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The chancellor's office was hushed, washed in that tired blend of blue and yellow Ark light—faded, like everything else touched by recycled air. The metal walls pressed in close, seams and scuffs glinting faintly where the light caught. Clarke sat at the desk, papers spread in loose stacks around her, they’d long since stopped trying to keep tidy. Her chest felt heavy, her mind numbed by the impossible decision waiting for her.
Her eyes slid to the side, to where Bellamy had given in to sleep on the narrow couch. They’d been tasked with charting who would be most essential if the worst came to pass, weighing skillsets like currency for survival. They’d agreed to meet here, to finish the task without distractions, but exhaustion had claimed Bellamy mid-page, civilian profiles still scattered where he’d left them. Full nights of rest were rare for either of them, and once she realized he’d dozed off, she couldn’t bring herself to wake him.
Clarke let out a sharp breath, as if she could exhale the pressure pressing down on her. The list stared back at her—white paper against scavenged steel, the numbers climbing in relentless order.
99.
100.
They held her gaze, unblinking, as if waiting for her to break. A faint furrow pulled between her brows—not anger, but the taut focus of someone trying to shoulder a decision too heavy to carry alone. More than once she had wondered if she deserved this type of absolution. She didn’t believe so, Bellamy however…
Her lips pressed into a thin, deliberate line.
This one was easy. Her hand didn’t falter this time. The pen glided across the page in two, certain strokes, his name taking its place among the others.
She looked back at the list and the last slot under his name.
Clarke drew in a shaky breath, her thoughts collapsing in on themselves with every second. The pen slipped from her grasp. Eyes shutting tight, letting the pain wash through her—sharp, unrelenting. She didn’t deserve this, not the space she’d carved onto the page, not the chance it promised. Resolution was a lie; forgiveness, impossible. The weight of what she had done pressed too deep.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. Trembling fingertips pressed against her lids, trying to breathe through the tide threatening to pull her under.
She couldn’t do it.
Clarke's eyes opened at the sound of movement, startled to find Bellamy pushing himself up from the couch. She hadn’t even realized he was awake until she caught his gaze, steady and unflinching, set on her. Her elbow slipped from the desk in defeat as another wave of emotion broke through her. It was rare for her to let anyone see her like this—but with Bellamy, she didn’t care.
“If I’m on that list, you’re on that list.”
Her head shook, tears spilling hot down her cheeks.
“Bellamy… I can’t.”
“Write it down,” he said, voice steady, certain. “Write it down, or I will.”
Her eyes fell back to the list, but her head kept shaking. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Bellamy reached across the desk, dragging the notepad toward him. He leaned in, the pen moving in bold, deliberate strokes as he wrote her name. His handwriting stood out sharply against hers, stark and unmistakable. When he reached her last name, he didn’t look away, holding her gaze as if to make sure she understood—she mattered here.
Then he snapped the cap back onto the pen and slid the paper toward her again.
“So what now?”
“Now we put it away,” He said, eyes fixed on the names, “and hope we never have to use it.”
The smallest trace of disbelief tugged at her expression. “You still have hope?”
“Are we still breathing?”
Clarke’s gaze fell back to the list, her mouth softening into something close to resignation.
Hope felt like a luxury she no longer trusted.
A steady palm settled on her shoulder, solid and warm. Eyes closed in quiet relief, her hand rose to meet it, tilting into the contact. The touch was rare, welcomed more than words could carry.
The warmth seeped into her, loosening something wound tight in her chest. But the rest she forced down—the sudden swell of feeling, the weight of everything unsaid. They were always perched on the edge of war, the edge of loss. There had never been room for what she felt for him, for whatever they might have been if the world were different. This moment was as close as they had ever come, and she didn’t want to let it go.
Sometimes she wondered if her parents had ever felt this same weight, this kind of love that pressed as heavy as duty. If they, too, had found themselves trapped between devotion and survival, giving in stubbornly to conventions because there had been no other way forward. Maybe they had loved with the same ferocity and the same fear, only to find that even love could be a burden when the world left no space for it.
“Get some sleep,” Bellamy murmured.
The words drew her back to reality, but she stayed rooted in place. As he began to pull away, her hand found his, holding on.
Two months. That was all they had. Two months.
“Bellamy…” Clarke stood to face him, letting his hand fall though her gaze held on, searching. A flicker of hesitation passed through her but exhaustion dulled her restraint.
Tonight she chose selfishness.
“Stay with me?”
The words slipped out gently, but their weight was unmistakable. His expression broke, eyes darkening with a grief so raw it looked like they'd split something open inside him. He shook his head before he could stop himself, his voice tearing out pained and nearly broken.
“Clarke.”
He couldn’t be that with her, casual.
“If this is about the world ending—”
“The world is always ending.” Clarke swallowed against the unease, her eyes fixed on his. “This isn’t about needing someone.” She drifted forward, the space between them slowly dissolving.
What she felt for him at first hadn’t been friendly, let alone romantic. She had cared about him, cared that he was okay, cared he was on her side, and then one day it shifted, sharp and undeniable, into something little bit more.
In barely a whisper she said, “I want... you.”
