over Clarke’s jaw before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve really thought about this,” she murmured.

Clarke gave a small shrug, but her heart was racing. “Yeah. Because for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like something I’ll lose if I imagine it. It feels like something I could actually have. With you.”

Lexa inhaled sharply, like the words hit deeper than Clarke realized. She looked down for a moment, like she needed to gather herself, before lifting her gaze again. “When I picture the future… you’re always there,” Lexa said quietly. “Even when I tried not to think about it this past year. Even when we weren’t together. I couldn’t picture it without you.”

Clarke’s chest ached, her eyes stinging, but she refused to look away. “So we make it work,” she said firmly. “Whatever it looks like. Schedules, distance, games, shows. We make it work.”

Lexa nodded, her hand tightening around Clarke’s. “We fight for it. For us.”

The conviction in her tone made Clarke’s breath catch. She reached forward and cupped Lexa’s cheek, leaning in until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling. “We already are,” Clarke whispered.

They stayed like that, suspended in the fragile, luminous certainty of the moment. For once, the future didn’t feel terrifying. It felt possible.

Clarke shifted on the bed, curling one leg beneath her so she was facing Lexa more fully. The serious weight of what they were discussing sat between them, but she found herself oddly… calm. Like they’d earned the right to really dig into this.

“So,” Clarke began, quirking a brow, “when you go pro—because let’s be real, Lex, you are going pro—how exactly are we going to survive me being here and you being…” She waved her hand dramatically. “All over the damn country?”

Lexa smirked, leaning back against the headboard like she was letting Clarke perform. “You think you can’t handle the long-distance part?”

Clarke scoffed, nudging her knee against Lexa’s. “Don’t turn this on me. You’ll be the one drowning in practices, traveling every week, interviews, sponsorships—”

“—and posters of my face in every sports bar,” Lexa added with a sly grin.

Clarke rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a smile. “Exactly. And me? I’ll just be some mystery girlfriend stuck at home?”

Lexa’s expression softened, her hand sliding along Clarke’s thigh, grounding her. “Not mystery. Never mystery. I don’t care how loud the media gets. I want people to know who I come home to.”

That hit Clarke in a way she wasn’t prepared for, but she swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and reached for humor. “Okay, but you realize if your fans find out you’re dating me, I’m going to get death threats on Instagram, right?”

Lexa chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Then I’ll just have to use every press conference to make it clear they don’t stand a chance.”

“Cocky,” Clarke teased, though her heart was fluttering wildly.

“Confident,” Lexa corrected, smirking.

Clarke shook her head, unable to hold back a laugh. “Fine. But when I’m off in some city for a gallery opening, or trying to set up a show, or god forbid traveling abroad—how do we balance that? You can’t exactly hop a plane to Paris mid-season.”

Lexa leaned in a little, her voice steady. “Then we plan it. Your shows in the off-season. My games around your exhibitions. When we can’t be there, we call, we visit whenever possible, we don’t stop showing up just because it’s hard. We figure it out.”

Clarke studied her, the earnestness shining through every word. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t simple,” Lexa admitted. “But neither is football. Neither is art. We already know how to fight for what we love.”

Clarke blinked at her, heart tightening in her chest. “God, you always know how to make it sound like we’re starring in some cheesy sports documentary.”

Lexa smirked. “If the shoe fits.”

Clarke shoved her shoulder lightly, laughing, but then sobered, her voice dipping. “I don’t want either of us to lose ourselves in the other’s world, though. I don’t want you to feel like you have to give up football for me. And I don’t want to feel like I have to give up art for you.”

Lexa nodded, no hesitation. “Then we don’t. We make room for both. We refuse to ask each other to shrink.”

For a moment, Clarke could only stare at her, struck silent by the sheer certainty Lexa carried in her words. She breathed out slowly. “I want that. Both of us being… big. Whole.”

Lexa reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. “Then that’s what we’ll be.”

They sat there for a long beat, fingers laced, the future not quite mapped but not nearly as daunting as it had once seemed.

Clarke finally broke the quiet with a grin. “Just promise me one thing—”

Lexa arched a brow. “What’s that?”

“When you’re giving your first big NFL interview, don’t say something dumb like, ‘I’d like to thank my girlfriend, Clarke Griffin, for inspiring me to win tonight.’”

Lexa’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. “So… you don’t want me to dedicate my touchdowns to you?”

“Oh my god, no,” Clarke groaned, shoving her face into her hands. “That’s so cringe.”

Lexa’s laugh filled the room, rich and unrestrained. “Noted.”

Clarke peeked at her through her fingers, shaking her head but unable to stop smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Lexa said softly, squeezing her hand, “you’re still here.”

Clarke lowered her hands, meeting her gaze again. And in that quiet, she realized she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Lexa’s grin was insufferable, smug in a way that made Clarke want to roll her eyes and kiss her all at once.

“You’re so cocky sometimes,” Clarke said, leaning back on her palms, pretending to be annoyed.

Lexa tilted her head like she always did when she thought she was clever. “You mean confident.”

Clarke smirked. “Nope. Cocky.”

Lexa bumped her shoulder against Clarke’s, making her wobble on the mattress. Clarke laughed and grabbed her arm to steady herself, shaking her head.

“Unfair,” she said, still smiling.

“You started it,” Lexa countered, her grin only widening.

God, Clarke missed this—this ease, this banter, the way Lexa looked at her like she was the only person worth paying attention to. It felt like stepping into a rhythm they’d once known by heart.

Before she could second-guess herself, Clarke darted forward and jabbed her fingers into Lexa’s side.

The noise Lexa made was half-gasp, half-laugh. She jerked back, startled, and Clarke froze, grinning wickedly.

“Oh, don’t even try,” Clarke teased. “I know you’re ticklish.”

Lexa groaned. “Clarke—”

“Lexa,” Clarke cut in, smirking. “I spent five years figuring out all your weak spots. You really think I forgot?”

Lexa tried for a glare, but the blush creeping up her ears gave her away. Clarke laughed and went to poke her side again, but Lexa caught her wrist before she could get there.

“I hate that you remember everything,” Lexa muttered, though she was laughing now too.

“You love that I remember everything,” Clarke corrected easily, her grin softening around the edges.

Lexa’s laughter faded into a quieter chuckle, her hands warm as they held Clarke’s. Clarke’s chest squeezed as the air between them shifted—suddenly heavier, familiar, sparking with the pull she knew too well.

This was always how it had been: bickering until it turned into silence, silence until it turned into something softer, inevitable.

Clarke’s voice dropped, threaded with humor but also with something more fragile. “So, not only am I dating a future pro football star, but she’s still got the same old weakness.”

Lexa’s mouth quirked into the kind of smile that made Clarke’s stomach flip. “Only when it comes to you.”

The words hit her like a hand pressed gently to her ribs—steadying and stealing her breath all at once. Her smile faltered into something gentler. Their fingers twined naturally, like they’d never stopped belonging together.

The silence between them buzzed, alive, and Clarke couldn’t resist anymore. She leaned in, closing the space between them with a kiss.

It was soft at first, tentative—like picking up a paintbrush after a long break, relearning the stroke. But God, it was familiar too, as natural as breathing. Lexa leaned into it immediately, letting it deepen, warmth spilling through Clarke’s chest until the ache of the last year seemed to dissolve.

When she finally pulled back a breath, Clarke whispered against her lips, “Still cocky.”

Lexa smiled, brushing her nose against Clarke’s in a way that made her heart flutter. “Still yours.”

Clarke laughed quietly, eyes stinging with how much she wanted to believe that. “Good.” She kissed her again, unable not to.

Playfulness gave way to tenderness, teasing to touches that carried five years of history and one year of ache. It wasn’t about rediscovering anymore—it was about reclaiming. About choosing, all over again, what they’d built together.

Clarke laughed against Lexa’s mouth, then whispered something only she could hear. She let her hands trail down Lexa’s arms, memorizing, reclaiming. And as they sank deeper into that intimacy—born not of impulse, but of love—Clarke thought: this is home. She’s home.

Clarke didn’t know when the laughter had dissolved into something else. Maybe it was the way Lexa’s smile softened between one kiss and the next, or the way her hands had stilled, cupping Clarke’s face like she was something precious. Whatever it was, the air between them had shifted—no longer sharp with banter, no longer quick with teasing, but heavy and warm, humming with the kind of familiarity that only came from years of knowing someone down to their bones.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, deliberate, like a reminder. Like Lexa was saying, I remember you. I remember us. And Clarke felt it—God, she felt it—in the way Lexa’s mouth lingered on hers, in the way her breath stuttered against her cheek.

Clarke’s hands slipped into Lexa’s hair, curling tight in the strands, tugging her closer. The hum Lexa gave in response was low, vibrating against Clarke’s lips. It was a sound she knew—intimate, private, one she hadn’t heard in over a year but that lived in the marrow of her memory. That sound alone nearly undid her.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispered into the kiss, the name slipping out like it had a will of its own. It wasn’t just a name; it was a plea, a prayer, a promise all wrapped into one syllable.

Lexa pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. Green eyes met blue, sharp but softened by the dim light of the dorm. Clarke swore she could see every wall Lexa usually carried crumble in that gaze. For a heartbeat, Lexa looked utterly undone.

“I’m here,” Lexa said, quiet but sure.

And Clarke believed her.

Their kisses grew less urgent, less about trying to reclaim what they’d lost, and more about soaking it in, memorizing it. Fingers brushing along bare arms, tracing the lines of each other’s faces, touching like they were reminding themselves what home felt like. Clarke could feel the unspoken apologies in Lexa’s hands, the way her fingers skimmed reverently across her skin. She could feel forgiveness in her own body too—how every press of her lips carried the weight of letting go, of moving forward.

Time blurred. The dorm room could’ve been anywhere, or nowhere at all. All Clarke knew was the warmth of Lexa beneath her hands, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the way every part of her own body seemed to sigh in relief at being here, in this.

When the closeness eased into stillness, Clarke found herself curled into Lexa’s side, her head pillowed on her chest. The steady beat of Lexa’s heart thrummed against her ear, grounding her more than words ever could. Lexa’s arm was looped around her waist, anchoring her in place. It wasn’t a hold born of fear of losing her—it was something quieter, more sure. Like she simply belonged there.

Clarke let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Lexa pressed her lips into Clarke’s hair, the softest kiss, and murmured, “Sleep.” The word was both command and comfort, heavy with exhaustion but tender enough to make Clarke’s throat tighten.

Clarke smiled against her chest, eyes fluttering shut. “Only if you stay.”

“Always.”

The single word settled deep inside Clarke, burrowing into the ache she’d carried for so long. She tightened her arm around Lexa, fingertips brushing over the thin chain where the ring lay against her chest, their matching rings a quiet promise between them.

The silence stretched, comfortable and warm. Lexa’s breathing evened out first, the rise and fall of her chest beneath Clarke’s cheek becoming steady, reliable. Clarke stayed awake longer, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, committing the moment to memory—the way the faint light painted Lexa’s profile, the way her features softened completely in sleep, the way Clarke’s whole body felt like it finally fit again.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was fighting to hold on. She didn’t feel like she was standing on a precipice waiting to fall.

She just felt… home.

And with that truth wrapping around her like a blanket, Clarke let herself drift, carried into sleep by the sound of Lexa’s heartbeat and the promise of “always” still ringing in her ears.

Chapter 20 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lexa

The shrill buzz of Lexa’s alarm cut through the stillness of Clarke’s dorm room, and she reacted faster than muscle memory, smacking it off before the sound could properly fill the air. She lay there a beat, letting her body sink into the mattress again, then rolled onto her side. Clarke was still asleep, hair messy, one arm flung lazily across the bed, her face turned toward Lexa.

Lexa’s chest tightened at the sight. Even after the week they’d just had, after everything they’d unraveled and stitched back together again, Clarke still had this quiet hold on her—like no matter how loud the world got, this was the only thing that made sense.

She leaned in, brushing her lips softly against Clarke’s temple. The tiniest sound left Clarke’s throat, a hum more than a word, her lashes fluttering as her eyes cracked open halfway.

“Where’re you going?” Clarke mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Lexa smoothed her hand gently down Clarke’s arm before slipping away. “Back to my dorm. I’ve got training this morning. Titus will kill me if I show up late… or worse, make me run suicides until I puke.”

Clarke gave the smallest groan, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow. “Mm. Overachiever.” But the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “Good luck.”

Lexa smiled to herself, pressing one last kiss to Clarke’s hair before standing. She dressed quickly in workout clothes, grabbed her duffle, and with one last glance at Clarke already drifting back under, slipped out the door.

The gym smelled like iron and effort, weights clanging and sneakers squeaking on the rubber mats. The air was sharp, alive with the sound of grunts and the low bark of Titus’s voice echoing commands from across the room. Lexa was already slick with sweat, her arms straining under the controlled rhythm of presses, her focus locked in on the burn of her muscles. It grounded her, tethered her in the way only training ever could.

Still, even here, her mind drifted. Back to Clarke’s warm weight against her side. To the rings glinting in the dim light of the cabin hallway just nights ago. To the quiet promise they’d walked back onto campus holding.

Anya dropped into the bench beside her, towel slung over her shoulder. She nudged Lexa with her knee. “You look like you’re solving world peace instead of working your arms.”

Lexa let out a slow breath, racking her weights before sitting up. Sweat clung to her temples, her shirt damp along her back. She grabbed her water bottle and took a long drink before answering. “I have to talk to Costia today.”

Anya’s brows lifted, but there was no judgment in her face. Just understanding. “About time.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Lexa admitted, running a hand across the back of her neck. “I’ve kept her in this… in-between for too long. She deserves better than that. She deserves to hear it from me, not from rumors, not from what she guesses.” She hesitated, thumb running along the rim of her water bottle. “But Clarke deserves it too. Deserves to know I’m not leaving anything hanging.”

Anya tilted her head, studying her. Then she gave a small, sharp nod. “Good. Rip the bandage off, Lex. Don’t give Costia false hope, and don’t give yourself an excuse to back out.”

Lexa gave a short laugh under her breath. “That’s comforting.”

Anya smirked. “You don’t need comfort. You need someone to tell you not to screw this up. And I’m excellent at that.”

Before Lexa could respond, Lincoln appeared, towel draped around his neck, sweat glistening across his chest. He’d clearly heard enough to know what they were talking about. He crouched down beside them, resting his arms on his knees.

“Tell her the truth,” Lincoln said simply, his voice calm, grounding in a way that was uniquely his. “Don’t dress it up, don’t downplay it. Be direct, but kind. You’re not responsible for her feelings—you’re responsible for your honesty.”

Lexa nodded slowly, her stomach tightening. She knew he was right. Both of them were. And yet, the thought of seeing Costia’s face, of watching disappointment flicker across her eyes, made her chest feel like it was caving in.

But she had to do this. For Costia. For Clarke. For herself.

She set her jaw and grabbed her towel, standing. “Then I’ll do it today. No more waiting.”

Lexa dropped back onto the bench, gripping the bar again. She adjusted her hands, tightened her shoulders, and let the rhythm of her breathing take over. Up, down. Up, down. Her chest burned with each rep, but the ache was a welcome distraction, drowning out the gnawing edge of anticipation building in her stomach.

Anya hovered just behind her, spotting casually but watching with a hawk’s eye. “C’mon, Heda,” she teased under her breath. “If you stop now, I’ll tell Clarke you got soft on vacation.”

Lexa grunted through clenched teeth, pushing the bar back up with one final burst of effort before locking it into place. She sat up, chest heaving, shooting Anya a glare that was more fond than irritated. “Clarke already knows I’m soft.”

Anya barked out a laugh, loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby teammates. “God, you’re disgusting. I liked you better when you were a robot.”

Lincoln, who had just finished a set of deadlifts, wandered over with that maddeningly calm presence of his. “A robot wouldn’t blush like that.”

Lexa wiped the sweat from her forehead with her towel, pretending not to feel the heat crawling up her neck. “I’m not blushing.”

“Sure,” Anya said, smirking as she slung her towel across her shoulders. “Keep telling yourself that, Commander.”

Lexa rolled her eyes and moved to the squat rack, loading the bar. The weight pressed heavy across her shoulders, grounding her further, giving her body something tangible to battle while her mind whirred. Each repetition burned through her legs, every muscle screaming for release, but it was good. It kept her from spiraling.

Halfway through the set, Lincoln called out, “You’re overthinking again.”

Lexa’s breath came in sharp bursts as she finished the last squat and racked the bar with a loud clang. She turned, strands of damp hair sticking to her forehead. “You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

Lincoln just gave her that maddening little half-smile. “You think I don’t recognize it by now? You pace inside your own head more than you pace on the field.”

Anya chimed in, grabbing her water bottle. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been chewing on this since we got back. Rip off the bandage, like I said. You’ll feel lighter once it’s done.”

Lexa exhaled hard, towel dragging across her face. “I know. It’s just—” She stopped, shaking her head. Words felt clumsy. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Anya softened, just barely. “You’re going to. That’s the reality. But it’s kinder to give her the truth than let her hang on to hope that isn’t there.”

Lincoln nodded, crouching down to check the laces on his shoes. “And the longer you wait, the more it’ll sting. You don’t owe her a relationship, Lexa. You owe her clarity.”

Lexa dropped onto the bench, elbows braced against her knees, towel hanging loose from her hand. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to steady herself. The gym was loud—weights clanging, sneakers squeaking, Titus barking across the room—but inside, everything felt sharpened to a single point.

She remembered Clarke’s hand in hers last night. The way Clarke had said she wanted to heal together, not apart. The way her eyes had softened when she’d looked at Lexa, like the choice had already been made.

Lexa straightened, shoulders squaring. “Then I’ll find her today.”

Anya smirked, satisfied. “Good. Rip it clean.”

Lincoln clapped her shoulder as he passed, grounding as always. “And when it’s done, don’t linger in the wreckage. Go where you belong.”

Lexa watched them both a moment, then stood, rolling her shoulders back. She wasn’t ready. Not really. But maybe she never would be. And waiting wouldn’t make it easier.

The decision settled in her gut like a weight—but this one didn’t crush her. It steadied her.

She’d find Costia today.

By the time Lexa finished her last set, sweat clung to her skin like a second layer. Her muscles trembled faintly, that deep ache that meant she had pushed herself to the edge. Normally, it felt good—cleansing. Today it only sat heavy in her chest, her mind too restless to let her enjoy the release.

She stood under the shower longer than usual, water pounding against her shoulders, steam curling around her. She braced her hands against the cool tile, head bowed, letting the spray mask the sharp inhale she dragged into her lungs.

Just do it. Don’t hesitate. Clarke deserves this. So does Costia.

But when she closed her eyes, she saw both faces—the warmth of Clarke’s smile last night, the forgiveness in her touch. The shadow of hurt in Costia’s eyes, too, from all the times Lexa had left things unsaid.

She tilted her head back, rinsing the sweat and soap from her hair, and whispered into the hiss of water, “You have to do this.”

Afterward, she dressed with practiced efficiency—dark jeans, a clean shirt, jacket thrown over her arm. She shoved her damp hair into a loose braid, fingers moving more stiffly than usual. Her locker slammed shut louder than she intended, echoing across the near-empty room.

By the time she stepped outside, the late-morning sun had broken through thin clouds, casting the campus in that washed-out glow that made everything look sharper, too clear. Students moved around her in easy currents—laughing, talking, calling across the quad. Lexa felt untethered from it all, walking in the middle of it but apart.

Her bag strap dug into her shoulder as she adjusted it, buying herself a moment to slow her racing pulse. Each step carried her closer to Costia, though she didn’t even know where she’d find her yet. Maybe at her dorm. Maybe outside the athletic building, where the cheer squad often gathered before practice. Maybe with her friends at the café near the stadium, the one that always smelled faintly of turf and sweat from the endless stream of athletes passing through.

And that uncertainty gnawed at her—because it wasn’t just about finding Costia. It was about what she would say when she did.

How do you tell someone who’s given you patience, companionship, and pieces of herself that she isn’t the one? How do you not shatter her in the same breath that you free her?

Lexa clenched her hands into fists at her sides, then forced them to relax. She rehearsed in her head: You deserve more honesty than I’ve given you. I can’t be what you want. My heart isn’t free—it hasn’t been, not since Clarke.

The words felt jagged, even inside her own mind.

She slowed as she crossed a shaded stretch of campus, where the branches overhead rattled softly in the breeze. Her throat tightened. Would Costia cry? Would she lash out? Would she look at Lexa with that quiet, wounded disappointment that was somehow worse than anger?

Lexa exhaled sharply through her nose. She hated the thought of being the source of that expression.

Still, her pace never faltered for long. Each time hesitation tugged at her, Clarke’s voice rose in her mind. I don’t want to have anything around me that makes you feel the way you were feeling before. Clarke had been clear—she wanted no more shadows, no more half-truths. And Lexa wanted that too.

She reached the edge of the quad, the path that forked toward the dorms and the athletic complex. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, the choice right there in front of her.

Not yet. She wasn’t ready to walk into it just yet. So she stopped beneath one of the old oaks, fingers brushing the bark as if grounding herself.

Soon, she told herself. Today. No more waiting.

Her chest rose and fell, steadying, as she looked toward the athletic building. That’s where Costia was most likely to be.

And Lexa forced herself to take the first step.

Lexa spotted the cheer squad before she was ready for it.

The field outside the athletic complex was alive with sound—commands being called, laughter cutting sharp through the cold morning air, sneakers squeaking against the track as girls warmed up. Bright uniforms caught in the sunlight like scattered sparks. It was almost dizzying, the way they moved together, practiced and confident.

But Lexa’s eyes locked on Costia immediately, as if they’d been searching her out before she even admitted it.

Costia was at the center, where she often was. Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, jacket hanging unzipped over her uniform, clipboard in hand as she directed a younger flyer through stretches. She laughed at something another girl said, that easy, radiant laugh that always seemed to ripple through people around her. She looked at home here, completely in her element.

And then, by chance, she looked up.

Her gaze found Lexa, and instantly—her face broke open into warmth. A smile so unguarded, so delighted, that Lexa’s chest tightened.

For a moment, she almost faltered. Almost turned back. Because walking into that smile—into the hope that bloomed there—felt like walking into a blade she was about to twist herself.

But she squared her shoulders and kept moving.

“Hey, Lexa,” Costia greeted when she was close enough, voice carrying the same brightness as her expression. “What are you doing here?” She stepped toward her with no hesitation, like Lexa was exactly who she wanted to see, like she belonged here in her orbit.

Lexa swallowed the guilt that threatened to choke her. “Could we…talk? Alone?”

Something flickered across Costia’s face—surprise first, then curiosity, maybe a hint of nerves—but she nodded without missing a beat. “Yeah, of course.” She turned to wave off her squad, ignoring a few playful whistles and knowing giggles. “Don’t kill yourselves while I’m gone!” she called before falling into step beside Lexa.

They walked in silence for a while, the noise of the squad fading with every step. Lexa kept her stride deliberate, not too fast, not too slow. She didn’t trust her voice yet. She didn’t trust the storm in her chest—the guilt, the nerves, the deep ache of what she was about to do.

Finally, when the chatter was nothing more than a faint hum behind them, she stopped beneath an oak tree. The shade fell over them like a curtain, muting everything else.

Lexa turned to face her.

“I owe you honesty,” she began, her voice low, rougher than she intended. She unclenched her fists, flexing her fingers as though that might shake the tension out of them. “I owe you…more than I’ve given you.”

Costia’s brows drew together slightly. “Lexa—”

“No.” Lexa’s hand twitched up, a small plea for patience. “Please. Let me say this first.” She forced her gaze to hold steady, though the shame burned hot behind her eyes. “You’ve been patient with me. Kind. More than I deserved. And I—kept you in between. Like I couldn’t decide. That wasn’t fair. To you, or to me. And I’m sorry for it.”

The words scraped on their way out, but they were true.

Costia’s lips pressed together, but she stayed quiet, waiting.

Lexa drew a breath, chest aching. “The truth is…my heart’s never been free. Not really. It’s always been with Clarke. Even when I tried to pretend otherwise. Even when I thought I could move on. It’s hers. It’s always been hers.”

There. Out in the open.

She saw it happen, the shift in Costia’s face. The brightness dimmed, replaced with something heavier—sadness settling into her expression, soft but undeniable. The corners of her mouth tugged down, her shoulders slumped, the air between them thickened. A spark of hostility flickered, too, though faint. Not fire, but an ember of hurt.

Lexa pushed forward, even as it twisted her insides. “When you kissed me after the Arkadia game…I was stunned. I didn’t want it. And I should have made that clear right then. I should have been honest, but I wasn’t ready to face it all. That wasn’t fair to you. None of this has been.”

For a long moment, Costia just studied her. And then she let out a slow breath, folding her arms across her chest in a way that seemed more protective than combative.

“I knew,” she admitted softly, eyes flicking away. “I think I always knew. But I was hoping. That maybe, if I gave you space…if I waited long enough, you’d give me a real chance.” Her voice caught, just slightly, but she smoothed it over with a sad smile. “That kiss after the game? I wanted it to mean something. I wanted it to be the start of…something. But deep down, I knew. You’ve never really hidden it, Lexa.”

Lexa’s throat tightened, guilt pressing down like a weight. “Costia—”

She cut her off with a small shake of her head. “Don’t. You don’t have to explain more. I think maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe I just didn’t want to let go of the hope. It felt good, for a while, to believe you might…look at me the way you look at her.”

Silence stretched. The kind that hummed with unspoken truths.

Then Costia surprised her—stepping forward, arms lifting, pulling Lexa into a hug. For a second, Lexa froze, caught off guard by the warmth. Then she slowly let herself return it, careful, restrained, because she didn’t want to give more than she had the right to.

When Costia pulled back, her eyes were glassy, but a spark of her usual fire lit through. Mischief cut through the sadness.

“Just don’t mess it up this time with Clarke,” she said, tone lighter, teasing in a way that made Lexa’s chest ache all over again. “Otherwise, I might actually have to swoop in and steal you away next time.”

Lexa huffed out something like a laugh, though it tangled with relief and sorrow in her chest. “Noted,” she murmured, the word carrying more weight than it should.

Costia smirked, the expression tilting toward bittersweet, before she turned back toward the field. Lexa stayed under the oak tree, pulse still hammering, heart heavy and yet strangely lighter too—because she had finally done it. She had told the truth.

She had chosen.

Lexa stayed under the oak tree long after Costia walked away.

The shade was cool, grounding, but she couldn’t stop replaying the look on Costia’s face—the way her smile had faltered, the sadness that slipped through even when she tried to cover it with humor. It was the right thing to do. Lexa knew that. She had spoken the truth, finally, no matter how ugly it had been. But knowing it was right didn’t make it hurt any less.

Her chest felt hollow, like something had been carved out.

She leaned back against the rough bark, pressing her palms into her thighs. She had thought, foolishly, that honesty would give her a sense of relief. That she would walk away lighter. But what settled over her instead was heavier, a grief for the pain she had caused. She hated herself for letting it drag on so long. For letting Costia believe—even for a second—that there could have been something real there.

“Coward,” she muttered under her breath. The word tasted like iron.

But as the minutes passed, as the ache in her chest shifted and settled, she felt the faintest flicker of steadiness. A truth she could finally stand on: Clarke. Choosing Clarke openly, with no shadows between them. That was what mattered now.

She straightened eventually, pushing away from the tree.

The campus was alive with midday noise—the low roar of chatter, footsteps echoing off concrete, laughter spilling from clusters of students lounging on the lawns. Lexa moved through it all like she was separate, like there was a thin sheet of glass between her and the world. She’d spent herself emotionally, and every step felt heavier than it should, her body carrying the weight her mind couldn’t shake.

Still, her feet carried her forward with purpose. Toward Clarke.

She knew where Clarke would be at this time of day. The art building. She’d lost count of how many times, when they were together before, she had known exactly where to find her. That certainty remained even after everything. It was muscle memory.

Her nerves began to hum again as she drew closer, a restless energy sparking under her skin. This wasn’t like telling Costia the truth. This was different. This was about building something with Clarke, steady and real. Lexa rehearsed fragments in her head—what she’d say, how she’d tell Clarke about the conversation with Costia, how she’d promise Clarke there would be no more ghosts between them.

She pushed through the front doors of the art building, the familiar smell of paint and turpentine greeting her instantly. The echo of her sneakers on tile sounded too loud in her ears.

And then she heard it.

Raised voices.

One of them was Clarke.

Her chest seized. Clarke’s voice was sharp, defensive, edged with something that made Lexa’s stomach drop.

The other voice—a man’s. Familiar. Too familiar.

Finn.

The name burned in her mind as recognition solidified.

Her feet moved before her thoughts caught up, carrying her down the hall toward the sound. Each step ratcheted up her pulse, her muscles coiling tighter and tighter. The air seemed to thicken as the voices grew louder, clearer.

Then she saw them.

At the far end of the hall, against the pale brick wall, Clarke stood with her back pressed hard to the surface. Finn loomed too close, his body angled into hers. Clarke’s hands were braced on his chest, firm, pushing, but he wasn’t listening. He kept leaning in, ignoring her, words spilling out too low and sharp to make out from this distance.

The sight rooted Lexa in place.

Red. That was all she saw. It surged through her like fire in her veins, hot and immediate. Her vision tunneled, narrowing to Clarke’s tense shoulders, her wide eyes, her futile resistance. To Finn’s nearness, his audacity.

Every protective instinct in her body screamed.

Her fists clenched. Her jaw locked. The rage was so sharp it nearly blurred into clarity—an instinct older than thought, older than reason.

And just as the burn in her chest reached its breaking point—

—everything cut to black.

Notes:

This chapter is probably the beginning of some people not liking that I make Finn a bad guy. And the next chapter will probably have people say, "Typical" But the matter of the fact is, there are a lot of people out there that do have reactions like the one Finn has. The next chapter goes into the heat of the moment and brings out a side of Finn that Clarke didn't know. And lets be honest, in the show, Finn literally went crazy because of his feelings for Clarke. You can argue that he couldn't find Clarke in the show and the grounders were the only enemy that they truly knew of at the time and an outcast had her watch, Etc. Etc. But even then, you can still think logically without losing control like he did. So, that's the Finn you get in the next chapter. I hope you guys enjoy.

Chapter 21 Chapter Text

Clarke

Clarke woke to quiet.

Soft daylight filtered in through the blinds, casting faint lines of gold across her comforter. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets faintly cool where Lexa had been hours earlier. Clarke stretched lazily into the space, a smile tugging at her lips before she was even fully awake.

Lexa.

The memories of last night drifted back like warm waves—Lexa’s laughter against her neck, the steady weight of her arms, the way their breaths had evened out in perfect sync as sleep claimed them. It felt different this time, not just like old habits resurfacing, but like something stronger. Something healed.

Clarke exhaled a deep, contented sigh before finally dragging herself upright. Her body ached pleasantly, her mind clearer than it had been in months. She padded barefoot across the dorm room, tugging open her dresser drawers and pulling out clothes for the day.

Her thoughts, though, were already running ahead.

Finn.

The name tightened her chest, pulling her down from the high of her morning calm. She sat on the edge of her bed with her clothes folded in her lap, chewing the inside of her cheek. This had been sitting on her shoulders for too long, heavy and unspoken. She couldn’t avoid it anymore. Not after everything with Lexa.

She owed him the truth.

She owed herself the truth.

Clarke could picture the conversation in her head, rehearsing it the same way she used to run through brushstrokes in her mind before ever touching the canvas. She’d start by apologizing—because she had to. For the late-night study sessions that blurred into something more, for the way she let his attention comfort her when she was hurting, for not stopping things when she knew her heart wasn’t his.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the quiet of the room, testing the words, tasting the way they’d fall.

But more than that, she needed him to understand. That it wasn’t him, not really. It was Lexa. It had always been Lexa.

Her chest softened as she thought of how to say it, how to explain it without twisting the knife too deep. She would tell him that Lexa was her home. That even when they had been apart, when Clarke was trying so desperately to convince herself she could move on, some part of her still measured everything against Lexa. And nothing else came close.

It wasn’t fair to Finn to keep pretending.

She ran her hands over her face, inhaled deeply, and exhaled until her lungs felt empty. The decision didn’t make the dread disappear, but it steadied her.

She dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, slipping into her shoes. In the mirror, she caught her reflection and almost laughed—her hair was a mess, the kind that screamed of being tangled in someone else’s fingers. Lexa’s fingers. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she brushed it out, shaking her head at herself.

By the time she grabbed her sketchbook and slung her bag over her shoulder, Clarke felt like she had braced herself as much as she could. She would find Finn today, she told herself firmly. She would tell him.

No more lies. No more avoiding.

It was always Lexa. And now, finally, she was ready to say it aloud.

Clarke tucked her sketchbook into her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and left the dorm with her heart already beating a little too fast.

The air was brisk, the kind that still carried winter’s bite. She wrapped her arms around herself as she crossed campus, the buildings familiar, the pathways worn into muscle memory after years of walking them. But today felt different. Today she was carrying something heavier than books and pencils—her choice.

She didn’t need to go find Finn. She never did. He always found her. The art building had become their unspoken meeting ground, where she stayed late and he drifted in with that crooked grin, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Clarke knew it would happen again today.

The thought pressed on her like a weight, but she forced herself forward.

Class came and went in a blur. She tried to focus on the critique session, on the soft buzz of voices discussing line and color, on her professor’s notes about form and scale. But her mind kept circling back to what waited after. To Finn’s expectant look. To the words she had to speak, no matter how much it hurt.

By the time the room emptied, leaving behind the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the faint scent of paint, Clarke felt her shoulders relax. This was where she was comfortable. Where everything else fell away.

She stayed behind, like always, setting up at her favorite spot near the big north-facing window. She pulled a half-finished canvas closer, dipped her brush into the water jar, and let herself sink into the motions. Layer by layer, stroke by stroke, the world calmed.

This was hers. Her space. Her way of breathing.

But she knew it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

Sure enough, after some time—she couldn’t say how long, because she had let herself get lost in color and form—the door opened. The sound of footsteps followed, unhurried but certain.

Clarke’s grip on the brush tightened.

“Clarke,” Finn’s voice came, warm, hopeful, the same as it always was when he showed up like this.

She didn’t look at him immediately. Not yet. Instead, she rinsed her brush, set it carefully on the edge of the jar, and wiped her hands on the rag in her lap. Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

This was it.

Finn had come, like she knew he would, ready for the answer she had promised him before the break. And Clarke was ready to give it.

Even if it broke something between them.

Clarke knew the moment she finally looked up at him that Finn thought he already had his answer.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his whole posture easy in that careless, boyish way of his. Like he’d just dropped in for another of their countless talks, and he already knew how it would end. Like he had nothing to worry about.

That smug ease twisted something in her stomach.

Because Finn really believed it—believed she would choose him. That after everything, after a year apart from Lexa, after the weeks of circling each other again, she would just fall into his arms like it was inevitable.

But it wasn’t. It never had been.

“Hey,” he said softly, like the word carried ownership. “So… I figured we should finally talk. You’ve had time. You’ve thought about it.”

He smiled. That small, confident curve of his mouth made Clarke’s chest tighten—not with affection, but with dread. He wasn’t bracing for rejection. He wasn’t even entertaining the possibility.

Clarke inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Then, deliberately, she pushed her stool back and straightened.

“Yeah. We need to talk,” she agreed, her voice low but clear.

Finn’s smile widened slightly, like he’d already won. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click made Clarke’s pulse jump, though she forced herself not to flinch.

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them still. “I need to be honest with you, Finn. About everything.”

He tilted his head, still relaxed, still certain. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Clarke. Just the truth.”

Her throat tightened. She exhaled and forced the words out.

“It’s Lexa.” She let the name sit between them, heavy, immovable. “It’s always been Lexa. Even when we weren’t together this past year… even when I was confused, when I was trying to convince myself I could feel something else—” She shook her head firmly. “It’s her. It’s always been her.”

For the first time, Finn’s posture changed. His arms uncrossed. His easy lean straightened. The smile fell.

Clarke pressed on, because she had to. “You’ve been good to me. You’ve been patient. But I led you on, and I can’t keep doing that to you. You deserve honesty, Finn. And the truth is… I love Lexa. I’ve always loved her.”

The silence stretched. The way Finn’s face hardened made Clarke’s chest constrict. His eyes, once soft and boyish, sharpened with something colder.

“You’re serious,” he said flatly, his voice dropping lower.

Clarke nodded. “Yes. I’m serious. I—”

He took a step forward.

Clarke froze. She hadn’t expected movement, not like that. Something in the way he carried himself made her instincts flare. She shifted back on the stool, the metal legs scraping faintly against the floor.

“After everything,” Finn muttered, another step closer, “after all this time—you’re really saying that?”

Clarke’s hand tightened on the edge of the stool. “Finn, don’t—” She stood quickly, pushing the stool between them, a makeshift barrier. Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I told you. It’s Lexa. That doesn’t erase the fact that I care about you, but—”

He moved again, around the stool, forcing her backward. Clarke stepped carefully, her shoulders brushing the canvas behind her.

“Care about me?” His laugh was harsh, sharp. “You think that’s supposed to mean anything when you’re telling me you’re running back to her? After she hurt you? After she broke you?”

Clarke’s spine hit the wall. She startled at the impact, the cold concrete seeping through her shirt. “Finn, stop.” Her palms pressed forward against his chest as he crowded closer, trying to physically push him back. Her voice sharpened. “Stop it.”

But he didn’t.

“You’re choosing her over me? Again?” His voice climbed, raw with disbelief. “After everything I’ve done, after waiting, after being there while she—while she—” His words broke off in fury. His breath was hot against her face, too close.

Clarke’s hands pushed harder. “I said stop!” Her voice cut loud, almost a scream, fear lacing her tone now. “You don’t get to do this, Finn. You don’t get to make me feel trapped because I won’t give you what you want.”

His jaw clenched, muscles taut, eyes burning into hers. “You’re making a mistake, Clarke.”

“No,” she snapped back, summoning strength she wasn’t sure she had. “The only mistake was letting this drag on as long as I did. I should have told you months ago. But I’m telling you now. I’m with Lexa. I love Lexa. And you need to hear that and back off.”

Her chest heaved as the words hung between them, the weight of them undeniable. Finn stood stiff in front of her, shoulders rigid, fists flexing at his sides.

For the first time in years of knowing him, Clarke felt afraid.

“Back off, Finn.” Clarke’s voice cracked, but her palms stayed pressed to his chest, pushing, trying to create even an inch of space. “This isn’t the way.”

But Finn only leaned closer, his face tight with rage, his eyes wild.

“No—this is exactly the way.” His breath was sharp against her cheek, too close, too invasive. “You don’t mean it, Clarke. You can’t mean it. You’re confused—”

Her stomach lurched. Confused. Like he could just rewrite her choice with that single word.

“I’m not confused,” she bit out, shoving harder, her back digging into the wall. “I know what I want. And it’s not you. It’s never been you, not like this—”

His jaw clenched, cutting her off. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel something. Don’t tell me I’m just some—some placeholder while you ran back to her.”

“You were my friend,” Clarke shot back, voice shaking. “You mattered to me. But that’s it. I can’t give you what you want, Finn. And trying to corner me like this won’t change that.”

“Corner you?” He laughed, short and harsh. “You think I’m cornering you? No, Clarke. I’m fighting for you. I’m fighting for what we had—”

Her hands trembled against his chest, pushing uselessly against his weight. “We never had that. You made yourself believe we did. You built it all up in your head and I let you because I was too much of a coward to stop it. That’s on me. But this—” She shoved him again, harder, her voice breaking into a scream. “This is on you.”

The words hung, jagged and loud, her breath ragged in her throat.

Finn’s nostrils flared. His whole frame shook with restraint—or maybe with the lack of it. His fists clenched, knuckles white, and Clarke swore the air itself tightened around them.

Her heart pounded so violently she thought she might be sick.

Then, just as panic was about to tip into something unbearable—

“Clarke.”

Her head snapped toward the doorway.

Lexa stood there, her entire body coiled with tension, her green eyes lit with fire. Her gaze flicked once to Clarke—pinned, trembling, pressed against the wall—and then zeroed in on Finn with a focus so sharp it cut the air in half.

Clarke felt Finn stiffen under her palms. Felt the heat of his body go rigid.

And for the first time since the argument began, relief flooded her chest.

Lexa had seen. Lexa knew.

The storm had arrived.

The air shifted the second Lexa stepped into the room.

Not a word, not a sound—just her presence, tall and steady, shoulders squared, that quiet intensity rolling off her in waves. The kind that made the temperature drop. The kind that made the hairs on Clarke’s arms stand up.

Finn froze for half a second, his weight finally easing off Clarke enough for her to slip sideways. She shoved past him, pulse hammering, breath coming in shallow gulps until she was at Lexa’s side. She didn’t hesitate—her fingers curled around Lexa’s arm like a tether. Her anchor.

Lexa didn’t even flinch at the contact. She only stepped forward, her body a wall between Clarke and Finn. Her voice came next, smooth as glass, sharp as a blade.

“What’s going on here?”

The way she said it—frighteningly calm, with that ruthless little curl to her mouth—it made Clarke’s stomach twist. Because she knew that tone. It was the one Lexa used when she was seconds from snapping.

Finn turned to face her fully, anger flashing across his face like a storm breaking. “You.” His voice cracked under the weight of it. “This is all your fault. You brainwashed her—made her think she wanted you.”

Clarke’s chest seized. “Finn—” she tried, but Lexa’s back was rigid, her head tilted just slightly, watching him like a predator assessing prey.

Clarke tightened her grip on Lexa’s arm, digging her fingers in, trying to tether them both. If Lexa lunged—if she threw one punch—her scholarship, her entire future could shatter. Clarke couldn’t let that happen.

Lexa inhaled slowly, sharp and deliberate, and when she spoke, her words sliced clean through the room.

“Brainwashed?” She arched a brow, her voice dangerously steady. “That’s the story you’re telling yourself? That Clarke couldn’t possibly choose me on her own? That she doesn’t know her own mind?”

Finn’s fists curled at his sides. “She would’ve chosen me. If you hadn’t—”

Lexa cut him off, tone like steel. “If I hadn’t what? Existed?”

Her head tilted the other way now, a mocking smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “Clarke doesn’t need me to make her choices for her, Finn. She never has. She told you where she stands. You just don’t like the answer.”

Clarke’s chest swelled with both fear and awe. Fear because Lexa was walking a knife’s edge between control and explosion, awe because no one—no one—could cut someone down like this without raising their voice.

Finn’s face contorted, a mixture of hurt and fury. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Just because you—”

Lexa’s voice sliced through again, lower now, but sharper: “Careful.”

That one word vibrated in Clarke’s bones.

She tugged gently at Lexa’s arm, grounding her again, whispering just loud enough for her to hear. “Don’t. Please.”

Lexa didn’t look back, didn’t break her gaze from Finn, but Clarke felt the tension shift beneath her hand, the way Lexa’s muscles slowly uncoiled, restrained but still electric..

Clarke could feel the tremor in Lexa’s body, all that coiled strength begging to be unleashed. Finn didn’t even realize how close he was to being torn apart—not physically, though Lexa was more than capable of that—but by words, by that sharp intelligence honed into a blade.

“You really can’t see it, can you?” Lexa said, her voice a low, precise hum that cut sharper than any shout. Her eyes narrowed, green fire glinting under the studio lights. “This isn’t about me. It never was. Clarke didn’t pick me over you, Finn. She picked me because she loves me. That’s something you can’t change—no matter how hard you corner her, no matter how loud you yell.”

Clarke’s breath hitched. She could see Finn’s face twitch, his jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might crack. He stepped forward again, just enough to make Clarke’s back straighten, her grip on Lexa’s arm tightening.

“You don’t love her the way I do,” Finn snapped, his voice rising, his face red. “You can’t. You left her! You broke her! And now you just swoop back in like nothing happened?”

The words hit like bullets, but before Clarke could flinch, Lexa’s shoulders rolled back, her calm settling over the room like ice. “I made mistakes,” she said evenly. “And I’ve owned every single one. But I never stopped loving her. Not once.”

Clarke’s chest ached. Lexa hadn’t even looked at her when she said it—her eyes were locked on Finn, a silent warning—but Clarke felt the weight of the truth in every word.

Finn scoffed, bitter and sharp. “You’ve poisoned her against me. You always have.”

That was it. Clarke couldn’t let him twist this anymore. Couldn’t let Lexa take the brunt of his anger while she stood behind her.

Clarke stepped forward, slipping around Lexa’s shoulder so she was standing beside her now, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her. Her voice came out strong, louder than she expected, carrying over the room:

“Stop it, Finn.”

He blinked, startled.

Clarke’s pulse was thrumming, but she forced her shoulders square, forced herself not to back down. “Don’t you dare put this on her. Don’t you dare. This isn’t Lexa’s fault. This is me. I chose her. I will always choose her. And if you can’t accept that, then that’s your problem.”

Lexa’s head tilted just slightly toward her, a flicker of pride flashing in her eyes before she schooled her expression back into steel. Clarke’s chest warmed at it, even in the middle of this storm.

Finn shook his head, laughter bubbling up bitter and sharp. “You don’t mean that. You’ll regret it. She’ll leave you again—”

“No,” Clarke snapped, cutting him off this time. “You don’t get to stand here and tell me what I feel. You don’t get to decide who I love. You think you know me, Finn? You don’t. Not like she does. Not like she always has.”

Her voice cracked at the end, but it didn’t matter. The words rang like a strike of lightning, final and true.

Lexa, still calm as stone, finally let the edge of her smile show, ruthless and cold, though Clarke could feel the hum of restraint in her. “You heard her,” she said, voice quiet, deadly precise. “Now step back. Before you say something you’ll regret.”

The tension in the room was suffocating. Finn’s chest rose and fell sharply, his fists tight, but he didn’t move forward this time. He just glared at Lexa, then at Clarke, fury and heartbreak warring on his face.

Clarke didn’t look away. Didn’t falter. She stood rooted beside Lexa, still holding onto her arm, holding them both steady.

For a long, heavy beat, no one moved. The air itself felt tight, pulled taut around the three of them, like one wrong word might shatter it all. Clarke’s fingers were still curled around Lexa’s arm, her thumb brushing against the tense line of muscle there, trying to soothe both of them even as her own heart hammered against her ribs.

Finn’s eyes burned into her, his jaw working as though he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite spit out. Finally, he found them.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he hissed, voice cracking at the edges. “You think she’s safe? She’s not. She’s going to hurt you again. And when she does, when you’re broken all over again, don’t come running to me.”

Lexa’s breath shifted—Clarke felt it before she saw it—like a storm pressing against its dam. That rigid calm of hers trembled, just for a second, with the urge to lash out. Clarke pressed her hand firmer into Lexa’s arm, grounding her. Anchoring them both.

“Don’t talk about her like she isn’t standing right here,” Clarke snapped, sharper than she’d ever been with him. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Finn. I know exactly who I’m choosing. And I don’t need you to wait around like some safety net in case I change my mind.”

Finn flinched at that, like the words were a slap. His fists clenched tighter at his sides.

“You think I don’t see it?” he spat, bitterness twisting his features. “The way she looks at you—like she owns you. Like she’s the only one who could ever matter. She’s twisted you into thinking there’s no one else.”

Clarke’s throat burned. She wanted to scream. Instead, she forced her voice to steady. “No, Finn. That’s not Lexa. That’s me. I chose her. I keep choosing her. Every single time.”

Lexa finally spoke again, her tone softer now but no less precise. “You’ve said enough.” She stepped just half a pace forward, shielding Clarke without even thinking. Her green eyes locked onto Finn’s, cool, unyielding. “If you cared for Clarke at all, you’d hear her. You’d respect her choice. You’d walk away.”

Clarke saw it then—the falter. The crack in Finn’s armor. His anger wavered under the weight of Lexa’s calm, under the finality in Clarke’s words. His gaze flicked between the two of them—Clarke with her hand still steady on Lexa’s arm, Lexa rooted like stone between them—and something in him finally sagged.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound more like defeat than relief. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, though his eyes still burned with bitterness.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, shaking his head as though he could convince himself. “You’ll see.”

“Enough, Finn,” Clarke said firmly, her voice cutting across the space like steel. “It is over.”

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at her, at them, as though he might still find a way back in. But then his jaw locked, his mouth twisting into something pained and ugly, and he turned sharply on his heel. His footsteps echoed through the art building as he stormed out, the sound fading slowly until it was just Clarke and Lexa left in the silence.

Clarke’s lungs finally released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hand slipped down from Lexa’s arm to her hand, lacing their fingers together tightly.

Lexa’s posture stayed rigid for another long moment, her jaw still tight, before she turned her head slightly toward Clarke. “Are you okay?” she asked, voice quiet, stripped of all that sharpness she’d wielded before.

Clarke swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “I am now,” she whispered.

Lexa’s fingers tightened around hers.

The silence that followed Finn’s retreat was suffocating. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, a harsh rhythm against the quiet until they finally faded, leaving nothing but the faint hum of the building and Clarke’s ragged breathing.

Her back still pressed against the wall where he had cornered her. Her hands, the same ones that had pushed against Finn’s chest, were trembling faintly at her sides, unsure whether to curl into fists or cling to something solid. The only thing anchoring her in that moment was Lexa’s hand, her fingers interlaced with Clarke’s in a grip that was equal parts steady and desperate.

Lexa stood just in front of her, her body still rigid, like a drawn bow that hadn’t been released. Her shoulders were squared, her jaw set, eyes sharp with a lethal calm that hadn’t yet softened. Clarke knew the tension in her wasn’t gone, just banked like embers. She hadn’t moved since Finn left, hadn’t dropped her guard, hadn’t let herself breathe.

Clarke stared at her, taking in every detail—the stiff line of her spine, the way her chest rose and fell in deliberate rhythm, the sharp angles of her face carved by control. She’d seen Lexa angry before, had seen her composed on the field, but this? This was something else. The kind of stillness that promised violence if provoked.

And yet… when Clarke tugged gently on her hand, Lexa’s gaze flicked down to hers. Green eyes still burned, but there was a softness there now, reserved only for Clarke.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispered, her throat dry, her voice raw from shouting.

Lexa blinked once, slow, then asked, “Are you okay?” Her voice was low, roughened by restraint, but laced with something vulnerable underneath.

Clarke swallowed hard, then nodded. It wasn’t entirely true—her pulse still raced, her lungs still felt too tight—but the words came anyway. “I am now.”

Something in Lexa cracked at that. The steel in her posture loosened, just a little, her shoulders dropping as though she’d finally allowed herself a single breath. Her grip on Clarke’s hand shifted, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles as if she were reassuring herself Clarke was real, alive, here.

The studio around them felt cavernous in the silence that followed. Clarke became hyper-aware of the faint smell of paint and charcoal, the scattered tools and canvases, the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. She could still feel Finn’s shadow in the space, heavy and suffocating, and it made her skin itch with the need to move.

“Come with me,” she whispered, tugging lightly on Lexa’s hand again.

Lexa hesitated, her gaze searching Clarke’s face as if to make sure she was steady enough to move. Then she gave a single nod. Together, they bent to gather Clarke’s things—her sketchbook, her bag, the stool nudged slightly askew from where she’d tried to block Finn. Their movements were fumbling, distracted, but their hands never fully let go of each other.

The hallway outside was dim and echoing, each step loud against the quiet campus. Clarke’s hand was still tucked into Lexa’s, fingers tangled, and neither of them loosened their grip. It felt like a lifeline, an unspoken vow. Clarke could almost feel the protective weight of Lexa’s presence radiating off her as they walked, the way her eyes flicked to every shadow like she was ready to intercept danger again.

By the time they reached Clarke’s dorm, the adrenaline had finally begun to ebb, leaving her limbs shaky and her chest aching. She opened the door with clumsy fingers, pulling Lexa inside. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside world, sealing them in a pocket of quiet that felt like safety.

Clarke leaned back against the door, finally allowing her body to sag with the weight of everything. Her bag slipped from her shoulder to the floor with a thud.

Lexa turned instantly, stepping closer, her eyes sharp again as they searched Clarke’s face. “Are you hurt?” she asked, hands half-reaching, hovering just shy of touching until Clarke shook her head.

“No. I’m okay,” Clarke said softly, though her laugh came out brittle. “Just… my heart’s still racing.”

Lexa closed the distance in two strides, her hands finding Clarke’s face with a gentleness that unraveled her. Warm palms cupped her cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly across her skin, and then Lexa pressed her forehead to Clarke’s, grounding her. The controlled breath that Lexa let out ghosted across her lips.

“He won’t come near you again,” Lexa murmured, low and certain, the words heavy with promise.

Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut, relief flooding her system like a slow tide. Her own hands came up to cover Lexa’s, pressing them closer to her skin as if she could merge with the steadiness of them.

“I know,” Clarke whispered. Her voice wavered, but the truth in it was solid. She tilted her face, nose brushing against Lexa’s, and breathed, “Because I’ve got you.”

The words lingered in the air, soft but unshakable, stronger than any threat Finn had tried to pin her with. For the first time since the confrontation, Clarke felt the tightness in her chest begin to ease—not because she had fought him off, but because Lexa had been there, a shield and a constant.

Lexa’s eyes softened at that, and Clarke caught the faintest curve of a smile ghosting at the edge of her lips. The last of the rigid tension in her shoulders melted, her body finally yielding into the closeness between them.

For a long while, they just stood there, pressed forehead to forehead, their breaths syncing, the silence in the dorm room wrapping around them like a cocoon. No shouting, no fear, no chaos. Just them, standing in the fragile stillness of what they had reclaimed.

The world had been too loud just minutes ago—Finn’s shouting, her own voice breaking against his, the slam of her back against the wall. But now, inside her dorm with Lexa, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around Clarke like a blanket, that pressed down on the chaos and gave her room to breathe.

Lexa’s forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. Clarke didn’t need words. She could feel everything she needed in the warmth of Lexa’s palms cupping her cheeks, in the way Lexa’s thumb brushed gently over her skin like she was memorizing the lines of her face. Clarke’s hands tightened over Lexa’s, holding her there, grounding them both.

Her body was still humming with leftover adrenaline, her pulse still racing like she’d run for miles. But every time she drew in a shaky breath, it was Lexa’s steadiness she inhaled. Every exhale carried away another thread of fear.

Lexa didn’t move quickly, didn’t push, just stayed close. Her control, the same sharp steel Clarke had seen seconds ago when she faced Finn, had softened into something Clarke only ever saw when it was just the two of them. She tilted her head, brushing her nose against Clarke’s in a small, grounding touch. Clarke let out a breath that trembled but ended in the faintest laugh, as if even her body knew she was safe now.

Slowly, Lexa’s hands slid down from Clarke’s cheeks to her shoulders, pulling her gently forward until Clarke was folded into her chest. Clarke went without resistance, pressing her face into the warm crook of Lexa’s neck. The faint, familiar scent of her—soap, the sharpness of the gym still clinging to her—was enough to unravel the last bit of tension in Clarke’s body.

Her arms wound tight around Lexa’s waist, holding on like she’d slip away otherwise. Lexa’s own arms circled her in return, firm and sure, one hand splayed wide against Clarke’s back, the other threading into her hair. No words were spoken, but Clarke heard them anyway: I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe.

Time blurred. Clarke didn’t know if they stood there like that for minutes or an hour, and she didn’t care. The weight of Lexa’s body against hers, the solid strength of her embrace, was all that mattered. She let herself sink into it, into her.

Eventually, Clarke shifted just enough to lift her head. Lexa’s eyes caught hers instantly, green and sharp but softened now, all the lethal calm gone, replaced by something Clarke could only call devotion. Clarke lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair back from Lexa’s forehead, her fingers lingering against her temple. Lexa leaned into the touch without hesitation, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat, like even she needed the contact.

Clarke’s lips brushed Lexa’s next. Not rushed, not desperate—just soft. An affirmation, a thank you, a homecoming all at once. Lexa kissed her back with the same gentleness, her mouth curving against Clarke’s in the faintest, fleeting smile.

When they parted, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Clarke pressed another kiss to the corner of Lexa’s mouth, then to her jaw, then tucked herself back into Lexa’s chest, breathing her in. Lexa tightened her arms, resting her chin atop Clarke’s head.

In that silence, in that closeness, Clarke realized she hadn’t just found safety again—she’d found them. The chaos of Finn, the fear of that moment—it was already fading, drowned out by the steady rhythm of Lexa’s heartbeat beneath her ear.

They didn’t talk, didn’t need to. Every touch said what words couldn’t: We’re here. We’re together. And nothing else matters.

Clarke stayed curled against Lexa, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of her chest. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it thrummed with everything that had just happened, everything they had just escaped. Lexa’s hand traced slow, grounding circles between her shoulder blades, her touch saying all the things Clarke didn’t have the energy to speak aloud. Safe. Home. Hers.

But Clarke felt it — the subtle shift in Lexa’s breathing, the way her muscles tightened just beneath her. A storm gathering, not the kind that raged wild but the kind that chose its strike with precision.

“Clarke,” Lexa said finally, her voice low against Clarke’s hair.

Clarke tilted her face up, searching her expression. Lexa’s jaw was clenched, her eyes shadowed with something heavier than anger. Resolve.

“I need to report him.”

The words cut through the quiet like glass. Clarke’s stomach dropped.

She pushed herself upright so she was sitting beside Lexa, pulling her knees to her chest. “Lexa—”

“He cornered you,” Lexa cut in, voice tight, every word measured. “He didn’t stop when you told him to. That’s not—” Her throat bobbed, the word catching. “That’s not something we just pretend didn’t happen.”

Clarke bit down hard on her lip. She knew Lexa was right — god, she was right — but guilt still pressed down on her ribs like a stone. Finn’s face flashed in her mind, twisted with betrayal, his voice raw with disbelief: You’re really picking her over me? She’d hurt him, even if he’d crossed a line tonight, and some part of her couldn’t shake that weight.

“Lexa…” Clarke tried again, softer. “If we do this, it’ll blow up. Everyone will know. Classes, practice, the team… he’ll say things, twist things—”

Lexa’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unyielding. “Let him. Let him talk. I don’t care what he says about me. But he doesn’t get to scare you. He doesn’t get to touch you when you don’t want him to.”

Her hand found Clarke’s, fingers lacing tight, like she was anchoring her — or maybe like she needed Clarke to anchor her too.

Clarke’s throat tightened, torn in two directions. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Lexa countered, steady, immovable. “You deserve to feel safe here. If he can’t respect that, then he doesn’t deserve to stay.”

Clarke swallowed hard, guilt and fear tangling inside her chest. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose anything,” she whispered.

Lexa’s shoulders softened at that. She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath all this time, and reached to brush a loose strand of hair from Clarke’s face. For a moment, she looked less like the warrior Clarke had seen standing in front of Finn and more like the girl she had fallen in love with.

“You’re not the reason I lose anything, Clarke,” Lexa said gently. “You’re the reason I fight for everything.”

The words hit Clarke so hard it ached. Suddenly she wasn’t sure if the burn in her chest was fear anymore — or if it was the overwhelming truth that Lexa would never let her stand alone.

Clarke’s heart was still hammering against her ribs as silence settled again, heavier now, filled with everything she didn’t know how to say. She stared at their joined hands, Lexa’s thumb brushing over her knuckles, the quiet rhythm of it grounding her and unraveling her all at once.

Part of her wanted to give in, to nod and let Lexa take this fight into her own hands, to trust that it would all work out. But another part of her twisted with fear — of being exposed, of being talked about, of Finn making her life hell in ways she couldn’t predict.

“I don’t…” Clarke’s voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the fallout.”

Lexa didn’t flinch, didn’t press. She only shifted closer, the mattress dipping as she leaned forward to meet Clarke’s eyes. Her green gaze was steady, unwavering in the way that always made Clarke feel like the ground beneath her feet wasn’t so shaky after all.

“You don’t have to be ready,” Lexa said softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Clarke blinked rapidly, her throat tightening. She hated how much she wanted to collapse into that promise, to just let Lexa take the burden. But she couldn’t shake the gnawing voice inside her head whispering about whispers, about Finn twisting this into something it wasn’t, about people doubting her word.

Her chest caved with a sigh, and she leaned back against the headboard, tugging Lexa’s hand with her until they were both pressed side by side, shoulders touching. “What if he says I led him on?” she murmured. The words tasted bitter because in a way, she had. Not deliberately. Not cruelly. But she hadn’t stopped him from orbiting her life either.

Lexa didn’t look away. “Then I’ll remind you — you don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe anyone your time, your body, your heart. Not unless you choose to give it. And you didn’t choose him.”

Clarke’s lips parted, a protest trembling on her tongue, but it dissolved before it could leave. The certainty in Lexa’s tone sank deep, a reminder of something she always struggled to believe about herself: that she was allowed to choose, that her no should have been enough.

Her chest ached. She pressed her forehead into Lexa’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut. “You make it sound so simple.”

Lexa’s arm curled around her, pulling her in until Clarke could feel the steady beat of her heart against her cheek. “Because it is.” A pause, softer now, almost like a vow: “I won’t let him touch you again.”

Clarke shivered — not from fear this time, but from the gravity of Lexa’s promise. She tipped her head back to look at her, breath catching at the fierce tenderness in her expression. It made Clarke want to cry and laugh and cling all at once.

“Okay,” she whispered. It was barely a sound, but Lexa caught it, her thumb brushing Clarke’s cheek as if sealing the word in place.

“Okay,” Lexa echoed.

For the first time since Finn had cornered her, Clarke’s chest loosened. The fear didn’t disappear, but it didn’t own her anymore either — not with Lexa beside her.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the weight of the world pressing in around them but the bubble of safety holding. Clarke let herself breathe into it, fingers curling tight into Lexa’s shirt as if to make sure she wouldn’t vanish.

Clarke stayed tucked against Lexa’s shoulder, the steady rhythm of her breathing finally starting to match the rise and fall of Lexa’s chest. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of Lexa’s shirt as though loosening her grip would make the memory of Finn pressing in on her come rushing back.

Lexa didn’t rush her. She held her quietly, thumb brushing small arcs against Clarke’s arm, patient in the way only Lexa could be. When she did finally speak, her voice was low, unshaken.

“You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” Lexa said. “But you do deserve to feel safe walking across campus. Safe in your own studio. Safe… everywhere.”

Clarke’s throat tightened again. She pulled back just enough to see Lexa’s face, to catch the shadows of resolve in her eyes. “And if I report him? If I put this out there?” Clarke’s voice faltered. “What if it just makes things worse?”

Lexa’s jaw ticked, but her hand never stopped its soothing path along Clarke’s arm. “Then I’ll be right there with you. Through the questions, through the whispers, through all of it.” Her gaze softened, but her tone carried steel underneath. “Clarke, I need you to hear me: this wasn’t your fault. What he did, the way he cornered you… none of that is on you.”

The words landed like something breaking inside her, something brittle that had been holding for too long. Clarke swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “You make it sound easy,” she whispered again, her voice almost a plea.

“It isn’t easy,” Lexa admitted, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Clarke let the silence stretch, her forehead resting against Lexa’s again, soaking up the warmth of her skin. She didn’t answer right away — she couldn’t. The fear still tugged at her ribs, cold and insistent. But underneath it, there was something stronger taking root: the steady reassurance of Lexa’s presence, her refusal to let Clarke carry this alone.

Finally, Clarke drew in a breath, shaky but steadier than before. “I don’t think I can do it right now.”

Lexa nodded without hesitation. “Then not right now.” She squeezed Clarke’s hand. “But when you’re ready, I’ll be beside you. Every step.”

That promise unraveled something else inside her, leaving Clarke both raw and stitched together all at once. She leaned in, kissing Lexa softly — not desperate, not searching, but full of gratitude and love.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispered against her lips.

Lexa’s answer was another kiss, deeper this time, anchoring Clarke in the here and now, away from Finn, away from the fear. When they finally pulled apart, Clarke tucked herself back against Lexa’s chest, her eyes drifting shut, the weight of exhaustion settling over her.

Lexa’s voice hummed above her, the words quiet but certain: “We’ll figure it out together.”

And Clarke believed her.

Clarke didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her arms stayed looped around Lexa’s shoulders, her face pressed into the solid warmth of her neck. The world outside her dorm could have been spinning apart, but here, in this narrow pocket of stillness, nothing touched them.

Lexa’s hold was firm without being crushing, steady without wavering — the kind of embrace that told Clarke she didn’t need to explain anything yet. She could just exist here, pressed to the one person who always felt like home.

They didn’t speak, and they didn’t need to. Clarke felt everything in the way Lexa’s hand moved in slow circles across her back, grounding her. In the way her chin rested against Clarke’s temple, quiet and sure. In the way neither of them seemed willing to let go, even when minutes stretched into something longer.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was alive with all the words they couldn’t say right now — I’m here. You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Clarke’s throat ached, but for once not with the urge to cry. It was something steadier, heavier. Relief.

When she finally pulled back enough to look up, she caught Lexa’s eyes and saw her own reflection in them — raw, rattled, but safe. She gave the smallest shake of her head, like she was telling Lexa not to ask, not yet. Lexa only nodded, brushing her knuckles once along Clarke’s cheekbone before folding her back into the warmth of her chest.

Time moved without them. Outside, the afternoon light shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor. Clarke became aware, reluctantly, of her stomach growling, of the day pressing in again. Lexa must have heard it too because Clarke felt her chest shake with a soft, almost amused exhale against her hair.

The moment fractured with the buzz of Clarke’s phone on the desk. Neither of them moved at first, as though ignoring it could make it disappear. But when it buzzed again, then again, Clarke sighed and finally untangled just enough to grab it.

Three messages lit up her screen — one from Raven, two from Octavia.

Raven: You okay?
Octavia: Clarke, we just saw Finn storming out of the art building like a lunatic. What the hell happened??
Octavia: And don’t say “nothing” bc Raven will hack into the damn security cams.

Clarke’s stomach twisted, her thumb hovering over the screen. Lexa leaned just enough to read the names without intruding, her body still angled protectively around Clarke’s like a shield.

Clarke let the phone fall to her side with a groan. “They’re not gonna let this go,” she muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Lexa hummed in agreement, her gaze steady on Clarke’s face. “Dinner first,” she said quietly, the weight behind her words clear: take care of yourself, then face them.

Clarke exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping as she nodded. Lexa squeezed her hand once before letting go, and together they finally moved toward the door — still close, still brushing against each other with every step, as if distance wasn’t something they could stomach yet.

Chapter 22 Chapter Text

Lexa

Lexa stood in Clarke’s dorm room, her arms still tingling with the memory of holding Clarke against her. That embrace had anchored her, but the fire beneath her skin hadn’t fully burned out. Every time she blinked, she saw Finn’s face again — the sneer, the way he crowded Clarke, the flash of fear in Clarke’s eyes. Her fists clenched reflexively at her sides.

She could still feel the pull in her muscles, the half-second where she had almost given in to the urge to put him flat on the ground. Her body had coiled like a spring, ready to strike, and if it hadn’t been for Clarke’s hand on her arm, her voice grounding her, Lexa knew she would’ve snapped. And if she had? She wouldn’t have stopped at one punch.

The thought curdled in her chest. She wasn’t afraid of violence — not when it came to protecting the people she loved — but she was afraid of what losing control would cost her. A scholarship. Her spot on the team. Her future. Most of all, Clarke.

Across the room, Clarke moved slowly, as if she were still half in shock, gathering a change of clothes and retreating to the bathroom. Lexa sat on the edge of Clarke’s bed while the sound of running water filled the silence. She scrubbed her hands over her face, breathing deep, trying to force the images out of her mind. Finn’s voice still echoed in her ears — the venom, the delusion, the audacity.

When Clarke emerged, damp hair curling around her face and dressed in something softer, calmer, Lexa’s chest eased. Clarke’s eyes caught hers, a wordless exchange of I’m okay and I’ve got you passing between them. It didn’t douse the anger entirely, but it gave it somewhere else to go — quieter, sharper, tucked behind her ribs where it could wait.

They left the dorm together, shoulder brushing shoulder as they walked across campus. Lexa stayed half a step closer than usual, her hand occasionally ghosting near Clarke’s as though making sure she was still there, still safe. The sun was dipping low now, golden light spilling over the pathways. Students milled around, laughing, hurrying to evening classes, or drifting toward dinner. To anyone else, Lexa and Clarke probably looked normal — just another couple walking close, lost in their own little orbit. But Lexa’s body stayed taut, every nerve still half-alert, scanning faces in the crowd, just in case.

Lexa hadn’t unclenched her jaw since they left Clarke’s dorm. Even now, walking across the busy quad, her molars ground together as if pressure alone could smother the heat still simmering in her chest. Clarke’s shoulder brushed hers with every few steps, grounding her, though the ghost of Finn’s sneer still followed them.

She kept glancing at Clarke out of the corner of her eye, searching for signs — a tremor in her hands, a flinch at passing shadows, the faint glaze of shock. Clarke moved steadily, lips pressed into a determined line, but Lexa knew her well enough to see the weight clinging to her. She wanted to scoop it off her shoulders and bear it herself. She wanted to make it so Clarke never had to feel that cornered look again.

Instead, she matched her pace to Clarke’s, fingers ghosting near hers until Clarke gave in, twining their hands together. Clarke’s grip wasn’t tight, but it was steady, and Lexa breathed a little easier.

By the time they reached the cafeteria, the sun had dipped enough to send long shadows stretching across the campus. Inside, the clatter of trays and hum of conversation hit them like a wall. Students laughed and argued, music played faintly from a speaker near the entrance, and the smell of something fried clung to the air.

Lexa’s gaze cut through the noise, finding their friends instantly. Their table sat in the far corner, away from most of the crowd. It looked deceptively casual — Octavia’s boots thrown up onto a spare chair, Raven’s animated hands slicing the air mid-story, Lincoln’s calm presence grounding the chaos, Anya’s sharp eyes scanning the room. But Lexa knew better. She could see it in the tension of their shoulders, the way their conversation cut off the second she and Clarke approached. They’d been waiting for them.

Raven was the first to move, half-rising out of her chair like she couldn’t get to Clarke fast enough. Her eyes darted over Clarke’s face, searching for bruises, for cracks. “You okay?” she demanded. Her tone was sharp, but beneath it, her voice trembled like it was fighting to stay steady.

Clarke nodded once, tired but resolute, and slid into the seat beside her. Raven didn’t look satisfied, but she sat, still studying her like she could hold her together by sheer force of will.

Lexa followed Clarke into the booth, close enough that their knees touched beneath the table. The contact calmed her more than she wanted to admit.

Octavia leaned forward across the table, elbows planted. Her eyes flashed with fury. “He cornered you? Are you kidding me?” Her voice rose, sharp enough that a few nearby students glanced over.

“Keep your voice down,” Anya snapped, low and dangerous, her eyes narrowing at her sister. “This isn’t something the entire cafeteria needs to overhear.” Still, her own posture was tight, as if she was holding herself back from storming out to hunt Finn down herself.

Lincoln’s gaze was steady, his voice calmer than the rest but no less serious. “Tell us what happened when you’re ready,” he said, his tone anchoring the table. He glanced at Lexa for half a second, as if he could sense the storm under her skin, then back to Clarke.

The group settled into a tense silence, the noise of the cafeteria filling the gap. Lexa slid her hand under the table, palm up, offering. Clarke didn’t hesitate — her fingers slipped into Lexa’s, warm, sure, a quiet declaration of I’m still here.

Lexa stared down at their hands, the sight of Clarke’s pale knuckles against her own skin soothing and steadying. She still hadn’t let go of the image of Finn boxing Clarke against the wall. Every instinct in her body screamed that she should’ve finished it. That she should’ve put him down so thoroughly that he’d never dare get close to Clarke again. Her body remembered the coil of muscles, the snap waiting in her fists. If Clarke hadn’t touched her, hadn’t anchored her in that razor-thin second, Finn might’ve left the art building on a stretcher.

Her chest rose and fell slowly as she fought to push it down. She couldn’t afford to lose herself like that — not in front of Clarke, not in front of their friends, not when the cost could be everything she’d worked for.

Octavia broke the silence first, her voice sharper now, but controlled. “So what’s the plan? Because he doesn’t get to walk around like nothing happened.”

Clarke’s lips parted, then closed again. She looked at Lexa briefly, as though asking her silently if she should explain. Lexa gave the smallest nod. If Clarke wanted to talk, Lexa would stand with her. If she didn’t, Lexa would make sure no one pushed.

“I told him,” Clarke said finally, voice low but firm. “I told him it’s always been Lexa. That I chose her.” Her hand tightened in Lexa’s, almost imperceptibly. “And he didn’t… take it well.”

The understatement was enough to send Octavia leaning back in her chair with a sharp exhale, muttering something under her breath.

Raven leaned in, her eyes wide and fierce. “Did he touch you?”

Lexa felt her body stiffen instantly.

Clarke shook her head, though her throat bobbed. “No. He… he tried. But I stopped him.” She glanced sideways at Lexa, her gaze softening. “And then Lexa came.”

The table went quiet again. Lexa didn’t miss the looks exchanged — Raven’s fury barely contained, Octavia’s jaw tight, Anya’s eyes gleaming with something cold, Lincoln’s steady calm masking his own thoughts.

Finally, Anya spoke, her voice like steel. “Then he needs to learn exactly how stupid that was.”

Raven smirked grimly, clearly in agreement. Octavia’s eyes were already alight with ideas.

Lexa held Clarke’s hand tighter, her thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. She could feel the protective storm around the table, could feel how much they wanted to act, to do something. And for the first time that day, some of the rage eased out of her chest. Not gone — never gone — but shared.

Clarke wasn’t alone. She never would be again.

Lexa sat stiffly against the booth’s back, hand still tethered to Clarke’s beneath the table. She could feel every pulse in Clarke’s fingers, every small tremor that Clarke probably thought she was hiding.

The group was watching, waiting. Their faces a spectrum of emotions — Raven’s jaw locked, Octavia leaning forward like she was ready to leap into battle, Anya carved from stone, Lincoln unreadable but intent. Lexa wanted to say something, to speak for Clarke, but she knew she couldn’t. This was Clarke’s story. Clarke’s voice had to be the one to cut through the air.

Clarke exhaled, steadying herself, then spoke. “He came into the studio after class. I thought it would be like always — him showing up, waiting for me to talk.” Her voice was quiet, but sharp around the edges. “But he… he wouldn’t listen this time. He kept pushing, asking what my answer was after break.”

Lexa’s free hand curled into a fist against her thigh. She felt Clarke squeeze her hand lightly under the table, the barest press of fingers that said I know, stay with me.

Clarke continued, eyes fixed on the table surface as though the grain could anchor her. “I told him the truth. That it’s Lexa. That it’s always been Lexa. That I love her, and I can’t keep pretending there’s anything else.” Her voice faltered, just slightly, but then steadied. “He didn’t… he didn’t take it well.”

Octavia made a sharp noise, Raven muttered a curse. Lexa felt her spine straighten, every muscle in her body coiled. She wanted to cut in, to tell them exactly how not well Finn had taken it, but Clarke’s hand shifted again, her thumb brushing gently against Lexa’s. So she stayed silent, watching Clarke’s profile instead, tracing the determination holding her together.

“He stepped closer,” Clarke said, her voice thinner now, but strong. “At first, I thought he was just upset. But then he wouldn’t stop. He didn’t hear me telling him no. I stood up, tried to put space between us, but he kept following. Until my back hit the wall.”

Lexa’s teeth pressed together so hard her jaw ached. She saw it all again in her head — Clarke pressed against brick, fear in her eyes — and a red haze threatened to burn through her. She forced her hand to stay still, let Clarke’s touch hold her in place. Clarke knew. She always knew when Lexa’s anger was close to breaking.

“He was yelling by then,” Clarke went on, her voice low, measured. “Saying he couldn’t believe I was choosing Lexa. That I was making a mistake. I kept trying to push him back, to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t.” Clarke’s lips pressed into a line. “If Lexa hadn’t come when she did…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

The table went utterly still.

Lexa could feel it — the way the words settled over their friends like sparks to dry grass. Octavia’s fists clenched on the table, Raven’s face pale and furious, Anya’s nostrils flaring, Lincoln’s jaw tightening. Every one of them radiated anger, protective and sharp.

But Clarke was still talking, her voice softening, gentling as if she knew they all needed the edges dulled. “She came in, and he backed off. She stood in front of me, and that was enough. He left.”

Lexa looked down then, unable to stop herself. Clarke’s hand in hers — smaller, steady, grounding. She felt Clarke’s thumb trace over her knuckles again, soothing, reminding her that they’d made it through. That Clarke was safe.

Her throat was tight when she finally spoke, the only words she trusted herself with. “He won’t touch you again.”

The group didn’t argue. They didn’t ask for promises or details. They just sat there, the air heavy, each of them wearing their fury and loyalty in different shades.

And through it all, Clarke’s touch anchored her. Every time the memory of Finn’s sneer clawed at Lexa’s control, every time the echo of Clarke’s voice against that wall rang in her head, Clarke’s hand would press against hers. Quiet. Steady. I’m here. Stay with me.

It worked.

For now.

The silence broke all at once.

Octavia slapped her palm flat against the table, making their drinks rattle. “That’s it. He doesn’t get away with this. We’re reporting him.” Her eyes burned, her voice a whip.

Raven leaned in, her usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. “No arguments. He cornered you, Clarke. That’s not just him being an ass, that’s dangerous.”

Anya’s voice was lower, steadier, but no less lethal. “He put his hands on you. That crosses every line. The administration will deal with him.”

Lincoln gave a short nod, eyes still locked on Clarke with quiet concern. “We’ll back you up. Every one of us.”

Lexa’s pulse thudded hard in her ears. Every word they said resonated with what she had already told Clarke earlier. Report him. Stop him. Protect her. It was the only answer. The obvious one.

Clarke, though—Clarke looked small in the booth. Her shoulders hunched just slightly, her hands drawing closer into her lap except for the one that stayed tied to Lexa’s. Lexa felt the faint tremor there, subtle but constant, and she hated it. Hated that Clarke was trembling at all.

“We’ll go with you,” Octavia pushed, fierce and unrelenting. “You won’t have to walk into that office alone.”

“You shouldn’t even have to think about this,” Raven added, sharper now, as if she could bulldoze Clarke into agreement. “You report him, and he’s done. Gone.”

Lexa stayed silent, though her chest burned. She wanted to echo them, to stand and declare that she’d drag Finn to the administration’s door herself if she had to. But she knew that wouldn’t help. Clarke didn’t need the weight of more voices pressing her forward. She needed steady ground. She needed choice.

So Lexa squeezed Clarke’s hand gently, just once, anchoring her. Waiting.

Clarke’s eyes flicked around the table — Octavia’s fire, Raven’s fury, Anya’s precision, Lincoln’s calm support. Then to Lexa. And Lexa held her gaze, let everything she couldn’t say out loud show in her eyes instead: I’m with you. Whatever you decide. Always.

Her own rage simmered hot beneath her ribs. She could still see Finn’s face twisted in anger, still feel the phantom urge in her muscles to put him on the ground. It took everything she had not to tighten her grip, not to let it spill out in front of Clarke.

Because this wasn’t about her anger. This was about Clarke’s safety. Clarke’s choice.

The others kept talking — about policies, about precedents, about not letting him slip by. But Lexa tuned most of it out. Her focus stayed on Clarke, on the small shifts of her expression, on the tremble of her hand in Lexa’s.

When Clarke finally spoke, her voice was quieter than theirs but it carried more weight than all of them combined. “I know what you’re all saying. And I… I know you’re right.” She swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to where Lexa’s hand covered hers. “I just… I need a minute to breathe before I walk into that office.”

Octavia opened her mouth to argue, but Raven nudged her hard under the table. For once, Raven’s restraint surprised Lexa.

“Then we give you that minute,” Raven said, softer now. “But not more than that. He doesn’t get to walk free after what he pulled.”

Lexa finally let herself speak, her voice low, steady, sharp as a blade but meant only for Clarke. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever you choose, whatever pace you set — I’ll be right there.”

She saw the flicker in Clarke’s eyes then. Relief. Gratitude. And something deeper.

Lexa let her hand tighten around Clarke’s once more, silently promising everything she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud with their friends watching: I will never let him hurt you again.

The table quieted after Clarke’s words, but the silence wasn’t calm. It was taut, heavy, stretched thin like it might snap. Octavia drummed her fingers against the edge of her glass, Raven chewed on the inside of her cheek, Anya’s stare stayed flinty, unreadable. Lincoln was the only one who looked at ease, though Lexa knew it was practiced — the calm he wore to keep others steady.

Lexa couldn’t look at any of them. Her gaze never strayed from Clarke.

Clarke’s posture remained tight, shoulders still curled in as if she were trying to fold herself smaller. But her face—her face was shifting in quiet, subtle ways that Lexa tried to map. The slight crease between her brows, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the dart of her eyes to the table, then to their joined hands.

Lexa studied it all, hungry to understand, to find the line between Clarke’s fear and her resolve. She wanted to reach inside her chest and ease it all away, but she couldn’t. What she could do was remind Clarke she wasn’t alone.

Her thumb brushed across the back of Clarke’s hand, a small circle, soft and steady. Clarke’s eyes flickered down at the touch before meeting Lexa’s again. For just a second, the tightness in her mouth loosened.

Lexa breathed out through her nose, relief pooling low and deep.

The conversation around them started again, voices lowered now, strategizing in undertones. But Lexa let it blur into background noise. Clarke shifted slightly closer to her in the booth, the faint press of her shoulder brushing against Lexa’s arm. It wasn’t much, but it was deliberate. Lexa felt the choice in it — Clarke leaning toward her even in front of everyone else.

Lexa slid her hand free from Clarke’s only to rest it against her thigh, grounding her again, not asking for anything in return. Clarke startled at the contact for half a heartbeat before her muscles softened beneath the touch.

Lexa didn’t need words. She let the quiet speak instead: I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.

The rage was still there, hot and sharp in her chest, threatening to rise whenever she let herself think too long about Finn’s hands, Finn’s sneer, Clarke pressed against that wall. But every time the heat swelled, Clarke’s nearness drew her back. The small anchor of her hand, the press of her shoulder, the shift of her breath against Lexa’s side.

She looked at Clarke again, studied the line of her jaw as it worked, the way her eyes went distant and thoughtful, as if she were turning over every possible outcome in her head. Lexa’s chest ached with the urge to take that burden from her. To decide for her. To make the threat disappear.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. This wasn’t her choice to make.

So instead she bent her fingers gently against Clarke’s thigh, the smallest squeeze, just enough to remind her she wasn’t doing any of this alone.

And when Clarke’s eyes flicked to hers again, the quiet gratitude there was worth every ounce of restraint Lexa had left.

The cafeteria was its usual chaos — trays clattering, voices bouncing off tiled walls, bursts of laughter spilling from crowded tables. But at their booth, tucked away in the corner, the air was taut, heavy.

Clarke sat between Raven and Lexa, her shoulder pressed into Lexa’s. Across from them, Octavia leaned forward in her chair beside Lincoln, arms crossed, eyes flashing. Anya sat on Raven’s far side, quiet, unreadable, her elbow resting on the table.

The noise of the room felt distant. All Lexa could hear was the staccato rhythm of Clarke’s breathing, the restless tapping of Raven’s fingers, the sharp edge of Octavia’s threats.

“If it weren’t illegal,” Raven said, her voice low and vibrating with fury, “I’d already have his life ruined six different ways.”

Octavia snorted, shaking her head. “Six? Please. I could drop him in one move. Kick him in the ribs, done. He’d never stand straight again.”

Raven shot her a look. “That’s small time. I could erase him, O. Like — delete him from existence. Nobody would even remember his name.”

Lincoln sighed, his hand brushing against Octavia’s arm as if reminding her to breathe. “Both of you are escalating.”

“Amateurs,” Anya muttered, sipping her water without even lifting her gaze.

Lexa tuned them out. Her focus stayed locked on Clarke — the tight line of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled in her lap, knuckles pale from tension. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Lexa slid her hand beneath the table, brushing her thumb against Clarke’s. The smallest gesture. Quiet. Steady. Clarke’s shoulders eased just enough for Lexa to see it, a subtle loosening that told her she’d done something right.

And then Clarke moved. She straightened, and when she spoke, her voice was clear:

“Stop.”

The single word cut sharper than all the others. Octavia froze, Raven’s mouth snapped shut. Even Anya turned her head.

Clarke drew in a shaky breath, her eyes sweeping across the table, landing briefly on Lexa before holding firm.

“I do want to report him.”

The words dropped heavy into the booth, sinking deep. Lexa felt her chest tighten, then loosen, like her heart didn’t know which way to turn.

Clarke’s voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “Because before Lexa showed up… I was scared. Really scared.” Her fingers found Lexa’s under the table, gripping hard, and Lexa laced them together instantly. Clarke squeezed tighter, grounding herself.

“I told him to stop. I pushed him back. But he wouldn’t listen. He just kept coming. And when my back hit the wall—” Her voice faltered, her throat bobbing.

Lexa pressed her thumb into the back of Clarke’s hand, slow, steady, willing her to go on.

Clarke swallowed hard. “I never thought Finn would make me feel like that. Cornered. Trapped. I thought I knew him. I thought he was safe. But he wasn’t. And I don’t ever want to feel that way again. I don’t want anyone else to, either.”

Silence swelled, thick, alive. Lexa’s chest ached with pride so sharp it almost hurt.

Then Octavia’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as she shot forward, palms slamming against the table. “Then that’s it. We report him. Today. No discussion.” Her voice was fierce, her eyes hard, but Lexa caught the glimmer of something else — protectiveness, raw and burning.

“Damn right,” Raven added, her jaw tight, her hand curling into a fist against the table. “He doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not after cornering you like that. He needs to pay.”

Lincoln leaned in, steady and calm, his deep voice cutting through their anger. “If that’s what you want, Clarke, we’ll back you up. Whatever you need. You’re not doing this alone.”

Even Anya set her glass down, her sharp gaze fixed on Clarke. “Reporting him is the smart play. The only play. Men like him push boundaries until someone stops them.”

Clarke sat straighter, listening, taking it all in. But Lexa could see the weight pressing down — their words, their certainty, the force of all their loyalty wrapping around her like fire. She knew Clarke was grateful, but she also knew that the decision itself still clung heavy in her chest.

Lexa didn’t add her voice to theirs. Instead, she kept her thumb moving against Clarke’s knuckles, quiet and steady. A reminder that she was there, that Clarke wasn’t alone, not even for a second.

And when Clarke turned her head, just a fraction, Lexa met her eyes — and gave her a small nod. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there. Always.

Clarke’s fingers tightened around Lexa’s under the table. Lexa felt the tremor in them, subtle but sharp, and every instinct in her body screamed to pull Clarke into her arms, to shield her from the weight of so many eyes fixed on her.

Instead, Lexa stilled herself. She let Clarke set the pace. She pressed her thumb slow, deliberate, against Clarke’s hand — steadying, reminding.

Clarke’s gaze swept the table, moving from Octavia’s fire, to Raven’s clenched fists, to Lincoln’s quiet steadiness, and finally to Anya’s unyielding calm.

“I know you all want to protect me,” Clarke said, her voice even but hushed, just enough to keep their corner private. “And I’m grateful. More than I can even say. But this has to be my choice. Not yours.”

Octavia opened her mouth, already half-rising, but Clarke lifted her free hand — not sharp, but firm. It stopped Octavia in her tracks.

Clarke’s shoulders rose with a deep inhale. “I want to report him. Not because you all think I should. Not because it’s the smart play. But because…” She faltered, her lips pressing together. Lexa’s heart clenched, but then Clarke squared her jaw and pushed forward. “…because I was terrified. And I can’t pretend I wasn’t. I don’t want him thinking he can do that again. To me, or to anyone else.”

Raven’s eyes glistened, and she quickly ducked her head, blinking hard. “Damn right,” she muttered, voice tight but full of conviction.

Clarke went on, her grip on Lexa’s hand still unyielding. “I hesitated before, because part of me didn’t want to believe Finn could… be that person. But he was. And I saw it with my own eyes, felt it with my own body. He didn’t care what I said. He didn’t care that I wanted him to stop. He just kept pushing. And if Lexa hadn’t walked in when she did—”

Her voice cracked on Lexa’s name. Lexa’s chest tightened like a vice. She wanted to cut Clarke off, to spare her the weight of finishing the thought, but Clarke pushed forward, her voice steadier now. “If Lexa hadn’t walked in… I don’t know how far he would have gone.”

A low, furious sound rumbled from Octavia — half growl, half breath. Lincoln laid a hand on her knee, grounding her before she could explode.

Anya’s eyes narrowed, sharp as blades, but her voice was controlled. “Then reporting him isn’t just the best course. It’s the only course. He crossed a line. That can’t stand.”

Clarke nodded, but slowly, deliberately. “It can’t. And it won’t. Because I’m going to report him. I need to. For me.”

Lexa’s breath caught, pride and ache tangling deep in her chest. She turned her head slightly, watching Clarke — the set of her shoulders, the raw courage in her words, the way she didn’t flinch now under the weight of her friends’ stares. Clarke was reclaiming her voice right in front of her.

Clarke exhaled, softer this time. She squeezed Lexa’s hand once more, then added, “But… I need you all to follow my lead. This is my choice, my timing. Not anyone else’s.”

Octavia looked ready to argue, but Raven beat her to it, nodding fiercely. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Your pace. Your call. Just know we’ve got your back, Clarke. Always.”

“Always,” Octavia echoed, quieter now but just as fierce.

Lincoln gave a small nod. “We’ll stand with you.”

Even Anya inclined her head in agreement. “Then it’s settled.”

Lexa didn’t add her voice — she didn’t need to. Her hand was already laced with Clarke’s, her thumb brushing slow, steady circles into her skin. A silent promise, the same one she’d made in Clarke’s dorm room and every moment since: you are not alone. Not now. Not ever.

Clarke leaned fractionally into her side, just enough for Lexa to feel it, to know Clarke recognized it for what it was. And for the first time since the art building, Lexa let herself breathe fully.

Lexa had been holding herself back all afternoon — holding back words, holding back the hot red tide of what she wanted to do to Finn — but silence had its limits. The way Clarke had sat there, steadying herself while their friends circled with righteous fury, finally tipped the balance. She could feel the room leaning on Clarke as if she were a cliff edge, and Lexa would not let her teeter any longer.

She cleared her throat once, a small sound that somehow cut through the kettle of tension around the table. Heads turned. For a heartbeat she only let them see the storm in her eyes; then she let her voice take over, measured but brittle with a kind of controlled heat.

“Okay,” she said. “We do this right. We don’t improvise. We don’t play at vengeance. We make sure it’s done in a way that actually keeps Clarke safe and holds him accountable.”

It was the kind of sentence that shut down the theatrical plans and put purpose into the room. Raven hissed a satisfied breath, Octavia sat straighter, Anya’s jaw unclenched a fraction, and Lincoln folded his hands together like a hinge, ready to follow where she led.

Lexa laid out the steps slowly, deliberately. Her voice was Lexa-command now — unyielding and clear, and everyone listened.

“First: we walk in together.” She looked at Clarke, letting her see the promise in the motion. “No one who isn’t needed will be there with you when you give your statement. But on the way there, we come as a group. I’ll be at Clarke’s side the whole time. I won’t let him get near her.”

Clarke’s hand tightened in hers under the table. Lexa felt the tremor in the grip and shifted, turning some of the cold resolve toward comfort. “Second: we document everything we can.” She met Octavia’s sharp gaze and kept going. “Dates, times, witnesses. Names. What was said. Any physical evidence — messages, photos, anything — we save. Don’t delete. Don’t respond. Let me handle anything that requires a male voice if you think it’ll help the administration take it seriously, but Clarke reports in her words.”

Raven had already pulled up a mental list; she nodded, lips pressed into that habitual line she made when she was calculating possibilities. “I’ll screen for security footage,” she said. “Art building cams, hallway cams — I’ll find what we need.” The promise in her voice sounded like a threat and a comfort all at once.

“Third: we go to the student safety office and the Title IX coordinator,” Lexa continued. She could feel her cadence calming as she focused the plan into boxes of action instead of loose fury. “We don’t let it be dismissed as drama. We file a formal report. We ask that Clarke’s classes be accommodated if she needs to miss time. We request interim measures — no contact orders, changes to schedules if necessary.”

Lincoln spoke up, practical and steady. “I’ll go with you to campus security. I know the guy who runs it; he’ll take this seriously with a formal escort.” He glanced at Lexa, and she saw recognition of the line she’d drawn for herself — that she would not be Clarke’s only sentry.

Anya’s voice was cool and precise now, the tactical side of her surfacing. “We should think about timing. If Finn still has practice tonight, if he’s usually on campus at certain hours, we pick a time when he’s least likely to be in the building but early enough that the administration can act. We hit fast and hard so there’s no opportunity for him to–” She let the sentence hang.

Lexa finished it for her, tone lethal. “—so there’s no opportunity for him to manipulate the narrative before we even start.” Her jaw tightened. She felt the old animal impulse to stalk him, to make him feel small and helpless; she pushed it down and repurposed the energy into logistics.

She listed more quietly, more methodically: who would go with Clarke to the administrators’ office (Lexa, Octavia, Lincoln at minimum), who would start collecting evidence (Raven and Anya), how they’d preserve texts or phone logs (no replies, screenshots backed up to multiple drives), and how they would ensure Clarke’s legal and counseling resources were immediately available. Lexa insisted Clarke have the option of having a campus advocate or counselor in the room during any official interviews — someone whose only job was to protect Clarke’s welfare.

When talk turned to possible rebuttals — Finn’s friends, rumors, the ways abusers manipulate — Lexa’s face hardened. “We prepare for those,” she said. “We don’t argue with them. We document the inconsistencies. We show the pattern if there is one. We let the process do the work that anger would otherwise try to shortcut.”

At every point, she checked in with Clarke. She watched the micro-movements — the way Clarke’s mouth went thin when certain phrases came up, the way her eyes flooded and steadied when Lexa described a concrete plan. Clarke’s breathing evened; she nodded once when Lexa reached the part about an escort and interim measures. That nod gave Lexa permission to push forward.

Lexa’s anger flared once more, hotter this time, but wrapped in the steel of forward motion. “I go with you,” she added softly but fiercely. “I walk you into that office. I stay until someone hears us and does something. No one gets to make you feel unsafe on campus. Not again.”

Her hand—clenched around Clarke’s beneath the table—squeezed, and Clarke’s fingers returned the pressure like an anchor.

Octavia’s voice broke the planning rhythm with a pragmatic question. “What if administration stalls? What if they foot-drag?” Her eyes flashed; there was no patience there for bureaucracy.

“Then we escalate,” Lexa said. “We go to higher offices. We bring in the student union, the legal clinic if we have to. We make noise that can’t be ignored. But we start with a solid report. We start by doing it right, with witnesses and documentation, so there’s nowhere for them to hide.”

Raven added, quieter than before, “I’ll make sure all the screenshots and anything Clarke has are preserved, backed up off-campus. I’ll find the footage. If anyone tries to scrub it, we’ll have copies. He won’t be able to rewrite this.”

Anya’s agreement was a grim, efficient nod. “We coordinate timing. We pick a window when administration offices are open. We draft a short written statement they can file immediately so it’s on record.” She tapped her phone as if the mental checklist was already filling with names and times.

Lexa swallowed, the rage inside her settling into something cold and resolute. She hated the idea that Clarke should have to step into a formal process at all, hated that trust had been violated and safety compromised. But she also knew that righteous fury channeled into procedure could remove Finn’s ability to act again. It could put boundaries around him and make him accountable.

She leaned forward, speaking with the single-minded focus of someone taking the field: “We organize. We walk in together. Clarke, you set the pace. You tell us when you’re ready to go. Raven and Anya start the evidence collection now — discreetly. Octavia and Lincoln, if you can be at Clarke’s side at the office, be there. I’ll handle anything that requires me to be the loud voice. If Finn appears, I won’t give him a chance to corner her alone. He doesn’t get that. Not ever again.”

Clarke’s eyes glistened. The bravery there, fragile and fierce, made something ache inside Lexa — the part that had always wanted to protect by force and that was learning now to protect by planning and by presence.

“You’re not alone,” Lexa said finally, quieter than her plan but even more certain. “We move when you say. And when we move, we move as one.”

A chorus of low, affirming sounds followed — Octavia’s clipped, fierce promise to see it through, Raven’s muttered vow that whichever file Finn thought he’d keep private would be in pieces by morning, Lincoln’s steady “we’ll be there,” and Anya’s efficient “let’s pick a time.”

The group shifted from heat to purpose. Lexa felt that tide change, the raw urge to lash out settling into a channel she could use. Her fingers traced a final, slow circle across Clarke’s hand as if to seal what she’d said. Clarke squeezed back, small and immeasurably brave.

Lexa let herself hold that moment — the calm before action — and for the first time since she’d arrived in the art building, she felt something like relief. They had a plan. They had allies. They had a way to turn violence into accountability without letting rage cloud judgment.

She watched Clarke breathe, watched the worry edges smooth into lines of determined focus. Lexa’s jaw unclenched fractionally. She would still tear Finn apart if he stepped out of line, because some part of her would always be helpless with protectiveness. But now she also had a better weapon: strategy. A way to make sure Clarke’s safety was enforced by the people who had the authority to act.

They finished their drinks in quiet coordination, voices low, details forming into tasks. When the meeting disbanded — a compact of friends rallying around one of their own — Lexa stayed close enough to Clarke that no one could miss it. Her shoulder brushed Clarke’s as they stood; her arm slid around her, a physical line no one could cross.

They walked out together, not as two alone against a world, but as a unit marching toward a place that would listen. Lexa’s anger was still coiled, but now it moved with purpose. If there was to be a battle, they would fight it with facts and witnesses and the kind of solidarity that burned brighter than any single blow.

Clarke

Clarke sat in the booth, the air around the table still thick with the weight of what she’d said. Her friends had gone quiet, each of them processing in their own way. Raven’s hand twitched where it rested on the table, like she wanted to dismantle something, maybe someone. Octavia leaned forward, fire still burning in her eyes, but held her tongue. Lincoln kept a steadying palm over Octavia’s knee, his calm grounding her storm. Anya, unusually quiet, had her arms folded, gaze sharp and watchful.

Beside Clarke, Lexa’s presence was a tether. Her knee brushed Clarke’s beneath the table, firm and deliberate, not a casual accident. A silent reminder: I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.

The quiet stretched until Clarke finally exhaled, the sound shaky even to her own ears. “I want to report him,” she said, more firmly this time. “I need to.”

A ripple of reactions followed — relief from Lincoln, a muttered “damn right” from Raven, Octavia’s tight nod. Anya hummed under her breath, something approving and sharp-edged. But it was Lexa’s hand sliding over hers that anchored Clarke. Warm, steady, her thumb tracing circles against Clarke’s knuckles.

Lexa spoke then, her voice measured, controlled, but with steel underneath. “Then we move now. The longer we wait, the harder it gets. Clarke, I’ll walk you there myself. We’ll go straight to the administration office, Title IX, campus security—whatever we need. You won’t have to face this alone, not for a single second.”

Clarke looked at her, searching those green eyes. Lexa’s jaw was tight, her posture rigid with contained fury, but beneath it was unwavering resolve. Clarke nodded once, throat tight.

“Okay,” she whispered.

That was all it took. The group rose as one, a quiet but united front. Clarke slid out of the booth, her hand still clasped in Lexa’s, the contact grounding her. The cafeteria around them buzzed with its usual noise—clattering trays, overlapping conversations—but it all felt muted, distant. The only sounds that mattered were the steady rhythm of Lexa’s footsteps beside hers and the low murmur of her friends trailing behind.

Outside, the air was cooler, a crispness that cut through Clarke’s nerves for a fleeting moment. Students passed by, laughing, calling out to each other, carrying books and backpacks, oblivious. Clarke kept her gaze ahead, every step toward the admin building tightening the knot in her stomach.

Lexa’s hand squeezed hers once. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said softly, so only Clarke could hear. Clarke didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded, holding tighter.

By the time they reached the glass doors of the administration building, Clarke’s palms were damp. She wiped one against her jeans, but Lexa didn’t let go of the other. Raven darted ahead to hold the door open, shooting Clarke a look that was both fierce and tender. Clarke offered her a small, grateful smile, then stepped inside.

The lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee. Too clean, too clinical. The receptionist at the desk looked up, polite smile already in place, but it faltered when she saw Clarke’s face—and maybe the formation of her friends flanking her like a shield.

Clarke swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “I need to report an incident,” she said. “With another student.”

The receptionist nodded quickly, pushing a form across the counter. “Of course. We’ll have someone from Student Conduct meet with you. Do you want to—”

“She’ll need privacy,” Lexa interjected, her tone clipped. “And she shouldn’t be kept waiting.”

The woman blinked at the force behind Lexa’s words, then nodded again, rising from her chair. “Right away. Come with me.”

As they were led down the hallway toward a small office, Clarke felt her pulse hammering in her ears. Lexa walked half a step behind her, close enough that Clarke could feel the heat of her presence at her back, a silent promise of protection. Raven and Octavia trailed close, Anya and Lincoln just behind.

Inside the office, Clarke sat at a table, the chair colder than she expected. The others stayed with her, though Lexa positioned herself at her side, body angled slightly toward the door as if ready to intercept anyone who might enter.

When the admin official arrived, Clarke drew in a slow breath. She glanced down at her hand, still enveloped in Lexa’s, and let the pressure steady her. Then she began to speak.

She told them everything.

Her voice trembled at first, but with each word the fear cracked open, giving way to something stronger. She described Finn cornering her in the art building, how his posture had shifted from familiar to hostile in seconds. How she’d felt trapped against the wall. How she’d tried to push him back, told him to stop, but he hadn’t listened. Her throat tightened as she admitted the truth: She had been scared. Truly scared.

Her friends sat in silence, letting her voice carry. Raven’s hand twitched on the table, Octavia’s jaw flexed, Anya’s eyes narrowed. Lincoln’s calm presence radiated quiet support. But it was Lexa’s touch—her thumb brushing against Clarke’s knuckles whenever her breath hitched—that allowed Clarke to keep going, to finish.

When the words finally ran out, Clarke sat back, drained, her chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. The official nodded, expression serious, already jotting notes. Clarke couldn’t focus on that, though. Her gaze drifted sideways, to Lexa.

Lexa’s green eyes were molten with fury, but her hand never faltered against Clarke’s. Clarke felt it then—the contrast between the rage simmering beneath Lexa’s skin and the gentleness of her touch. Protection and tenderness, both given freely.

And for the first time since the art building, Clarke let herself believe she was safe.

The official listened intently, their expression grave by the time Clarke finished. For a moment, the silence in the small office pressed down heavy, broken only by the sound of Clarke’s uneven breaths. Then the official set their pen aside and leaned forward, voice measured but warm.

“Clarke, thank you for coming forward. I want to assure you that we take this very seriously. What you described… it’s unacceptable. And it will be investigated fully.”

Clarke nodded faintly, her throat tight. A part of her had expected to be brushed aside, told it wasn’t serious enough. But instead, she was being heard.

“We’ll begin with interim measures,” the official continued, their tone shifting to something more procedural. “A no-contact order will be placed immediately. Finn Collins will be formally notified that he is not to approach you, communicate with you, or enter your dorm. We’ll also arrange for changes to his class schedule if needed to ensure you’re not forced into the same space.”

Relief tangled with dread in Clarke’s chest. It was happening, moving faster than she’d expected. Her fingers tightened unconsciously around Lexa’s.

The official glanced at Clarke, then at the group quietly flanking her. “We can also arrange for an escort if you feel unsafe moving around campus, at least until the investigation is complete. And I’ll put in a request to review security footage from the art building—if there’s coverage there, it may corroborate your account.”

Before Clarke could respond, Lexa’s voice cut in, low and firm. “That’s not optional. She will need immediate protections—escorts, no-contact order in writing, the whole process set in motion now. She’s not going to wait days while you shuffle paperwork. She was cornered and scared. That doesn’t happen again.”

Clarke turned her head, catching the rigid line of Lexa’s jaw, the fury banked but simmering hot beneath her calm delivery. The official didn’t argue, just nodded quickly. “Of course. I’ll expedite everything. Clarke, you’ll receive written confirmation of the no-contact order by this evening, and campus security can provide temporary escort arrangements starting today.”

The knot in Clarke’s stomach eased slightly, though not all the way. She still felt the ghost of Finn’s weight pressing her back against the wall. Still heard the sharp edge in his voice when he’d realized she was choosing Lexa. But the steady warmth of Lexa’s hand in hers reminded her that she wasn’t alone in this, not anymore.

“Thank you,” Clarke managed, her voice soft but steady.

The official gave her a small, reassuring nod. “We’ll follow up with you regularly as the process unfolds. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

Lexa’s thumb brushed over Clarke’s knuckles again, as if to echo the sentiment—You don’t have to carry this by yourself.

And for the first time since the art building, Clarke let herself exhale fully.

Clarke hadn’t expected the no-contact order to feel so tangible, but walking out of the admin office with Lexa at her side, she realized how much lighter her chest felt. She could breathe again, even if the memory of Finn’s face still burned at the edges of her thoughts.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Their friends stuck close, making sure she wasn’t alone for too long, but they also didn’t press. Clarke appreciated that more than she could say. It let her feel like she still had control, like Finn hadn’t stolen that from her.

It wasn’t until evening, when Clarke was back in her dorm room—Lexa sitting cross-legged on the bed across from her—that her phone lit up. A text.

Finn Collins: You don’t get to do this to me. I deserve an explanation. I deserve more than this.

Clarke stared at the words, her throat tightening. She could almost hear the venom in them, the disbelief. But then, before she could even react, another notification popped up. This one from the admin office.

Admin: Please remember that under the no-contact order, Finn Collins is not permitted to reach out to you. We’ve already been notified of this message, and we’ll be following up immediately.

Clarke blinked at the screen, stunned by the swiftness. A beat later, her phone buzzed again—this time a call. Finn. Clarke’s stomach dropped. Before she could even think to answer, Lexa leaned over and pressed Decline with one sharp, deliberate movement.

“Don’t,” Lexa murmured, voice steady but protective. “He doesn’t get any more of your time, Clarke.”

Clarke’s hand shook slightly as she set the phone down on the nightstand. “I—he’s not supposed to—”

“He won’t,” Lexa cut in softly, shifting closer until their shoulders brushed. “They’ll handle it. And if he tries again, he’ll only dig his hole deeper. You did the right thing.”

Clarke let herself lean into Lexa’s warmth, the steady rise and fall of her breath. The phone buzzed once more, then went silent. This time, Clarke ignored it.

For the first time since the art building, she believed this chapter was closing. Finn’s desperate clinging didn’t scare her anymore—it just proved what she already knew: she’d chosen right.

And as Lexa’s arm slid around her shoulders, Clarke tilted her head to rest against her. Finn was already fading into the past. What mattered was right here, solid and warm and unshakable beside her.

The silence stretched between them after the last buzz of Clarke’s phone, not heavy, not suffocating—just full. Clarke let her head rest against Lexa’s shoulder, the rhythmic beat of her heart grounding her in a way nothing else could.

Lexa’s arm tightened around her. “I hate that it took this much for it to be over,” she said quietly, her voice steady but threaded with a raw honesty that Clarke knew cost her something. “But it is over, Clarke. You don’t have to carry him anymore.”

Clarke closed her eyes, breathing in the warmth of Lexa’s words. “I know. And I think…I needed this. Not just the order. Not just the admin taking it seriously. I needed to hear myself say it out loud—that it’s always been you.”

Lexa stilled, then leaned in just enough that Clarke could feel her lips brush her hairline. A kiss that was soft, reverent. “Always me,” Lexa whispered, like a vow renewed.

Clarke turned into her, curling close until her forehead pressed against Lexa’s collarbone. She whispered into the fabric of Lexa’s shirt, “I was scared before you walked in. More than I want to admit. But once you were there—” she exhaled shakily, “—I wasn’t anymore. I never am when you’re with me.”

Lexa pulled her tighter, resting her cheek against the crown of Clarke’s head. “That goes both ways, Clarke.” Her voice was low, almost reverent. “You keep me steady when all I want to do is burn the world down.”

They sat like that for a long while, saying little. Just hands linked together, thumbs tracing circles, breaths syncing slowly. Each small touch was a reminder: they weren’t alone. They’d chosen each other. Again.

By the time they finally shifted, stretching out on Clarke’s bed to curl beneath the same blanket, the anger that had haunted the day was dimming. The fear, too. What remained was something softer, steadier—like they had finally turned a corner.

Days later…

The campus moved on faster than Clarke expected. The admin office kept their word: Finn was pulled from her classes, barred from contacting her, and the no-contact order was enforced with startling efficiency. There were whispers, sure, but Clarke didn’t hear them for long. Every time she did, Raven was already snapping back with a sharp retort, or Octavia was glaring hard enough to make people scatter.

Finn faded, piece by piece. Clarke hadn’t seen him since that day in the studio. And she realized, slowly, that she didn’t care if she ever did again. He was becoming irrelevant, a ghost she no longer had to fear.

Her focus shifted back to the people who mattered—to the girl who mattered most.

With Lexa, the air was different now. Lighter. Their evenings in Clarke’s dorm became a routine of quiet dinners, shared study sessions, sometimes just lying tangled up in each other as the world outside spun on. Their mornings carried that easy intimacy Clarke once thought she’d lost forever: brushing their teeth side by side, Lexa stealing kisses before practice, Clarke sketching in the margins of her notebook while Lexa muttered plays under her breath.

It wasn’t perfect—they still had wounds, still had moments where the silence pressed too hard or the past slipped into the present—but they were facing it together. And Clarke realized that was all she’d ever wanted. Not perfection. Just this: a love that fought to stay, even when it had every reason to run.

The Days After

It started small.

Clarke woke the next morning to find Lexa already awake beside her, hair tousled, one arm tucked under her head. For a moment Clarke just lay there, studying her profile in the thin morning light—the sharp line of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips, the way she looked impossibly strong and fragile all at once. When Lexa’s eyes flicked open, green meeting blue, Clarke couldn’t help but smile.

“Morning,” she whispered.

Lexa’s response was wordless—just a kiss pressed to Clarke’s temple before she climbed out of bed to get ready for practice. It wasn’t grand, but it was grounding. Safe.

In the evenings, they fell into a rhythm. Clarke would spread her sketchbook across the small dorm desk, charcoal staining her fingertips, while Lexa sat cross-legged on the bed with her playbook open, mumbling strategies under her breath. Every so often, Clarke would glance up, catching the crease of concentration between Lexa’s brows, and toss out a teasing comment. Lexa would answer with that faint, rare smile—the one that made Clarke’s chest ache in the best way.

Sometimes their work slipped into silence, broken only by the scratch of pencil against paper and the rustle of notebook pages. Clarke found herself liking those silences. They weren’t heavy. They were full of presence, full of them.

Their friends didn’t make things quieter.

Raven and Octavia hovered constantly those first few days, as if waiting for Finn to pop out of a corner. Raven would text Clarke: Location check. Alive? while Octavia took to glaring down anyone who so much as glanced at Clarke for too long. Clarke had to laugh at their intensity, but inside she was grateful.

At one lunch, Raven plopped down beside Clarke and muttered, “If I hear Finn’s name one more time, I’m filing the damn report myself.”

Clarke had smiled, leaning into Lexa’s steadying arm behind her. “Already done,” she reminded, and Raven huffed before stealing fries off her plate.

One night, Clarke brought Lexa to the art studio. Not to relive the fear that had rooted itself there, but to reclaim it.

She set up her easel, the charcoal piece half-finished from before everything exploded. Lexa didn’t hover—she never did—but stayed close, perched on a stool a few feet away, watching without intruding.

When Clarke finally looked up, brushing hair out of her face, she found Lexa staring at her—not the drawing, not the room—her.

“What?” Clarke asked, self-conscious.

Lexa shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Just…you,” she murmured, like that was answer enough. And Clarke felt the tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying slip away.

Other times, Clarke found herself at Lexa’s practices. She’d sit on the bleachers with Anya or Lincoln, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pretending not to notice how Lexa’s eyes flicked toward her in the middle of drills. When practice ended, Lexa would jog over, sweat dripping down her temples, and Clarke would hand her a water bottle like she’d been waiting to do it all along.

“You don’t have to stay,” Lexa would say every time.

“I want to,” Clarke would answer, every time.

And Lexa never argued with that.

Through it all, Finn’s shadow faded. Clarke realized one afternoon—walking across campus hand-in-hand with Lexa, Raven and Octavia ahead of them arguing over music—that she hadn’t thought about him all day. That thought struck her not with guilt, but with relief.

It wasn’t that the fear hadn’t been real. It was. It had carved something deep into her. But now… now, every shared look with Lexa, every brush of her hand, every moment of laughter rebuilding between them was filling that hollow space with something stronger.

Love. Steady and deliberate. Chosen again and again.

Chapter 23 Chapter Text

Clarke

A Week Later

Clarke had noticed something about herself lately: she walked slower. Not because she was tired or distracted, but because she wanted to draw out the time she spent moving across campus with Lexa beside her. Every shortcut across the quad, every familiar path back from the art building—it felt like they were retracing old routes, rewriting them together. Their hands brushed, then twined, fingers slotting into place as if they’d never stopped. Every linked step carried the quiet weight of we’re here, still, again.

That evening, the sky was painted in soft violets and a deepening amber. Clarke had her sketchbook tucked beneath one arm, smudges of graphite still faint on her fingertips. Lexa, despite Clarke’s half-hearted protests, had slung Clarke’s heavy portfolio over her shoulder, balancing it with her own duffel. The stubborn tilt of her chin had made Clarke laugh, but underneath, her chest had squeezed tight. Lexa didn’t just carry weight—she shouldered Clarke’s heaviness like she always had, steady and uncompromising.

They didn’t talk much on the walk. They didn’t need to. Silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It carried the warmth of their laughter from earlier in the week, the echoes of whispered apologies and promises. It carried the pulse of their joined hands, each squeeze and brush a language in itself.

By the time they reached Clarke’s dorm room, the world outside had slipped into dusk. The single desk lamp threw a golden circle of light, humming faintly against the quiet. Lexa sat cross-legged on Clarke’s bed, her posture relaxed but still so inherently composed. Damp strands of hair from her shower curled around her shoulders, dark against the pale gray of her T-shirt.

Clarke perched beside her with her sketchbook open across her lap, pencil in hand. But the page had been blank for several minutes. Her eyes kept drifting from the paper to the curve of Lexa’s profile, the strong line of her jaw, the way the lamplight softened the sharpness of her features. She wasn’t drawing. She was memorizing.

Lexa’s gaze flicked over, catching her. “What is it?” she asked softly. Her voice was low, but it tugged Clarke out of her reverie.

Clarke shook her head, the corner of her mouth curving. “Nothing,” she said, setting the pencil across the page. “Just…you.”

Lexa’s brow furrowed faintly, as if she didn’t quite believe it. Clarke closed the sketchbook, slid it aside, and shifted closer until their knees brushed. She lifted her hand, brushing damp strands of Lexa’s hair back, fingertips lingering against her skin.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” Clarke whispered. “About being right here with you again?”

She felt Lexa go still beneath her touch. Something flickered across her face—an ache, sharp and fleeting, chased by something softer. Lexa leaned ever so slightly into Clarke’s palm, but her voice was steady when she answered. “Probably not as many times as I have.”

Clarke’s breath caught, her chest tightening with a mix of ache and relief. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against Lexa’s. Their noses brushed, their breaths mingling in that small space between them.

“I was so scared I’d lost you forever,” Clarke admitted, the words barely more than air.

“You didn’t,” Lexa murmured back. Clarke felt the tremor beneath her steadiness. “You never did. Even when I tried to pretend otherwise.”

Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment the world narrowed to the steady warmth of Lexa’s presence. Her scent—clean soap, a hint of the outdoors from the walk over—filled Clarke’s lungs. Lexa’s breath ghosted across her cheek. Everything about it felt like an anchor.

When Clarke finally drew back just enough to see her, she searched Lexa’s face in the lamplight. “This feels different,” she said slowly. “Stronger. Like we know what we almost lost. And we’re not going to let it slip away again.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened—not in hesitation, but in conviction. “We won’t,” she said firmly. “Not this time.”

The way she said it left no room for doubt. Clarke believed her.

The rest of the night unfolded quietly, like an exhale they’d both been holding. Clarke stretched back across the bed with her sketchbook again, pencil moving in loose strokes this time. Lexa leaned against the headboard, her shoulder brushing Clarke’s as she read through plays on her tablet. At one point, Clarke absently reached over, letting her hand rest over Lexa’s on the blanket. Lexa turned her palm up immediately, threading their fingers together without looking away from the screen.

Later, Clarke curled against her side, sketchbook abandoned, listening to the faint murmur of campus life drifting through the window. Lexa’s arm draped around her shoulders, steady and protective, as if her body could say the words her lips didn’t need to.

There was no urgency in the moment. No desperate need to define or defend. They had already spoken the most important truth: they were choosing each other again. Not out of nostalgia, not out of fear of being apart. But out of the certainty that this—this closeness, this steadiness, this love—was what they wanted.

And as Clarke drifted in the warmth of it, she thought: This time, it’s ours to keep.

It was almost startling how quickly the days began to smooth themselves into a rhythm again, how the sharp edges of fear dulled into something manageable, replaced instead by the steady thrum of normalcy. Clarke hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that—the quiet, the ordinary, the in-between moments that made everything feel real.

Their week filled itself with small rituals, unspoken agreements that stitched them closer together.

The library had never been Clarke’s favorite place—too sterile, too quiet in a way that always made her restless—but with Lexa beside her, it transformed into something else. She’d spread her notebooks and sketchpads across the wide oak table while Lexa set up her laptop, earbuds dangling from one ear.

Sometimes Lexa scribbled notes furiously, brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving faintly as she ran through plays under her breath. Other times she leaned back in her chair, posture deceptively relaxed while her mind worked overtime. Clarke could see it in her eyes, the way they tracked invisible routes only she could see.

Every so often, Lexa’s hand would wander—tapping against the table, nudging Clarke’s elbow, brushing her knee beneath the surface. Clarke would pretend to be annoyed, scrawling a line of charcoal a little harder than necessary, but her smile always betrayed her.

At some point, Clarke started sketching Lexa when her focus sharpened into that quiet intensity. The curve of her jaw, the set of her mouth, the shadows beneath her lashes. Lexa never noticed at first, but when she finally caught Clarke staring over the edge of her page, her ears flushed pink.

“You could at least pretend to be subtle,” Lexa murmured, not looking up from her screen.

Clarke grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Lexa’s lips twitched, but she kept her eyes down, pretending not to be flustered. Clarke loved her too much to push further—well, not too much. The drawing remained on the corner of her page, proof that Lexa didn’t just fill her heart, but her art too.

Football practice was grueling, and Clarke had learned long ago that Lexa’s focus on the field was nearly untouchable. Still, she liked being there. She liked watching the way Lexa commanded the space, voice low and clipped, movements sharp as she ran through drills. She liked the way her teammates gravitated toward her, how they seemed steadier just with Lexa’s presence.

Clarke sat on the bleachers, a thermos of coffee in hand, bundled in one of Lexa’s hoodies. It smelled faintly of detergent and Lexa’s skin, and Clarke buried her face into the fabric more than once. She pretended it was for warmth, but she knew better.

Sometimes, between plays, Lexa’s gaze would lift from the field, skimming across the sidelines until it found Clarke. Even at a distance, Clarke felt the pull of it. A flicker of connection that made her chest tighten. Lexa would nod once, almost imperceptible, before turning back to the drill, and Clarke would smile into her thermos, warmth spreading through her.

When practice ended and the team began to scatter, Clarke always waited. She’d descend the bleachers slowly, sketchbook tucked under her arm, and meet Lexa near the field house.

Lexa would already be tugging off her helmet, sweat dampening the hair at her temples, cheeks flushed. She looked exhausted and alive all at once, and Clarke’s heart ached with pride.

“You’re ridiculous,” Clarke teased once, pressing the thermos into Lexa’s hand. “It’s like you don’t know how to stop.”

Lexa’s lips curved faintly, eyes soft despite the exhaustion. “That’s because stopping isn’t an option.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, but the fondness in her chest betrayed her. She leaned up, brushing a quick kiss against Lexa’s jaw, the salt of sweat clinging to her lips. Lexa stilled, breath catching, before exhaling softly, almost like relief.

Clarke’s art studio became another place where their routines intertwined. She’d set up her canvas, smudges of color staining her fingertips, while Lexa settled in the corner with her laptop or a playbook.

The quiet between them wasn’t empty—it was alive. Clarke’s brush would sweep across the canvas in long strokes, and she could hear Lexa shifting in her chair, pages turning, the occasional low hum as she thought through something on the page.

Every so often, Clarke would step back from her canvas, frustrated with a shadow that wouldn’t fall right or a color that seemed too flat. And Lexa, without even looking up, would say something infuriatingly accurate—“The angle’s too shallow” or “It needs more contrast here.”

Clarke would whirl around, exasperated. “Do you want to come paint it yourself?”

Lexa’s mouth would quirk, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “You know I’m right.”

And the worst part was, she was. Clarke would grumble under her breath but fix it, only for the painting to immediately improve. She hated how smug Lexa looked afterward. She also loved it.

When Clarke grew tired and dropped onto the stool beside Lexa, streaks of paint across her cheek, Lexa would reach up, thumb brushing gently along her skin. She’d shake her head faintly, as if Clarke were the most exasperating and beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Mess,” Lexa murmured.

“Yours,” Clarke countered, smirking through her exhaustion.

Lexa didn’t argue.

It wasn’t just the big moments that mattered—it was the tiny ones. Clarke realized she loved the way Lexa’s hand would find hers automatically when they walked across campus, like a magnet pulled to its match. She loved the way their routines overlapped in the mornings, Clarke spreading paint across her cheeks in front of the mirror while Lexa laced up her shoes, the two of them moving in sync without speaking.

At night, after study sessions or practice, Clarke would find herself curled into Lexa’s side, their breathing evening out in tandem. Lexa’s arm would drape across her waist, anchoring her, steadying her. Clarke would fall asleep to the rhythm of Lexa’s heartbeat beneath her ear, the sound more comforting than any lullaby.

It wasn’t flashy, this life they were stitching back together. It wasn’t dramatic. It was steady, patient, built on the quiet knowledge of who they’d been and who they still wanted to be.

And as Clarke stood in the studio one evening, brush in hand, she realized: this was what healing looked like. Not the absence of pain, but the presence of love strong enough to carry them forward.

It wasn’t just Clarke who noticed the shift between them. Slowly, quietly, the people around them began to see it too.

It started with Raven. Of course it did. She was impossible to fool, and Clarke realized she’d never actually been fooled in the first place.

One afternoon, after class, Clarke and Lexa walked into the cafeteria hand in hand. Clarke didn’t think about it—Lexa’s fingers had slipped into hers on the walk over, their hands swinging lightly between them. It felt natural, so natural Clarke didn’t think to drop it.

They found Raven already at a table with Octavia. Raven’s eyebrows shot up instantly.

“Well, well, well,” Raven drawled, smirking. “Guess who finally remembered how to use her hands.”

Octavia glanced up, grin tugging at her mouth. “Took you long enough.”

Clarke felt her cheeks burn as she slid into the seat, Lexa calmly settling beside her as if Raven’s words were just background noise. Clarke opened her mouth to fire back something—anything—but Lexa beat her to it.

“We didn’t forget,” Lexa said smoothly, reaching for her water. “We just needed time.”

Raven’s smirk faltered into something softer. Octavia blinked, surprised by the steadiness in Lexa’s tone. Clarke felt her chest tighten. Because Lexa was right. And she said it so simply, so firmly, that Clarke couldn’t even feel embarrassed.

Raven raised her hands in surrender. “Fair enough, Woods. Just don’t go getting all smug about it.”

Clarke bumped her shoulder into Lexa’s, biting back a smile. “Too late for that.”

Later that evening, Clarke found herself back in the art studio. The smell of oils and turpentine clung to the air, the kind of comforting scent that always settled her nerves. Lexa had come along again, like she always did, perched in the corner with her laptop balanced on her knees.

Clarke tried to focus on her canvas, but she kept glancing back at Lexa. The set of her shoulders, the crease in her brow. Even absorbed in playbooks and strategies, Lexa carried herself with that quiet, commanding steadiness. Clarke wondered if Lexa even realized how grounding she was just by existing.

When Clarke finally gave up on her piece and dropped onto the stool beside her, Lexa closed her laptop without hesitation, turning toward her fully.

“You’re distracted,” Lexa said softly.

“Maybe,” Clarke admitted, leaning into her side.

Lexa’s arm wrapped around her waist instantly, pulling her in until Clarke’s head rested against her shoulder. No hesitation, no fumbling, just a natural fit.

Clarke smiled faintly. “You’re getting too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Knowing me.”

Lexa’s lips brushed the top of her hair, a whisper of a kiss. “I always knew you, Clarke.”

Clarke’s throat tightened, emotion catching before she could speak. She tilted her face just enough to press her lips to Lexa’s collarbone in thanks, her hand resting over Lexa’s heart.

The next night, the whole group found themselves crammed into Raven’s dorm room, pizza boxes scattered across the desk, soda cans littering the floor. Octavia was in the middle of an animated rant about one of her professors, hands flying wildly. Lincoln sat beside her, nodding like he’d heard it all before but still smiling at her fire.

Clarke sat wedged between Raven and Lexa on the bed, her thigh pressed flush against Lexa’s, their knees brushing. Normally she might have pulled away, but tonight she didn’t. She leaned into Lexa’s shoulder, listening to Octavia with half an ear, feeling the slow rise and fall of Lexa’s breath beside her.

It wasn’t until Raven smirked down at them that Clarke realized what she was doing.

“You two are disgusting,” Raven teased, nudging Clarke with her elbow. “Do you have to look like you’re carved out of a romance novel right now?”

Clarke flushed, about to sit up straighter, but Lexa only tilted her head and met Raven’s gaze steadily.

“Yes,” Lexa said. “We do.”

The room fell quiet for a beat. Then Octavia snorted so hard soda almost came out of her nose. Lincoln laughed under his breath, trying and failing to hide it. Even Raven, who prided herself on never being thrown off, blinked at Lexa’s bluntness before bursting into laughter.

Clarke groaned, burying her face in Lexa’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Lexa murmured, brushing her lips against Clarke’s temple.

And that was the thing—Clarke didn’t care. Not anymore. The teasing, the laughter, the sharp looks exchanged by their friends—it didn’t matter. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, Clarke and Lexa weren’t fumbling in the dark. They weren’t circling each other with fear or anger. They were steady, rooted. Together.

By the end of the week, Clarke realized their lives had blended again so seamlessly it almost felt like they’d never been apart. Study sessions. Practice. Painting. Late-night talks that bled into dawn.

Everywhere she looked, Lexa was there—not hovering, not overbearing, but present. Anchoring. And Clarke knew, deep down, that she wanted to keep building this life, brick by brick, moment by moment.

Because this—this steady love, this partnership—they were what she’d been missing all along.

The week had been a blur of motion and routine. Classes. Practices. Late nights in the art building. Evenings spent tangled up with friends, pizza and laughter spilling across cramped dorm rooms. On the surface, everything had fallen into place. But underneath, Clarke could feel it—something waiting to be spoken. A quiet truth pressing at her ribs every time Lexa’s hand brushed hers, every time she caught Lexa’s eyes across a room and felt like the world narrowed to just the two of them.

By Friday night, the campus had gone quiet.

Clarke’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of her desk lamp. The noise of the day had faded—no more chatter in the hallways, no more muffled bass from someone’s speaker down the hall. Just quiet. Clarke sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchbook open in her lap, pencil loose in her fingers. She hadn’t drawn much, though. Her focus kept slipping.

Across the room, Lexa leaned against the desk, her arms folded, head tipped back as if she was memorizing the ceiling. The sight made Clarke smile. Even at rest, Lexa carried herself with that same unshakable steadiness—as if she could hold the world on her shoulders and never flinch.

“You’re staring,” Lexa said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

Clarke flushed, snapping her gaze back to her blank page. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Lexa’s tone was dry, but when Clarke risked a glance, she found the corner of Lexa’s mouth twitching upward.

Clarke rolled her eyes and dropped the pencil onto the sketchbook. “Fine. Maybe I am. Sue me.”

Lexa pushed away from the desk and crossed the room, her steps unhurried. She stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at Clarke with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made Clarke feel like her soul was under a microscope.

Clarke shifted, suddenly restless. “What?”

Instead of answering, Lexa sat beside her, the mattress dipping. She didn’t crowd Clarke, didn’t push. She just… waited.

Clarke sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It feels like we’re different now.”

Lexa’s eyes softened. “We are.”

The answer landed like a stone in Clarke’s chest. She swallowed. “Different how?”

Lexa reached out, brushing her fingers along the back of Clarke’s hand. Her touch was featherlight, reverent, as if Clarke might break if she pressed too hard. “We’ve stopped running.”

Clarke blinked, startled by the truth of it. She thought back to all the months before—the circling, the silence, the half-steps forward and back. The fear of saying too much, of losing each other all over again. And she realized Lexa was right. For the first time, they weren’t caught in that endless loop. They were steady.

“Lexa…” Clarke’s throat tightened. “What do you want? With me. With… us.”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. She looked down at their hands, her thumb tracing idle circles across Clarke’s skin, as if grounding herself before speaking. When she did, her voice was low, certain.

“I want a life with you.”

Clarke’s breath caught.

Lexa went on, steady as always. “I don’t know where football will take me. Or where your art will take you. But I want to build something with you. I want to be there for every canvas you finish, every gallery you stand in. I want you in the stands for every game I play, no matter where it is. I want—” She paused, her jaw tightening as if the words carried more weight than she could show. “I want us not just to survive this. I want us to last.”

Clarke’s chest ached with the force of it. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed to hear those words until they were spoken, until they were real.

Her hand trembled as she reached up, cupping Lexa’s face. “You’re serious.”

“Always.”

Clarke laughed, but it broke halfway through, turning wet with emotion. “God, Lexa… you’re going to ruin me.”

Lexa’s lips curved faintly. “That’s not my intention.”

Clarke shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. “No. Not ruin. Save.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, thick with everything they’d said and everything still left unsaid. Then Clarke leaned forward, closing the distance, pressing her lips to Lexa’s with all the weight of her heart behind it.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate, a promise written in the press of mouths and the way Clarke’s fingers threaded into Lexa’s hair. Lexa kissed her back just as steadily, her hands anchoring at Clarke’s waist, pulling her close like she’d never let go again.

When they finally parted, Clarke rested her forehead against Lexa’s, breathing hard. “I want that too. All of it. Whatever it looks like, wherever it takes us—I want it with you.”

Lexa exhaled, a soft, shaky sound that Clarke had rarely heard from her. “Good.”

Clarke laughed again, wiping at her eyes, and leaned into Lexa’s shoulder. The tension bled out of her, leaving only warmth in its place. For the first time in so long, the future didn’t scare her. Because whatever came next, she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

The room was quiet again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was safe. Steady.

Together.

The kiss lingered, soft but insistent, until Clarke felt herself melt fully into Lexa’s arms. The weight of the week, the adrenaline of the confrontation with Finn, the countless quiet moments they’d been stitching back together — all of it poured out in the way she held on. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Lexa’s shirt like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Lexa shifted, guiding them gently until Clarke found herself leaning back against the pillows, Lexa hovering just above her. The lamp painted everything in warm gold, shadows deepening around them, cocooning them in a world that belonged only to them.

Clarke let out a small laugh, breathless, brushing a strand of hair back from Lexa’s temple. “You always take charge.”

Lexa’s lips quirked. “Only when I’m certain of where I belong.”

The words burned straight through Clarke, and she answered not with words but with another kiss — slower this time, lingering, as if to memorize the taste of this moment. Their mouths moved in tandem, unhurried, the kind of rhythm born from years of knowing one another’s edges and learning how to fit together again.

When Clarke finally pulled back, her hand slid down to Lexa’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath her palm. It grounded her, calmed the last of her nerves. “Stay,” Clarke whispered. “Don’t leave tonight.”

Lexa’s answer was immediate, quiet but fierce. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Something unspooled inside Clarke at that, tension bleeding away as she shifted onto her side, tugging Lexa down with her. The mattress dipped under their weight, and suddenly they were face to face, pressed close from knee to chest. Clarke traced the outline of Lexa’s jaw with the tip of her finger, marveling at how natural it felt — like no time had passed at all.

Lexa caught her hand, pressing a kiss to Clarke’s knuckles before threading their fingers together. The gesture was simple, but Clarke felt it reverberate through her entire body, a vow in miniature.

They lay there for a while, just breathing each other in. Clarke tucked her head beneath Lexa’s chin, her ear pressed against the steady rhythm of Lexa’s heart. Lexa’s hand settled against the small of her back, fingers splayed in quiet possession, her thumb stroking absent circles that spoke louder than words ever could.

The silence wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of everything they’d been too afraid to say before. Full of forgiveness, of promises, of the raw relief of being here, together, without anything or anyone standing between them.

Clarke exhaled, her breath fanning across Lexa’s collarbone. “This feels right.”

Lexa tightened her hold, tucking Clarke impossibly closer. “Because it is.”

Clarke smiled into the fabric of Lexa’s shirt, her body sinking deeper into the warmth, into the steady certainty Lexa always carried like a shield. For the first time in so long, Clarke wasn’t restless, wasn’t doubting. She was simply… safe. Loved.

Her eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion seeping in after days of tension. She fought it, not wanting to lose a single second of this. But Lexa must have felt the way her body softened, because she pressed a kiss into Clarke’s hair, murmuring against her crown, “Rest, Clarke. I’ve got you.”

And Clarke believed her.

She let her body go slack, curled fully into Lexa’s warmth, her hand still threaded with Lexa’s even as sleep began to pull her under. The last thing she registered was Lexa’s steady breathing, the anchor that carried her into dreams.

Together, they drifted — not into uncertainty, but into the quiet, unshakable truth of each other.

Chapter 24 Chapter Text

Clarke

The dorm room was cloaked in a kind of silence Clarke had come to crave. Not just the absence of noise, but the kind of silence that wrapped itself around them, heavy with safety. Outside the campus still buzzed faintly—students walking back from the library, laughter floating from the quad—but in here, the world had narrowed to just two people and the weight of all that had gone unsaid.

Clarke lay on her side, head propped against her arm, watching Lexa peel off her hoodie and fold it with an absentminded neatness. The lamplight softened Lexa’s profile, but the tension in her shoulders was unmistakable. Even now, with Finn’s shadow finally shrinking, Lexa hadn’t fully unclenched.

“Lexa,” Clarke murmured, voice low enough to make the word feel like a secret.

Lexa’s eyes lifted immediately, sharp and searching. Always alert. Always ready.

Clarke shifted closer, the blanket dragging with her. “You don’t have to keep your guard up all the time.”

A wry smile tugged at Lexa’s mouth. “Don’t I?” she asked, half-teasing, but her voice was too thin to carry it fully.

Clarke reached out, laying her hand gently over Lexa’s fist where it rested on her knee. “Not with me,” she whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Clarke could feel the fine tremor under Lexa’s skin, the battle between instinct and surrender. Then slowly, Lexa exhaled, shoulders dropping. She leaned back until her spine pressed against the wall and let Clarke’s hand anchor her.

“I almost lost it,” Lexa admitted, her voice raw in a way Clarke rarely heard. “When I saw him—when I saw you pressed against that wall—” Her jaw locked. “If you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t stopped me, Clarke… I would’ve ruined everything. My scholarship. My future. But more than that—” She broke off, knuckles whitening. “I would’ve scared you.”

Clarke’s heart tightened. She didn’t argue, didn’t tell Lexa she wouldn’t have been scared of her—because honesty mattered here. “You’re right,” she said softly. “I was scared. But not of you. Never of you.” She moved closer still, knees brushing Lexa’s thigh. “I was scared of what he might do. And…I was scared of losing you to your own rage.”

Lexa finally met her eyes then, and Clarke saw it—the sharp, unflinching truth of how much she’d been holding in.

“I thought I’d gotten past this,” Lexa admitted, almost to herself. “The way anger feels like it owns me. But when it comes to you—” She shook her head. “It’s like nothing else exists except protecting you. Even if it destroys me.”

Clarke reached up, cupping Lexa’s cheek in her palm. Her thumb brushed along the line of Lexa’s jaw, grounding. “That’s not protecting me, Lexa. That’s punishing yourself. And I don’t want that. I don’t want to be safe at the cost of you.”

Lexa closed her eyes, pressing into the touch. Her voice was barely audible when she asked, “Then what do you want?”

Clarke let the silence breathe before answering. “I want you here. With me. Not burning yourself alive for me, but building with me. A future. Our future.”

The words hung between them, fragile but unshakable.

Lexa opened her eyes, green dark with something Clarke couldn’t name—fear, love, both. “Clarke…” Her voice faltered, and Clarke could see it: the battle lines of last year, of everything they hadn’t said when the rings came off.

So Clarke steadied her own breathing and offered what Lexa couldn’t ask for. “I need to say it, Lexa. About Finn.”

Lexa tensed, but Clarke squeezed her hand. “I should’ve been clearer. I should’ve told him straight out months ago that it was never going to happen. I let him believe there was more, and that wasn’t fair to him—or to you.” Her throat worked, heavy with the weight of guilt. “You deserved better. You always have.”

Lexa swallowed hard, her thumb brushing absently over Clarke’s knuckles. “I wasn’t exactly fair to you either.”

Clarke tilted her head.

“The ring,” Lexa said quietly. “When I saw yours was gone, I…” She trailed off, shaking her head like she could rid herself of the memory. “I wanted to believe I could let go, too. But I couldn’t. Not really. I took mine off, but I couldn’t put it away. I made it into a necklace, because even when I thought we were finished—” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want to be finished.”

Clarke’s breath caught, remembering that night she’d first glimpsed the chain on Lexa’s chest while Lexa slept, how her own chest had ached with recognition. She leaned forward, resting her forehead to Lexa’s. “We weren’t finished. Just…lost for a while.”

For a beat, neither of them moved, wrapped in the closeness of it.

Then Lexa whispered, “I don’t ever want to lose us again.”

“You won’t,” Clarke promised. “Not if we keep doing this. Talking. Choosing each other, even when it’s hard.”

Lexa kissed her then—not hungrily, not desperately, but steady and sure, the kind of kiss that spoke of vows renewed.

When they pulled back, Clarke tucked herself against Lexa’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of her heartbeat. Neither spoke for a long time. They didn’t need to. Their silence was no longer filled with absence, but with a presence they’d both fought hard to reclaim.

Outside, the world went on—the chatter of campus, the hum of evening settling in. But in here, the quiet was theirs, and they stayed in it, not because they were afraid of what words might break, but because they finally knew they had all the time in the world to keep speaking.

The first thing Clarke felt was warmth. Not just the cocoon of blankets around her, but the steady heat of Lexa’s body beside her. For a fleeting second, her chest loosened with relief—because too many mornings, a year ago, she’d opened her eyes to find nothing but cold sheets and silence, the indentation of Lexa’s body already gone.

She stirred now, lids heavy, blinking against the soft morning light spilling through the blinds. Lexa was still there. Propped up on one elbow, hair messy, green eyes fixed on Clarke like she was something fragile and precious.

“You’re staring,” Clarke rasped, her voice rough with sleep.

Lexa didn’t move. “I keep expecting to open my eyes and you’ll be gone.” Her voice was low, almost guilty. “Like if I let myself close them again, you’ll vanish.”

Clarke’s throat tightened. She shifted closer, tucking her face into Lexa’s chest. “Funny. I keep expecting to wake up to a cold bed. You used to leave without saying anything. Do you remember how much I hated that?”

The silence stretched for a beat, thick with old memories neither of them had dared unpack until now. Lexa’s arm wrapped more firmly around her waist. “I do,” she admitted. “I thought I was protecting you, letting you sleep. But all I did was make you feel like I wasn’t choosing you in the mornings.”

Clarke pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “It made me feel like I was always chasing you. Like I was never enough to keep you here.”

Lexa’s expression cracked, just slightly. “You’ve always been enough, Clarke. I just…didn’t know how to stay.”

Clarke reached up, cupping her cheek. “Then show me now. Stay, even if it’s just for a minute. Wake me up before you go. I don’t care if it’s five in the morning—I’d rather hear your voice than roll over into an empty bed.”

For once, Lexa didn’t argue. She pressed her forehead to Clarke’s, whispering, “Then I’ll wake you. Every time.”

Clarke smiled sleepily, thumb brushing over the sharp line of Lexa’s jaw. “Good. Because I don’t want to start my days without you anymore.”

Lexa kissed her temple, slow and lingering, as though sealing the vow.

When the alarm finally buzzed on Lexa’s phone, she silenced it quickly, glancing down at Clarke. Clarke groaned, burying herself deeper into the sheets, but cracked one eye open when she felt Lexa shifting to leave.

“Where are you going?” Clarke mumbled, voice still drowsy.

Lexa smoothed a hand down her arm. “Morning practice. I’ll be back before your first class.” She hesitated, then leaned down and pressed another kiss to Clarke’s forehead. “I’ll see you soon, Clarke.”

Clarke smiled faintly, eyes slipping closed again, but her hand found Lexa’s and squeezed. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lexa lingered for a beat, watching her settle back into sleep. Only once she was certain Clarke’s breathing had evened out did she grab her bag and head out, the weight of old fears tempered by the small ritual they were learning to build together.

When Clarke finally woke for real, the light had climbed higher, golden lines slipping through the blinds to warm the room. The bed was empty, but not cold. She rolled into the space Lexa had left behind and found lingering heat pressed into the sheets, the faint trace of Lexa’s scent woven into the pillow.

A smile tugged at Clarke’s lips. It wasn’t like last year—those mornings when she’d wake up to nothing but absence and silence, not knowing when or if Lexa would be back. Now, Lexa had woken her, kissed her temple, told her where she was going. I’ll see you soon, Clarke.

Clarke stretched, her body heavy with sleep but her chest light in a way it hadn’t been in months. The smallest rituals were starting to mend things. One whispered goodbye. One kiss before leaving. Anchors—just as they’d promised.

She padded barefoot across the room, brushing her hair back as she grabbed clothes for the day. By the time she’d pulled on jeans and a soft sweater, she heard the door click open.

Lexa stepped inside, gym bag slung over her shoulder, strands of hair clinging damp to her forehead from the quick rinse in the locker room. She looked tired but alive, that same spark Clarke always saw after Lexa trained burning in her eyes.

“You’re back,” Clarke said softly, unable to keep the warmth from her voice.

Lexa’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. “Told you I would be.” She set her bag down and crossed the small space, hand brushing Clarke’s hip like it was second nature. “You’re ready early.”

“Mostly,” Clarke said, and leaned up to kiss her. It wasn’t long, just a soft press of lips that carried gratitude more than anything else. “I like this—getting ready with you.”

So they did. Lexa tugged on a fresh shirt while Clarke packed her sketchbook and pencils. Their movements wove together easily, not rushed, but unhurried in a way that made space for each other. Lexa slid Clarke’s coffee mug closer to her as Clarke zipped her bag. Clarke smoothed the corner of Lexa’s sleeve when it caught under her arm. It felt ordinary, but threaded through with something steadier, something like home.

When they finally stepped out, the morning air was crisp, the campus buzzing with early risers making their way to class. Clarke and Lexa’s hands found each other automatically, fingers lacing, palms pressed close as they walked.

Students moved around them, some nodding in recognition, others caught up in their own worlds. Clarke barely noticed. What mattered was the solid warmth at her side, the quiet rhythm of their steps syncing.

The art building came into view sooner than Clarke wanted. Her body slowed, feet angling toward the familiar door, but Lexa’s tug on her hand pulled her just slightly in the opposite direction—toward the building that held Lexa’s morning lecture.

They both stopped. The usual place to split.

Lexa turned, a softness in her eyes even as she adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder. “You usually like to have quiet before class.” It was half a question, half an observation—because Lexa knew Clarke’s routines, had always paid attention.

Clarke hesitated, her thumb brushing over the back of Lexa’s hand. She looked down for a moment, gathering herself before meeting Lexa’s gaze again. “I used to,” she admitted. Her voice was low, careful. “But lately…I don’t like being here alone. Not since Finn.” She swallowed hard, then pushed on, honesty unspooling in her chest. “And even more than that, I just—I want you to be the last person I see before class starts.”

Lexa’s face softened, the sharpness in her posture easing. She squeezed Clarke’s hand, thumb tracing slow circles against her skin. “Then I’ll come with you.” No hesitation, no caveat—just steady truth.

Clarke’s lips curved in something small but certain, a warmth spreading through her. Together, they turned toward the art building. Their hands stayed linked, steps falling back into rhythm, carrying them forward into a day that already felt lighter than most.

The art building was quiet at this hour, the halls filled with the faint smell of turpentine and clay dust, the echo of distant footsteps. Clarke’s sneakers scuffed against the linoleum as she led Lexa through the familiar turns until they stepped into the wide studio.

Her classmates weren’t there yet; the space belonged only to the light spilling across easels and the hush of brushes soaking in jars by the sinks. Lexa let her hand slip from Clarke’s only long enough to set her bag down on the edge of an empty table before turning back, eyes scanning the room as though memorizing it.

“You always liked this place,” Lexa said, her voice low, soft in the way it only was when the two of them were alone.

“I still do,” Clarke murmured. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then gave a little smile. “Just not as much without you in it.”

Lexa’s lips curved, and Clarke felt the warmth of her chest bloom again when Lexa stepped close enough for their shoulders to brush. For a moment, they just stood there, in the quiet between easels and paint-streaked stools, as though this was their corner of the world.

When the first voices of arriving classmates drifted down the hall, Lexa reached out. Her fingers hooked lightly under Clarke’s chin, tilting her face up. The kiss she gave was gentle, lingering just enough for Clarke to close her eyes and breathe her in.

“I’ll see you after,” Lexa whispered, her forehead pressing briefly against Clarke’s. Then, softer: “Promise.”

Clarke’s chest tightened in the best way. She watched as Lexa finally pulled back, shouldered her bag, and slipped from the room. Only when the door clicked shut did Clarke turn to her easel, heart steadier than it had been in months.

Class passed in a blur. The strokes on her canvas felt less like work and more like breathing, colors pulling themselves onto the page while chatter filled the air around her. Clarke stayed focused, letting herself sink into the comfort of creating until the professor dismissed them.

By the time she made her way out of the building, the campus buzzed with the lunch rush. Lexa was already waiting just outside, leaning against the wall, sunlight catching the loose strands of hair that framed her face.

Clarke’s lips curved automatically, and Lexa’s returned smile was softer, more private, reserved just for her.

“Hey,” Clarke said as she came up beside her, brushing her fingers along Lexa’s hand in greeting.

“Hey,” Lexa echoed. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, glancing out across the quad before looking back at Clarke. “You hungry?”

“Always,” Clarke teased, bumping her shoulder lightly into Lexa’s.

They started walking, their hands finding each other again as though the world had already written it that way. By the time they found an empty spot outside with their food, the tension of the morning had bled into easy conversation, little teases about Clarke’s paint-stained fingers and Lexa’s constant fidgeting with her napkin.

But after a lull, Lexa set her sandwich down and leaned back, eyes on Clarke. The shift in her body language was small—her shoulders squaring, her fingers brushing over Clarke’s wrist like she was grounding herself—but Clarke caught it.

“There’s practice this afternoon,” Lexa said, the words even, but her gaze was intent. “Drills. Probably a couple of hours.” She hesitated, thumb pressing gently against Clarke’s skin. “Would you…come?”

Clarke arched a brow. “You mean sit in the stands and watch you run in circles?”

Lexa huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t have to watch the whole time. Bring your sketchbook. Pretend I’m not there.” A pause, then quieter: “I’d just like to know you are.”

The honesty in her voice made Clarke’s chest ache. She tilted her head, studying Lexa. “You know, most people would call that clingy.”

Lexa’s lips twitched, that faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Most people aren’t you.”

Clarke leaned in, stealing a quick kiss before pulling back with a grin. “Good thing I like clingy, then.”

The relief that flickered across Lexa’s face was subtle but unmistakable. Clarke reached out, threading her fingers through Lexa’s under the table. “I’ll be there,” she promised. “With my sketchbook. Though, I make no guarantees I won’t draw you looking like a total dork mid-throw.”

Lexa groaned, rolling her eyes, but the way her thumb stroked over Clarke’s hand gave her away. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like it,” Clarke shot back, grinning as she took another bite of her sandwich.

Lexa didn’t argue.

The bleachers creaked under her as Clarke settled onto the middle row, sketchbook balanced on her lap. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the field, painting everything in gold. From this angle, she could see the team spread out across the turf, running drills with sharp precision under the barked orders of their coach.

And, of course, Lexa.

Clarke’s pencil moved almost on instinct, the lines spilling onto the page in swift strokes. She didn’t draw the jerseys or the crisp white lines of the field. Instead, the figures transformed beneath her hand—pads replaced by armor, cleats by boots, the green turf fading into something harsher, more primal. The coach’s whistle became a battle horn in her mind, and Lexa—Lexa stood at the center of it all, her posture commanding, her voice carrying with natural authority.

Commander.

It wasn’t deliberate, but Clarke couldn’t stop herself from seeing her like that again. Even here, even now.

She shaded the curve of a shoulder, the tilt of a chin, glancing up to find her subject—only to catch Lexa already looking at her.

It happened so fast Clarke almost missed it, but there it was: Lexa’s head turning just slightly mid-run, her gaze snagging on Clarke like it was instinct, a quiet smile ghosting across her lips before she snapped back to the drill. Clarke felt her own mouth tug upward, warmth flooding her chest.

It kept happening. Every time Clarke looked up from her sketchbook, Lexa seemed to know. Their eyes met across the stretch of grass, wordless and sure, and Clarke’s heart steadied in those small stolen moments.

She sketched faster, pencil flying as she caught the tension in Lexa’s stance, the coiled strength in her body as she pivoted and sprinted. But in Clarke’s rendering, Lexa wasn’t just an athlete. She was the warrior she had always been to Clarke: strong, unshakable, commanding not just her team but something larger, something eternal.

The team in Clarke’s drawing followed her like loyal soldiers, the lines of their armor fierce, their stances sharp, as though she had captured them on the eve of a battle instead of a scrimmage. And there, at the center, was Lexa. Always Lexa.

Clarke blew gently across the page to scatter the graphite dust, then glanced up again. Sure enough, Lexa’s eyes found hers instantly, a subtle tilt of her lips curving into the kind of smile that belonged only to Clarke.

For the first time in a long while, Clarke felt it in her bones: she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Here, in the stands, with her sketchbook and Lexa’s gaze tethering her to the field. After everything—after Finn, after the fear, after the break—it felt right to be here again. Safe. Whole.

And loved.

Clarke leaned back against the bleacher, pencil still between her fingers, and gave her sketch a final once-over. She’d only meant to pass the time, capture a few outlines of movement, but what stared back at her from the page had a weight to it. Lexa stood at the center, her posture straight and sure, every line of her body captured in motion — a leader commanding her team as though they were warriors instead of athletes. The background bled into abstract strokes of the field and figures, but Lexa was sharp, deliberate, undeniable.

Clarke let out a small huff of laughter, shaking her head. “Damn, Griffin,” she muttered under her breath, running her thumb over a smudge of graphite. “This might actually be good.” More than good.

She could already see it translated into paint — bold strokes, deep shadows, the contrast of Lexa’s calm command against the frenetic energy of her teammates. The image flickered in her mind like it was begging for canvas. Maybe it belonged in the spring gallery, she thought with a grin tugging at her lips. Maybe for once she’d let the world see Lexa the way Clarke did.

The sharp blow of the final whistle startled her, snapping her out of her thoughts. Clarke looked up, watching as the team slowed, breaking apart to stretch and grab water. And then, inevitably, her gaze found Lexa — helmet tucked under one arm, sweat-darkened hair plastered to her temples. Her face was flushed from exertion, but her eyes sought Clarke instantly, as if pulled by instinct.

Clarke’s chest tightened.

She slid the sketchbook into her bag, her heart thudding with quiet satisfaction, and climbed down the metal steps of the bleachers. Lexa was already at the railing by the time Clarke reached the bottom, leaning against it with casual ease, like she’d been waiting.

Clarke wrinkled her nose the moment she got close enough. “You’re disgusting,” she teased, voice light. “Sweaty, red-faced, completely unattractive.”

Lexa’s brows lifted, her lips curving with that restrained sort of humor only she could pull off. “Funny,” she drawled, tilting her head just slightly, “you’re the one coming down here for a kiss.”

Clarke’s laugh caught, soft and reluctant. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” Lexa corrected smoothly, her smirk deepening.

Before Clarke could volley another retort, she leaned over the railing, closing the gap. Their lips met, warm and salty, the taste of effort still lingering, and Clarke didn’t care. She let the kiss linger just long enough to chase away the last bits of distance between them before pulling back.

Lexa’s face had softened completely. Her voice was quiet, almost reverent, just for Clarke. “Thank you for staying.”

Clarke brushed a damp strand of hair off Lexa’s forehead, thumb grazing her temple. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Relief flickered across Lexa’s expression, gratitude flooding her gaze. And Clarke thought, with absolute certainty, that this moment belonged on canvas too.

Lexa didn’t move back right away, still leaning on the railing like she needed a few extra seconds to breathe Clarke in. Her eyes flicked briefly to the bag slung over Clarke’s shoulder, the corner of the sketchbook peeking out.

“What did you draw?” she asked, voice steady but touched with that quiet curiosity she rarely revealed outside these moments.

Clarke tightened her grip on the strap instinctively, her lips tugging into a mischievous little smile. “You’ll see.”

Lexa arched a brow, unimpressed but not pushing. “That bad?”

Clarke scoffed, half a laugh slipping out. “Please. If it was bad, I’d have let you look already. It’s… good.” She hesitated, chewing lightly on her bottom lip, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “So good, I actually want to surprise you with it.”

That softened something in Lexa’s expression. Surprise wasn’t something she was often afforded — on the field, in class, even in life, she was expected to anticipate, to prepare, to always know what was coming. Clarke withholding something, not out of secrecy but out of wanting to gift it later, felt like an indulgence Lexa hadn’t realized she craved.

“You’re cruel,” Lexa murmured, though her mouth curved into a faint smile.

Clarke reached up, brushing her fingers over the damp fabric of Lexa’s sleeve, playful but tender. “Patience, Commander.”

The title was spoken half in jest, but the way Lexa’s eyes darkened — the way her shoulders eased — made Clarke’s chest swell. They stood there for another beat, the late sun catching on the metal bleachers, the field emptying around them, but the world narrowing down to this small pocket of warmth between the two of them.

Finally, Lexa sighed, a breath that carried both amusement and surrender. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Clarke tipped her head, grinning like she’d won something important. “Good girl.”

That pulled a quiet, incredulous laugh from Lexa, her gaze dipping briefly to the ground before returning to Clarke with a shake of her head. “You’re going to regret that.”

Clarke’s laughter rang bright in the cooling evening air, echoing faintly off the metal steps. And for a moment, neither of them moved to leave — content to stretch this quiet reprieve for as long as possible.

The last of the players had already filtered into the locker rooms by the time Lexa finally straightened away from the railing. Clarke slung her bag across her body, falling into step beside her as they started toward the path that wound between the field and the main stretch of campus. The air was cooling now, a faint breeze tugging at Clarke’s hair, and the evening light painted everything in a soft, fading gold.

Clarke wrinkled her nose theatrically, leaning just far enough away from Lexa to make a point before grinning at her. “You know, I love you, but if you think you’re getting anywhere near me smelling like that, you’re out of your mind.”

Lexa glanced sideways at her, unimpressed but undeniably amused. “Smelling like victory, you mean.”

Clarke let out a snort, deliberately swaying into Lexa’s space to bump their shoulders together. “Victory is not supposed to smell like sweat and turf.”

Lexa smirked, adjusting the strap of her practice bag on her shoulder. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it. Comes with dating an athlete.”

“Please,” Clarke shot back, grinning. “You’re showering the second we get back. No arguments. Or you’re not getting lucky.”

That earned her one of Lexa’s rare, low chuckles — the kind that seemed to rumble up from her chest. Lexa tilted her head just slightly, her eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “You’re really going to pretend you’ve got that much willpower?”

Clarke arched her brows, playing along as she lifted her chin. “I absolutely do.”

“You don’t.” Lexa’s tone was flat, but her smirk betrayed her.

“Yes, I do,” Clarke countered, her grin widening. She stepped in front of Lexa, walking backward for a few paces just to keep her eyes locked on her. “I can resist you if I want to.”

Lexa’s smirk grew sharper as she let her gaze drag deliberately down Clarke’s frame and back up, slow and heavy enough to make Clarke’s stomach flip. “No, you can’t.”

Clarke faltered a step, her breath catching before she forced her grin back into place. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” Lexa corrected, her voice smooth. She stepped closer, brushing her hand against Clarke’s as they fell back into stride. “Big difference.”

Clarke fought the urge to shiver at the casual touch, but she laced their fingers together anyway, squeezing just enough to prove she wasn’t backing down. “We’ll see how confident you are once I lock you out of my dorm room until you’ve showered.”

Lexa leaned down slightly, her mouth close enough to Clarke’s ear that her voice curled warm over her skin. “And we’ll see how long that lasts before you come knocking on my door instead.”

Clarke’s cheeks flamed, her steps hitching for half a second before she shoved at Lexa’s shoulder, laughing despite herself. “God, you’re impossible.”

“You like me impossible.” Lexa’s reply was calm, assured, but the tiny twitch of her lips gave away her amusement.

Clarke shook her head, still smiling as they turned onto the path leading toward her dorm. “Sometimes I wonder how I ever put up with you.”

Lexa’s smirk softened, her voice dipping just slightly lower, quieter — the edge of vulnerability hidden beneath the tease. “Because you love me.”

That pulled Clarke up short for just a heartbeat. She looked over at Lexa, really looked at her — hair damp at the temples from sweat, jersey still clinging to her frame, eyes sharp but softened only for Clarke. And as always, Clarke felt the truth of those words in the marrow of her bones.

“Yeah,” she said, the teasing edge melting into something warmer. She squeezed Lexa’s hand again, more deliberate this time. “That’s exactly why.”

Lexa’s answering smile was small, private, but it lit up her whole face in a way that made Clarke’s chest ache.

They kept walking, their banter picking back up in easy waves. Clarke teased Lexa again about needing an industrial-strength shower; Lexa countered that Clarke should probably stop breathing so dramatically if it was such a problem. Clarke threatened to install an air freshener system in her dorm room just for athletes. Lexa smirked and muttered something about how it wouldn’t help Clarke when she inevitably pulled her sweaty jersey on just to feel close to her. Clarke shoved her so hard she nearly stumbled into the grass, laughter bubbling out of her uncontrollably.

By the time they reached the dorm steps, Clarke’s cheeks hurt from smiling and her chest felt lighter than it had in days. They slowed without thinking, reluctant to end the walk even though Clarke’s door was just ahead. Lexa tugged gently on her hand, pulling Clarke to a stop under the shadow of the building.

“You know,” Lexa said softly, a glimmer of mischief still in her eyes, “I’m still feeling pretty confident about my chances tonight.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too hard for it to stick. She leaned up, brushing her lips against Lexa’s briefly before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Shower first.”

Lexa’s smirk curved into something softer, and she nodded once, mock solemn. “Shower first.”

And with their hands still linked, they stepped into the building together.

The walk across campus was slow, not because of the distance, but because they kept tripping over each other’s laughter. Clarke’s grin hadn’t left her face since she’d teased Lexa about being too sweaty to be allowed anywhere near her bed.

“You do realize,” Lexa said, shooting her a sidelong glance as their hands brushed together before linking, “that I could interpret that as a challenge.”

Clarke squeezed her fingers, amused at how smug Lexa could still look even with her braid slipping out and damp strands of hair sticking to her temples. “It’s not a challenge, it’s a warning. You’re not climbing into my bed smelling like a locker room. No matter how much you smirk at me.”

“Oh?” Lexa tilted her head, green eyes catching the late sunlight. “So, if I were to take a shower… does that mean my odds improve?”

Clarke arched a brow, playing right back. “Depends on how thorough the shower is.”

Lexa chuckled low in her throat, leaning just close enough that Clarke felt the brush of her shoulder. “Maybe you should come supervise then. Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

Clarke laughed, shaking her head. “Lexa Woods, are you actually asking me to join you in the shower?”

Lexa’s expression was pure feigned innocence. “Only if you want my odds to be unbeatable.”

The heat in Clarke’s cheeks betrayed her amusement, but also the way her stomach flipped at the thought. She tried to cover it with a scoff. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Lexa murmured, squeezing Clarke’s hand again, “you’re still holding my hand.”

By the time they reached Clarke’s dorm, the banter had softened into quiet touches—Lexa brushing her knuckles against Clarke’s, Clarke nudging her shoulder gently into Lexa’s arm. Inside, Clarke tossed her bag onto her desk chair, while Lexa leaned casually against the wall, that infuriatingly self-assured little half-smile tugging at her mouth.

“You’re still thinking about it,” Lexa said, voice softer now, not teasing so much as curious.

Clarke glanced back at her, caught, and rolled her eyes even though she was smiling. “Maybe I am.”

Lexa’s brows lifted slightly, just enough to make Clarke’s chest feel warm with how carefully she didn’t push further. “Then I’ll meet you in there.” She nodded toward the bathroom, as if offering the choice instead of demanding it.

Clarke hesitated—not from reluctance, but because she wanted to hold onto this quiet moment where Lexa let her decide. And then she nodded. “Alright. But only because I don’t trust you to scrub behind your ears properly.”

That earned her a genuine laugh, low and rich, before Lexa disappeared into the bathroom. Clarke followed a few minutes later, pulse quick with nerves and anticipation, but steadied by the thought that they were doing this together—no running away, no secrecy, just choosing each other again.

Steam curled out from the cracked bathroom door, filling the dorm with the warm, clean scent of soap and water. Clarke slipped inside, tugging her shirt over her head before stepping cautiously toward the fogged glass. Through the blur she could make out the shape of Lexa, head tilted back beneath the spray, water streaming down the slope of her shoulders.

Lexa turned at the sound, droplets clinging to her lashes, and her mouth curved in a quiet smile that was all invitation. “You decided to supervise, then.”

Clarke rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at her lips as she stepped in, pulling the glass door shut behind her. Heat enveloped her instantly, and before she could think of a clever retort, Lexa’s hands were already finding her waist, steady and sure.

“See?” Clarke said, sliding her fingers up to brush damp hair back from Lexa’s forehead. “You’d have forgotten this part.”

Lexa bent slightly, eyes holding hers, voice a low murmur. “That’s why you’re here.”

At first it stayed light—Lexa passing Clarke the soap, Clarke lathering her hands and deliberately scrubbing Lexa’s arm with exaggerated seriousness until Lexa laughed. “Thorough enough?” Clarke teased, dragging her hands slowly down over toned muscle, water washing the suds away.

Lexa’s fingers traced down Clarke’s spine in return, gentle, reverent, and Clarke shivered even under the heat of the spray. The laughter softened, replaced by something heavier. Their eyes caught—like they always did—and held.

Lexa leaned in, brushing her nose against Clarke’s temple before pressing a slow kiss there. Clarke’s breath caught, her hands pausing mid-motion against Lexa’s chest. The warmth shifted from playful to charged in an instant, the awareness of skin against skin impossible to ignore.

Clarke tilted her head back, letting Lexa’s lips find hers. The kiss was unhurried but deep, the kind that made Clarke’s knees feel weak even with the wall at her back. Water cascaded around them, but all Clarke could register was the press of Lexa’s body, the taste of her mouth, the way her hands slid carefully over Clarke’s sides like she was memorizing every inch.

When they finally broke apart for air, Clarke rested her forehead against Lexa’s, her own voice husky. “You’re not… terrible at this supervision thing.”

Lexa’s answering smile was soft but edged with heat. “Good. Because I don’t plan on failing.”

Her hands lingered lower on Clarke’s back, holding her close but never pushing. It was Clarke who closed the space again, kissing her hard this time, as though to prove there was no hesitation left between them.

The water kept running, but the steam rising around them was nothing compared to the fire that built where their mouths met, where their bodies fit together so perfectly in the narrow space. It was more than touch—it was the proof of everything they’d been building back, now burning bright in the safety they’d reclaimed.

The kiss deepened until Clarke felt the steam itself had nothing on the heat curling in her chest. Her hands slipped up, fingers threading into Lexa’s wet hair, pulling her closer. Lexa responded in kind, one palm flattening against the small of Clarke’s back to press her more firmly into her body, the other braced against the tile by Clarke’s head, a steady anchor.

The water cascaded over both of them, but Clarke barely noticed. Every nerve in her body seemed tuned to Lexa—her mouth, the way her breath hitched, the solid warmth of her form under Clarke’s touch.

Lexa’s lips broke away only to travel lower, tracing a line along Clarke’s jaw, down her throat. Each brush of her mouth was deliberate, reverent and possessive all at once. Clarke’s breath caught, her hands tightening in Lexa’s hair.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispered, a sound that was both plea and affirmation.

Lexa stilled just enough to meet her gaze, eyes dark, searching. “Clarke…” Her voice was rough, controlled like a bowstring drawn taut. “Tell me this is what you want.”

Clarke didn’t hesitate. She framed Lexa’s face in her hands, water dripping between her fingers, and kissed her with all the answer she needed to give. Fierce. Certain.

That was all it took. Whatever restraint Lexa had been clinging to snapped into something sharper—still careful, always careful, but fueled now by hunger. Their bodies pressed close, slick skin sliding against skin, the rhythm of their mouths growing desperate.

Clarke gasped into the kiss, feeling the slick wall of the shower cool against her back and Lexa’s warmth pressing from the front. Every point of contact sparked with awareness—the glide of hands over shoulders, the firm hold at her waist, the steady strength that was uniquely Lexa.

It wasn’t just heat—it was trust burning through every touch. Where Lexa’s grip tightened, Clarke leaned in. Where Clarke’s breath faltered, Lexa steadied her.

Their laughter had melted away, but in its place was something even more powerful: that fierce urgency of two people who had nearly lost each other once and refused to let that ever happen again.

When at last Clarke pulled back, breathing ragged, she rested her forehead against Lexa’s, water trailing between them like threads of light. “You’re mine,” Clarke murmured, her voice roughened by emotion more than anything else.

Lexa’s answering smile was feral and tender all at once. “Always.”

And then they were kissing again, slower now but no less consuming—an unspoken vow sealed in the rush of water and the heat of their bodies tangled together.

The steam had thickened, blurring the edges of the small shower stall, but Clarke’s world had narrowed so much that she wouldn’t have noticed if the walls themselves had dissolved. It was all Lexa—her touch, her breath, her steady strength.

Lexa’s lips kept finding Clarke’s skin as though mapping it all over again, relearning every place that drew a gasp or a sigh. The slope of her shoulder, the hollow of her collarbone, the quick pulse in her throat. Clarke clutched at her, nails grazing lightly down Lexa’s back, drawing a low sound from her that vibrated against her lips.

The hunger between them grew sharper, but so did the reverence. Even when Lexa pressed Clarke back against the slick wall, her hand at Clarke’s waist never pushed too hard, always guiding instead of taking. Clarke leaned into it willingly, pressing back, showing with her body that she wanted more.

“Clarke…” Lexa’s voice was rough, strained, like it came from someplace deep in her chest. “You undo me.”

Clarke smiled through her ragged breathing, tilting her head just enough to catch Lexa’s mouth again. “Good.” The word came out breathless, more exhale than sound, but it made Lexa’s answering kiss all the more fervent.

The water pounded against them, heat cascading over already-heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the burn that pooled low and urgent in Clarke’s stomach. She kissed Lexa harder, needing to taste that control breaking, needing to remind herself that this was real—that this was them, whole again.

Every time Clarke shifted, every slide of her hands over Lexa’s body, drew them closer. And every time Lexa responded—hips pressing nearer, fingers curling against her waist—it felt like a spark catching flame.

It was dizzying, this edge they balanced on: restraint and hunger, patience and urgency. But Clarke trusted it. Trusted Lexa. Trusted that they would find the right rhythm together, just as they always had when the world narrowed down to only them.

When at last Clarke pulled back, lips swollen, chest heaving, she laughed softly against Lexa’s mouth. Not because anything was funny, but because joy brimmed up too fiercely to contain. “I love you,” she breathed, words tumbling out raw and sure.

Lexa’s eyes searched hers for only a heartbeat before softening, the storm inside her breaking into something steadier. “I love you,” she whispered back, voice steady even though her body still trembled with heat.

They stayed there until the water began to cool, foreheads pressed together, hands roaming more gently now. The urgency ebbed into tenderness, every caress slower, more lingering, as if sealing the promise they’d just made again and again with touch alone.

Eventually, Lexa reached past Clarke to shut off the water, the sudden quiet wrapping around them like a cocoon. She kissed Clarke one last time before grabbing the towel and carefully wrapping it around her shoulders, as though shielding her from more than just the chill. Clarke smiled and tugged Lexa close under its fold, unwilling to let the warmth between them fade.

By the time they emerged from the bathroom, the last light of the sun had vanished, replaced by the soft glow of the lamps in Clarke’s dorm. The world outside had dimmed into night, but inside, everything felt illuminated.

Lexa pulled Clarke toward the bed, not with urgency this time, but with that steady patience that meant safety. They settled side by side beneath the blankets, hair still damp, skin warmed from more than just the shower. Clarke tucked her head into the crook of Lexa’s neck, Lexa’s arm wrapped securely around her waist, and for a long moment, neither spoke.

They didn’t need to. The silence was full, humming with everything they’d said without words in the shower: trust, love, the fierce vow of never letting go again.

The room was hushed, the only sound the low hum of the heating system and the faint creak of the mattress when either of them shifted. Clarke’s hair was still damp against Lexa’s collarbone, strands curling slightly as they dried, and Lexa absentmindedly smoothed them down with her palm.

Neither of them seemed ready to break the silence, but it didn’t feel empty—it felt suspended, like they were hovering in a fragile space where words mattered more than usual.

Clarke shifted first, tilting her head up just enough so she could see Lexa’s face in the soft lamplight. Her fingers traced along Lexa’s ribs, almost shy despite everything that had already passed between them. “I keep thinking,” she whispered, “that if I close my eyes too long, I’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone again. Like last year. Like it was a dream I made up to get myself through.”

Lexa’s chest tightened. She rolled onto her side so she could meet Clarke’s gaze fully, one hand sliding up to cup her cheek. “Clarke… you won’t wake up to that again. Not from me.”

Clarke swallowed hard, but her eyes shimmered with something between hope and hesitation. “I want to believe that. I do. But sometimes I still feel the echoes, you know? The mornings you slipped out without saying anything. The nights you shut down when I needed you most.”

Lexa flinched—just slightly, but enough that Clarke caught it. Instead of retreating, she pressed her forehead to Lexa’s. “I’m not throwing that in your face. I just… I’m scared. Scared of loving you this much again and getting blindsided.”

Lexa closed her eyes, breathing in slow. Her voice, when it came, was low and raw. “You’re not the only one carrying scars.” She drew Clarke’s hand to her chest, pressing it over her heart. “I still feel that fear every morning—like maybe you’ll decide you’re better off without me. That you’ll wake up and realize I don’t deserve another chance.”

Clarke’s brows furrowed, her thumb brushing over the strong line of Lexa’s jaw. “You do deserve it. But I know what you mean. It’s like… even when everything’s good, those cracks remind us what broke before.”

For a moment, they just breathed together, their foreheads pressed, their hands intertwined at Lexa’s chest.

Then Clarke whispered, “So maybe we don’t pretend the cracks aren’t there. Maybe we… acknowledge them. Patiently. Every time they show up.”

Lexa opened her eyes, something like relief mingling with the ache in them. “Patience,” she echoed softly, testing the word like it was a vow. “Even when the scars flare up. Even when fear whispers louder than truth.”

Clarke nodded, tears brimming but not falling. “I’ll try, Lexa. I’ll keep trying. But I’ll need you to remind me sometimes.”

“I will,” Lexa promised, and her tone was unshakable. She kissed Clarke’s hand gently, then her temple. “And when it’s me—when the fear gets the better of me—you’ll remind me too?”

Clarke smiled through the tightness in her throat, brushing her lips over Lexa’s. “Always.”

They held onto each other more firmly after that, as though sealing the vow into their bodies as well as their words. Clarke tucked herself back into Lexa’s chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath her ear. Lexa stroked her back in long, calming lines until the tension ebbed, replaced by the quiet certainty that even scars could be lived with, healed with time and patience.

The lamp stayed on, casting a golden glow over them, as if to bear witness to the promise made in whispers and touches—that love, scarred as it was, still bound them stronger than anything else.

Chapter 25 Chapter Text

Lexa

The cafeteria had always been just another stop in Lexa’s day—efficient, transactional, a place to refuel before practice or after class. But walking in with Clarke’s hand in hers turned the simple space into a stage.

The chatter of voices didn’t exactly stop when they entered, but Lexa noticed the shift. Conversations bent around them, eyes flicked their way. Not everyone stared, but enough did. Enough to twist her stomach into something tight and coiled.

She told herself she didn’t care. She had weathered worse: coaches scrutinizing her every move, opponents snarling across the line, entire teams hoping to see her fail. But this was different. Because they weren’t looking at her. They were looking at Clarke, too.

Lexa’s grip on Clarke’s hand tightened unconsciously.

Clarke, infuriatingly calm, steered them toward a table near the windows. She sat with the easy grace of someone who wasn’t pretending not to notice the stares but was refusing to let them matter. Lexa followed, back rigid, scanning the room like she might catch someone crossing a line.

When a table of athletes at the far side whispered too loudly—one of them glancing openly at Clarke—Lexa’s jaw locked. Heat rose fast in her chest, anger sharpening her focus. She was halfway to planning exactly what she’d say if one of them so much as breathed wrong in Clarke’s direction when Clarke touched her knee under the table.

The pressure was steady, deliberate. Clarke leaned in just enough to speak low. “You don’t have to fight them,” she murmured, her eyes steady on Lexa’s. “You already chose me. That’s enough.”

The words hit harder than any challenge could. Lexa exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her in uneven waves. Clarke’s hand shifted, sliding into hers again, and Lexa let the contact anchor her.

The rest of the cafeteria still existed—voices, glances, whispers—but they faded around the steady warmth of Clarke’s palm against her own.

Lexa realized then that this was what it meant to face the world as a unit. Not by shielding Clarke from every shadow, but by standing there, hand in hand, knowing neither of them would flinch.

Clarke smiled faintly, soft and fierce all at once, and Lexa found herself answering in kind. Let them look. Let them whisper. This was theirs.

“Guess she wasn’t lying about trading up,” a guy muttered, not nearly quiet enough. A ripple of laughter followed from his table.

Lexa’s head snapped toward the sound before she could stop herself. Three boys in varsity jackets leaned back in their seats, trying to look casual. One of them smirked, his eyes flicking from Clarke to Lexa with obvious intent.

“Bold move, Griffin,” he added, louder this time. “Hope she doesn’t break your heart again.”

Heat shot up Lexa’s spine. Her body moved before her mind caught up, a sharp step in their direction, but Clarke’s hand caught her wrist.

“Lexa.” Just her name, low and firm.

Lexa turned, jaw tight enough it ached. Clarke’s blue eyes locked onto hers, steady as stone.

“They want a reaction,” Clarke said softly, too soft for anyone else to hear. “Don’t give it to them.”

For a heartbeat, Lexa fought it—the urge to put the boy against the wall, to make sure no one ever thought they could spit Clarke’s name with disrespect again. But Clarke’s thumb traced over her knuckles, slow and deliberate, and the sharp edge of her anger wavered.

She exhaled through her nose, long and low, and turned back toward their table.

Behind them, another voice tried to stir the pot: “Guess the captain likes her blondes dramatic.”

More laughter.

Lexa’s vision narrowed, but Clarke’s touch pressed firmer into her knee under the table when they sat down. She didn’t look at the offenders, didn’t let her expression shift. Instead, she reached for her drink, took a sip, and then leaned closer.

“Don’t waste your fire on them,” Clarke murmured, her lips brushing the shell of Lexa’s ear. “Save it for me.”

The words disarmed Lexa completely. A rush of warmth—different from anger—coursed through her chest. She couldn’t help the small, sharp smile that tugged at her lips, one only Clarke got to see.

And for the first time since they’d walked in, Lexa let herself breathe.

The cafeteria still hummed around them, the whispers still there, but muted. Let them talk, let them guess. Clarke’s hand in hers, Clarke’s quiet strength—it was enough. More than enough.

Lexa didn’t eat right away. Her fork hovered over her plate, untouched, her body coiled like a bow pulled taut. She could feel the weight of every sideways glance, every whispered exchange. It pressed against her shoulders like armor she hadn’t chosen to wear.

But Clarke’s hand hadn’t moved from her knee. Every now and then, her thumb swept small arcs over the fabric of Lexa’s jeans — a quiet reminder, subtle as a heartbeat.

Lexa kept her gaze fixed on the table, the grain of the wood beneath her fingers, until another voice broke through.

“She’s only with her because of the scholarship,” a girl’s voice, sharp and cruel. “Bet the coach told her to play nice.”

Lexa’s chair scraped against the floor as she shifted, the sound loud enough to hush the space around them. She didn’t stand, not yet — but she turned, eyes like knives, and the girl flinched even as she tried to hide it behind a sneer.

“Lexa.” Clarke’s voice again, quiet but commanding.

Lexa dragged her gaze back to Clarke, and the fury building in her chest collided with the calm, steady look waiting for her.

“She’s not worth it,” Clarke whispered. Her palm slid higher on Lexa’s thigh, a firm anchor. “We are.”

For a moment, Lexa couldn’t answer. She simply stared at Clarke, at the softness wrapped around steel in her expression, the quiet bravery it took to sit here under a dozen stares and still look unshaken.

Lexa swallowed, forced the tension from her jaw. She leaned closer, enough that the space between them felt private again.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice low, rough. “But I hate that they think they can speak your name like that.”

Clarke smiled faintly, sadness tugging at the edges. “Then let them see. Let them see I’m here with you, and you’re here with me. That’s the only answer they deserve.”

Something in Lexa unclenched at that. She reached across the table, slowly, deliberately, and laced her fingers with Clarke’s in full view of the room.

The whispers swelled for a breath, then broke against the silence they both held between them. Clarke squeezed her hand once, twice — a silent rhythm of reassurance — and Lexa felt her shoulders finally begin to settle.

It didn’t matter what they said. Not anymore.

Clarke had chosen her, and she had chosen Clarke. That was the only truth worth defending.

Clarke’s laugh came soft at first, muffled behind the hand she lifted to her lips. It slipped into the air like a spark, unexpected against the heavy quiet of the cafeteria.

Lexa blinked at her, momentarily thrown. “You’re laughing?”

Clarke lowered her hand, still smiling, though her eyes were glassy with exhaustion from holding so much strength. “I can’t help it. I’m just… picturing you out in the real world, once we’re out of here.”

Lexa frowned, not following. “What do you mean?”

“Social media,” Clarke said, almost grinning now. “Lexa, if this is how tightly wound you get over a few cafeteria whispers, I can’t wait to see you go head-to-head with the internet. Twitter alone will be the bane of your existence.”

Lexa stared at her, then shook her head, a low, reluctant laugh finally escaping. “I don’t even have Twitter.”

“Exactly,” Clarke teased, squeezing her hand again. “But you’ll be trending anyway. People will have opinions, and you won’t be able to glare at every single one of them into silence.”

Lexa arched an eyebrow, lips curving despite herself. “You think I can’t?”

Clarke laughed harder this time, the sound drawing a few more eyes — but Lexa found that she didn’t care. The room could watch if it wanted; Clarke’s joy was worth more than all their whispers.

“I think,” Clarke said once she calmed enough to meet Lexa’s gaze again, “that you’ll combust if you try. And I’d rather keep you alive, thanks.”

Lexa tilted her head, leaning just close enough that only Clarke could hear the edge of sincerity beneath her playful tone. “Then you’ll just have to keep me anchored. Remind me not every battle needs to be fought with fire.”

Clarke’s smile softened, warmth dimming the tension still knotted in Lexa’s chest. “That’s the plan.”

They stayed like that for a moment — Lexa still gripping Clarke’s hand on the table, Clarke leaning into her shoulder ever so slightly — until Lexa let herself chuckle again, quieter this time. “Social media,” she repeated, shaking her head as if the word itself was absurd. “As if I needed another enemy.”

Clarke nudged her thigh under the table, teasing but gentle. “Not an enemy. Just… part of the world. And the world isn’t always against us, Lexa. Sometimes it’ll cheer us on.”

Lexa looked at her, studied the way Clarke’s conviction settled so naturally in her, and let herself believe it — even if just for now.

Lexa shook her head again, the corner of her mouth curling like she still wasn’t sure whether Clarke was teasing her or prophesying doom. “Public love,” she murmured, almost tasting the words. “It’s messy. Loud. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to a piece of it. To judge it, twist it, own it.”

Clarke tilted her head toward her, golden hair brushing against Lexa’s shoulder. “And private love?” she prompted gently.

Lexa hesitated, her hand tightening around Clarke’s beneath the table. “Private love is… ours. It’s where no one else gets to intrude. Where I don’t have to explain, or defend, or—” She broke off, jaw flexing, before finishing softer. “It’s where you’re just… mine. And I’m yours.”

Clarke’s eyes softened. “That’s not going to change, Lexa. Not with whispers, or cameras, or hashtags, or whatever else the world throws at us. You don’t have to perform for anyone. Not even for me.”

Lexa’s throat worked as she swallowed, unsettled by how much weight those words eased off her shoulders. She glanced around the cafeteria again — the half-curious, half-judgmental glances flickering their way, the muttered conversations that went quiet when they passed. Her body had been coiled to react, to snarl, to strike, but Clarke’s calm pressed into her like a hand against a wound.

“And yet,” Lexa said at last, her voice so low Clarke had to lean closer to hear, “the moment I see someone question us, I want to burn it down. Tear the doubt from their mouths.”

Clarke reached over, touched the side of Lexa’s jaw with a steadying brush of her fingers, grounding her. “You don’t need to do that. Not for me, not for us. They don’t get to decide what this is. They don’t live here—” she pressed her palm gently against Lexa’s chest, right above her heart, “—where it’s real.”

Lexa’s breath caught. For a moment she could only look at her, the noise of the cafeteria blurring into nothing. Clarke’s hand lingered, warm and sure, until Lexa caught it in her own and pressed it tighter against her chest.

“And when it gets too loud?” Lexa asked quietly, unable to keep the vulnerability from her tone. “When the world is too much?”

Clarke smiled softly, that smile that always managed to undo her. “Then we turn the volume down. We shut the door. We make our love private again, just for us.”

Lexa studied her for a long moment, the intensity in her eyes softening under Clarke’s steady light. Finally, a quiet laugh slipped out of her. “You make it sound so simple.”

Clarke’s lips quirked. “That’s because it is. Complicated out there,” she nodded vaguely at the cafeteria, “but in here? It’s just you and me.”

Lexa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, the fight bleeding out of her shoulders. She leaned down just enough for her temple to brush Clarke’s hairline, the smallest indulgence of affection in a public space. “You and me,” she echoed, steady now.

Lexa pulled back just enough to look at Clarke fully, still keeping their hands locked together. Clarke’s thumb brushed idly over the back of her knuckles, and Lexa could feel the steadiness of it like an anchor in the storm.

“You make it sound easy,” Lexa said again, quieter this time, almost to herself. “But what happens when the noise isn’t whispers in a cafeteria? When it’s everywhere? Headlines, interviews, cameras waiting when I step off the field?” Her jaw tensed. “What if they drag you into it too?”

Clarke didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, a calm sort of stubbornness in her eyes. “Then they drag me into it. So what? I’m not afraid of being known as yours, Lexa. I never was.”

Lexa’s throat tightened, her mind catching on the word never. A year apart and still Clarke could say it like that — like the claim was unshaken, unbroken. She blinked, forcing down the emotion welling in her chest. “I don’t want them to reduce you to a headline. You’re… more than that.”

“And so are you.” Clarke’s hand slipped free from Lexa’s grip only so she could lace their fingers together differently, intertwining them fully, palm to palm. “But the thing is, Lexa, I don’t care what they reduce me to out there. Because in here,” she tapped lightly against her temple with her free hand, “and in here,” she touched her own chest, “I know who I am. And who I am is someone who loves you. That’s not up for debate.”

Lexa let out a shaky exhale, the kind that trembled between relief and disbelief. “You make it sound so unshakable. Like you’ll never bend under the weight of it.”

Clarke smirked softly, though her eyes stayed tender. “Oh, I’ll bend. I’ll curse at headlines, roll my eyes at strangers, maybe even want to throw my phone across the room sometimes.” Her smirk faded into something more earnest. “But I won’t break. Not when it comes to you. Not this time.”

Her chest ached at that last line — not this time. Lexa looked down at their joined hands, remembering the mornings she used to slip away without a word, the silences that had widened into chasms. She swallowed hard. “I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m leaving you to hold the weight alone again.”

Clarke leaned in, her voice dropping lower, meant just for them. “Then don’t. Share it with me. Even when it feels ugly. Even when it feels like too much. Just… let me in. That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

Something inside Lexa uncoiled at that, her body easing in increments she barely noticed. She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching Clarke’s. “You make me believe it’s possible,” she whispered. “That I can hold the world on my shoulders and still keep you safe in my arms.”

Clarke’s smile curved warm and sure. “You don’t have to hold the world, Lexa. Just hold me. The rest we’ll handle together.”

Lexa closed her eyes briefly, breathing Clarke in, letting the words settle into her chest like a vow. Around them, the cafeteria buzzed on, but the bubble they carved out together held steady, unshaken.

Just as Lexa felt herself steady again under Clarke’s touch, a voice rose from a nearby table. Male, sharp with derision.

“Guess the rumors were true. No wonder she ditched Finn—look at her.”

It was aimed at Clarke, Lexa knew it in her bones, and the air inside her chest went taut like a bowstring pulled back too far. Her head snapped toward the voice before she could stop herself, gaze narrowing, jaw set. Clarke’s thumb pressed firmly against her palm, grounding her before the words could reach her tongue.

But before Lexa could even breathe, another voice cut through the cafeteria — loud, unapologetic, and brimming with fire.

“You’ve got a problem with them? Say it louder, so I can hear you drag your sorry ass back out of your seat after I knock you down.”

Raven.

The room hushed almost instantly, whispers dying like smoke in the wind. The boy at the table turned pale, suddenly very interested in his food, and Lexa felt the thread of her rage unspool, replaced by something far warmer: vindication. Protection. Family.

Then Octavia appeared at Raven’s side, fierce in her own right, arms crossed as if daring anyone else to make a comment. Lincoln followed close behind, a steady presence, his quiet stare enough to deter even the boldest. And finally, Anya — whose sheer aura of authority carved silence in their wake.

They moved as a unit, unapologetically toward Lexa and Clarke’s table.

“You two causing trouble again?” Octavia teased as she dropped into the seat opposite them, though her eyes gleamed with pride rather than reproach.

Raven didn’t sit right away — she leaned against the edge of the booth instead, shaking her head with a grin. “Nah. Just shutting it down before the gossip hounds chew too long. You’re welcome.”

Clarke chuckled, the sound soft but grateful, while Lexa only nodded once — her own gratitude wordless but thick in her chest.

Lincoln slid into the booth beside Octavia, his tone calm but direct. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this at all. Not from teammates, not from classmates. Anyone tries again, they’ll answer to all of us.”

And Anya, after a beat of silence, pulled up a chair and sat down on Clarke’s other side, her gaze flicking to Lexa. “Keep your head, little commander,” she murmured. “This fight’s not worth your scholarship. You’ve already won.”

Lexa exhaled slowly, feeling Clarke lean into her side just a little more. And for the first time since they’d walked into the cafeteria, she allowed herself to feel something close to peace.

The table filled quickly, the weight of their friends’ presence settling like a shield around them. For the first time all lunch, Lexa let her shoulders ease. The whispers from the surrounding tables hadn’t vanished completely, but the boldness had drained from them. Now, they were nothing more than faint ripples against the solid wall of support sitting at their booth.

Raven finally slid in beside Anya, nudging her with a smirk. “You’re welcome, by the way. Pretty sure my voice carried to half the cafeteria. That kid might need new pants.”

Octavia barked a laugh. “Yeah, Raven, we all heard you. I’m shocked you didn’t drag a chair over and make a whole speech.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Raven grinned, leaning her chin into her palm like she was already drafting one in her head.

Lincoln shook his head in mock dismay. “The last thing this campus needs is Raven with a microphone.”

“Correction,” Raven shot back, “the last thing this campus needs is idiots running their mouths about my friends. I’m just making sure everyone knows it.”

Lexa found herself staring at Clarke beside her — her hand still in hers, her smile quiet but radiant in the midst of it all. Clarke caught her gaze, eyes soft, and Lexa’s chest ached at the sheer normalcy of this moment. To be here, defended and teased and surrounded, was more than she’d let herself hope for not long ago.

Octavia must’ve noticed, because she tilted her head, studying them with a sharp grin. “So, real question…” she began, drawing out the words until everyone looked at her. “When’s the wedding?”

Clarke choked on her drink, coughing and laughing at once, while Lexa blinked, caught completely off guard.

“Excuse me?” Lexa managed, her voice tighter than she’d meant it to be.

Raven lit up like a firecracker. “Oh, come on, don’t act surprised. You two are disgustingly obvious. Rings, stolen glances, making everyone third wheel without even apologizing—”

“Third wheel?” Lincoln interrupted, brows raised. “Pretty sure it’s sixth wheel at this point.”

“Exactly.” Raven jabbed a finger at Lexa and Clarke. “Point is, the rest of us can see it. You two aren’t just back together — you’re endgame. So when’s the big day? Do I need to start saving for a dress, or what?”

Clarke flushed, pink rising in her cheeks as she looked at Lexa, like even she wasn’t expecting their friends to go there. Lexa’s first instinct was to shut it down, but Clarke’s hand squeezed hers under the table — grounding her in that quiet way she always did.

Clarke turned back to the group, laughter still in her voice, though it carried something tender beneath it. “Maybe let us graduate first?”

“Boring,” Raven groaned dramatically, slumping against the table.

Octavia leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Fine. Engagement party, then. You two clearly already act married. We might as well get some free cake out of it.”

Anya, who had been silent through most of this, finally spoke, her tone deadpan but her eyes alight with amusement. “If you’re going to do it, at least give us enough notice. Some of us have schedules.”

That broke the table into laughter, even Lexa herself. She glanced down at Clarke, who was still pink but smiling, her gaze warm as it lingered on Lexa’s face. And in that moment — surrounded by teasing and laughter, by the people who’d seen them at their worst and still rooted for their best — Lexa realized she didn’t mind the idea nearly as much as she thought she would.

Not at all.

Clarke groaned into her hands, but it only made Octavia lean in further, eyes glinting like a wolf who’d scented blood. “Oh, don’t act all shy. I’ve already called maid of honor.”

“Called it?” Raven snorted. “Nice try, O. We all know I’m maid of honor. I’ve put in the years. The sweat. The sarcasm. The late-night breakdowns.” She gestured dramatically at Clarke. “If anyone deserves to stand at her side, it’s me.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’d spend the whole ceremony making jokes and forget the rings.”

“Not true!” Raven held up a finger, mock-offended. “I’d keep the rings in a safe, tucked inside another safe, guarded by drones. Then I’d make jokes.”

Lincoln smirked, finally chiming in with his sense of humor. “Pretty sure if anyone deserves maid of honor, it’s me. I’m the only one here who’s actually responsible.”

That set off another round of laughter. Clarke peeked at Lexa through her fingers, her cheeks flushed but her eyes gleaming with mirth. Lexa only arched a brow at the chaos swirling around them, though the faintest smirk tugged at her lips.

Anya, of all people, cut through the noise with her steady, dry voice. “You’re all wasting time. Lexa would want a war council instead of a wedding party anyway.”

Raven snapped her fingers, delighted. “Yes! A battle banquet. I can see it now: long tables, torches, people chanting your names—”

“Wait,” Octavia interrupted, grinning wickedly. “Who’s officiating? Because if it’s anyone on this campus, I’m not taking it seriously.”

Raven leaned back, smirk sharp. “Clearly, it’s Kane. He’s got the voice. All dramatic and headmaster-y. He’d make it sound like you two were binding the clans together or something.”

That got Lexa’s brow twitching, and Clarke’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“I will not be married by Marcus Kane,” Lexa said flatly, her tone so grave it only made the table dissolve into more laughter.

“Fine, fine,” Raven wheezed, wiping at her eyes. “Then Abby does it. That way Clarke’s mom gets the front row and the power to declare you legally wed. Double win.”

Clarke’s blush deepened to the tips of her ears. “You all are ridiculous.”

Octavia smirked. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But tell me you don’t already have colors picked out. Clarke, don’t lie.”

Clarke gave an exaggerated glare, but her mouth betrayed her with a twitching smile. “I hate all of you.”

Lexa glanced around the table, the cacophony of teasing and laughter somehow softening into warmth as she watched Clarke glow in the middle of it. Her thumb brushed gently against the back of Clarke’s hand under the table, grounding her in a way words couldn’t.

Anya leaned back, her gaze sharp but her voice low and deliberate. “Jokes aside, you’ll get there. Sooner than any of us probably realize.”

It quieted the table for a beat, just enough for Clarke to catch Lexa’s gaze again. Clarke’s lips curved, soft and certain, and Lexa found herself returning it before she could think better of it.

The cafeteria doors swung shut behind them, and the sudden quiet felt like stepping into a different world. The faint hum of campus life drifted through open windows—the shuffle of shoes on pavement, the echo of distant laughter—but compared to the chorus of banter inside, it was blissful.

Clarke exhaled a laugh, the sound bubbling out as though she’d been holding it in since Raven’s last jab about colors. She shook her head, her golden hair catching in the late afternoon light. “They’re never going to let us live that down.”

Lexa walked beside her, measured and steady, but there was the faintest curve to her mouth. “It appears not.”

Clarke nudged her shoulder, playful. “Don’t pretend you didn’t secretly enjoy it. I saw that smirk.”

“I smirk often,” Lexa countered smoothly.

“Oh, please,” Clarke laughed. “You were this close—” she pinched her fingers together, tiny gap “—to actually smiling. Admit it. Some part of you liked hearing them talk about our wedding.”

Lexa’s gaze flicked sideways, sharp green eyes softening in a way that made Clarke’s chest ache. “Some part, yes,” she admitted quietly.

That honesty stole the teasing right out of Clarke. She slowed her steps, letting her hand brush against Lexa’s until Lexa’s fingers caught hers, strong and sure. Their hands laced together like they had a thousand times before, yet it felt new all over again.

They walked in silence for a few beats, the path winding them away from the cafeteria and toward the quieter stretch of campus lined with trees. Clarke’s thumb traced over the back of Lexa’s hand, grounding herself in the steady warmth of her skin.

“You know,” Clarke began softly, eyes on the path ahead, “they’re right, in a way.”

Lexa’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

Clarke’s lips tugged into a half-smile. “That we’re… inevitable. I don’t think there’s anyone who’s spent more than five minutes around us that doesn’t see it. Which means people are always going to have something to say. About us, about what we mean to each other.” She glanced up, meeting Lexa’s gaze. “And if you’re ready to tackle Octavia and Raven in full wedding-planner mode, wait until the rest of the world gets involved. Social media will eat you alive.”

Lexa arched a brow. “Is this meant to comfort me?”

Clarke laughed, the sound easy, genuine. “No. Just a reality check.” She squeezed Lexa’s hand. “But here’s the thing—I don’t care. Not about the whispers, or the comments, or what people think they see. As long as I know what’s real. As long as we’re in this together.”

They stopped near a quiet bench tucked beneath a wide oak tree. Lexa guided them both down, her movements deliberate, as though the conversation demanded a stillness she couldn’t find while moving. Once seated, she turned to Clarke fully, green eyes steady, intense.

“I do not care for whispers,” Lexa said, her voice low but certain. “But I care for you. And I do not wish to perform for an audience. Public approval is… irrelevant.” Her thumb brushed Clarke’s knuckles in a slow, grounding circle. “But if people must see us, then I want them to see us as we are. Not a version of us that fits their comfort.”

Clarke’s throat tightened, the weight of Lexa’s words settling deep inside her. She reached up, cupping Lexa’s cheek with her free hand, feeling the heat of her skin. “That’s all I want too. No masks. Just us.”

Lexa leaned into the touch, her eyes slipping shut for a breath, before opening again with startling clarity. “Then let them talk.”

Clarke smiled, a soft huff of laughter escaping. “There’s my Commander.”

“Not Commander,” Lexa corrected, her tone gentling. “Not here. Just yours.”

The simplicity of it unraveled something in Clarke. She leaned in, pressing her forehead to Lexa’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet. “That’s more than enough,” she whispered.

They stayed like that for a long while, the world around them continuing on—students passing, leaves rustling in the breeze, the hum of campus life resuming—but none of it touched the small cocoon they’d made on that bench. Their joined hands rested between them, their closeness an anchor, and every unspoken promise hung thick in the air.

When Clarke finally pulled back just enough to meet Lexa’s eyes, she found a steadiness there that made her chest ache in the best way. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Lexa nodded once, certain. “Together.”

The sounds of campus carried on in the distance — laughter, footsteps, the hum of ordinary life — but neither of them moved to leave just yet. For Clarke and Lexa, this quiet moment was more than a pause between classes. It was a promise, settled deep into their bones: that no matter the noise around them, no matter the stares or the whispers, they would face it all as one.

And with that certainty, the rest of the world seemed just a little less heavy.

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Comments

Ti_Tine on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 06:57PM UTC

Finally, you're back! Can you please repost your work, "The ties that bind us together"? I have been waiting for you to post something so I could reach out about that particular work of yours. It was so well written that I think of it often.

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1. Legionnero on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 07:09AM UTC
  
  I unfortunately will not be reposting it. I took it off because it was a work I wanted to share for a little bit. However, I'm working on a revised version of it. If you can be patient, I promise the next time I post it, it'll be even better. I'm really sorry I deleted a work that you thoroughly enjoyed. But it does bring me joy to know that you liked it a lot. I hope you enjoy this work just as much as the other. Even if I skip over the more intimate scenes and just imply it. (It's kind of a challenge that a friend of mine gave me. Apparently I can't write something without writing sex in it xD)
  
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2. 1. Ti_Tine on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 05:26PM UTC
    
    I really appreciate that you took the time to reply, thank you! As much as I am enjoying this new fiction, I cannot wait for your revised version of the previous one - not that it needs a revision at all. If by chance you never get back to it, I'll leave you with my email address: [email protected]. I often thought of asking if anyone had a copy, but I'd rather have your permission to get it, when you so choose, if you ever do. If not, I'm still a fan. I hope you keep writing :)
    
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Jesse2 on Chapter 1 Sat 13 Sep 2025 02:39PM UTC

Amazing chapter!

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 3 Tue 09 Sep 2025 06:58PM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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Willoughby_md on Chapter 3 Tue 09 Sep 2025 07:42PM UTC

I love it .
Thank you author, Looking forward to the next chapter.

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jenaddibrooke on Chapter 6 Wed 10 Sep 2025 12:28PM UTC

Great fic!

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 7 Thu 11 Sep 2025 06:41AM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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allergic2work on Chapter 13 Tue 16 Sep 2025 04:24PM UTC

Love this story and your writing!

Thank you for the quick updates as well!!

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allergic2work on Chapter 13 Tue 16 Sep 2025 04:26PM UTC

I think you've included a response to your betas suggestions in the story, it's a bit after clark starts playing poker.

Again, Love the writing and the story!

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1. Legionnero on Chapter 13 Tue 16 Sep 2025 11:10PM UTC
  
  Bruh, Whats funny is I re-read and re-read what I write. I take time to really focus on a scene and my beta helps me stay focused on what I'm trying to capture (Because I'll run away with things sometimes), and I still miss that shit. Thank you for catching that. I'll have to re-read more often and now I feel obligated to re-read once again the other chapters to make sure my beta hasn't snuck in somewhere again. xD
  
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cruelestsummer on Chapter 14 Fri 12 Sep 2025 12:07PM UTC

I love it! Eagerly awaiting the next chapters and for Clexa to finally get together officially 🥰

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 16 Sat 13 Sep 2025 07:05AM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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Sheabutter23 on Chapter 17 Sat 13 Sep 2025 03:10PM UTC

Uugghv my heart my mashaylaaaaaasssss 🫵🏾🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

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ClexaFan1321 on Chapter 17 Sat 13 Sep 2025 05:49PM UTC

I stayed up till 2am reading this. I feel like the Clexa fandom is losing momentum so it makes me very happy that there are fantastic authors out there still writing. I will read as long as you write. I hope we get to the point where we see Clarke painting while Lexa ices her shoulder on the couch, watching film for her next game. I’m excited to see how the progress made at the cabin transfers back to the real world and the challenges that arise from that transition.

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sheisjustanothergirl on Chapter 17 Sun 14 Sep 2025 12:14AM UTC

Now I want to see what Clarke imagined coming to life. And they being happy

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 18 Sun 14 Sep 2025 12:46AM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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Willoughby_md on Chapter 20 Mon 15 Sep 2025 05:08AM UTC

Definitely not typical, Most self acclaimed good guys ain't.

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 21 Mon 15 Sep 2025 03:17PM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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QSCL (Guest) on Chapter 21 Mon 15 Sep 2025 04:30PM UTC

Another great chapter, thanks for the back to back updates. Waiting impatiently for Finn’s reaction, again.

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Queen_Ware32 on Chapter 25 Sat 27 Sep 2025 05:54AM UTC

Amazing chapter my friend. Thanks for the update

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ClexaFan1321 on Chapter 25 Sat 27 Sep 2025 11:59PM UTC

Please come back!!!

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