The words felt dangerous, heavier than she expected. Not a plea for comfort, not some fleeting escape — she didn’t want a hollow imitation of closeness. She wanted him, the whole of him, in a way that left no room for pretense. For so long she’d convinced herself there was no space for it—not with the world demanding every ounce of her strength, not with survival always first. She had seen it in him too, though, glimpses caught in the rare softness of his voice or the way his gaze lingered a beat too long. She wasn’t blind. She had only been too bound by duty, too tethered to everyone else’s needs, to ever reach for it.
But time was narrowing around them, slipping through her hands like water. And as the silence stretched, she braced for rejection — only to watch his defenses falter, his eyes searching hers with something raw and unsettled, as if he’d been holding it back just as long.
His eyes held hers, turbulent with something he was still trying to name. She watched this guard fall into consideration before his hand lifted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch lingered as if asking for permission. Her gaze lifted to his, his hand sliding to her jaw as he leaned in.
Their lips met in a kiss that began careful, tentative. For a moment they hung there, testing the edges of something too long denied.
Then hunger broke through, fierce and consuming. Years of restraint unraveled in one instant. Clarke gave in, starved for the warmth of him she’d once forbidden herself to imagine.
For Bellamy, the world fell silent. Duty, fear, everything beyond this room dissolving until only her touch anchored him.
The world wasn’t on fire, they weren’t running out of time.
Not in this moment.
Bellamy pressed closer, his mouth deepening against hers as his hands slid up the curve of her neck and tangled into her hair. He kissed her like he’d been starved of it—unhurried, but with a need that pulled every ounce of her closer. His lips moved over hers again and again, lingering, claiming, drinking her in as if he couldn’t get enough.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He breathed out along her jaw line when they came apart. His voice was rough and gruff with certainty. Clarke nodded as she reached up, kissing him again. Deeper this time, faster, like she was trying to grasp hold of this fleeting sliver of time between them.
She didn’t want to think about what would happen once they stopped. She didn’t want the moment to collapse under the weight of reality.
His hand caught her hip, pulling her closer, his arm sliding up her back to anchor her against him. Clarke’s heart kicked hard in her chest. She’d never been this close to him—not really. Touch between them had always been quick, fleeting moments, gone before she could register the heat of them.
But this was different. This was deliberate. Intentional. This was time, this was permission, this was the freedom to touch him and to let herself revel in the solid weight of his body pressed into hers.
A shaky breath slipped from her as he drew back, the sudden absence of his mouth a sharper ache than she’d prepared for. The dim office swam around her again—scuffed metal walls, the stacks of paper half-falling across the desk, the muted hum of Arkadia’s recycled air pressing against the windows. The silence between them was louder than the surrounding generators.
Bellamy’s hand lingered at her back, his chest rising and falling quick against hers. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he should step forward again or retreat altogether. His thumb shifted just slightly against her spine, a touch so small and unthinking it unraveled her even more.
Clarke lifted a hand to his jaw, brushing her thumb across the stubble there. The small scrape of it grounded her.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, less confession than surrender.
He let out a low sound and closed the space again, his mouth claiming her with a new urgency. The kiss was deeper this time, deliberate, like he’d decided if the world was going to burn, he would burn with her.
Both hands rose to cradle her face, holding her steady while his mouth moved over hers, reverent and hungry all at once.
Clarke gripped the fabric of his shirt in tight fists, dragging him closer until the desk pressed against her thighs again. She didn’t care. She wanted the weight of him against her, wanted every barrier between them gone. Her breath hitched as his mouth traced the line of her cheek, then down to her throat, heat searing against her pulse.
The room felt impossibly small, air thinning around them. Each second fragile and breakable—yet she wanted to stretch them, to live inside them and never face the wrath of reality again.
Bellamy’s forehead came to rest against hers, his breath ragged. “Clarke…” he murmured, and it wasn’t protest so much as her name spoken like a prayer.
She shut her eyes, her lips brushing his as she answered, steady now.
“Don’t think. Just… be here.”
And for once, he didn’t argue.
His mouth didn’t leave hers as he lifted her, strong hands anchoring her hips until she slid onto the desk.
She hooked her legs around him instinctively, pulling him closer, the hard line of his chest pressing into hers. The kiss deepened, messy now, almost frantic, as though Bellamy couldn’t get close enough no matter how he tried. She threaded her fingers through his curls, tugging until his breath caught against her mouth.
When he finally broke away, it was only to trail kisses down her throat, his breath hot where her pulse raced. Clarke’s head tipped back, eyes shutting, a shaky sound leaving her that she’d never have let anyone else hear.
“Clarke,” the name fractured against her collarbone like he was fighting for control.
The desk creaked under her, and the sound snapped him back enough for his forehead to press against hers, breathing hard. For a brief moment, Bellamy’s eyes flicked over her shoulder to the couch behind them—the same narrow one he’d been sleeping on minutes ago. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth before he kissed her again—slower, coaxing. When he finally pulled away, it was only to guide her from the desk, leading her the short distance to the couch.
The cushions dipped beneath her as he followed, bracing on one arm while the other cupped her face.
For a moment he just looked at her, his expression raw, stripped of all the walls he usually held between them. And then he kissed her again, soft, like he wanted to memorize every second.
Clarke’s hands roamed his back, pressing, pulling, keeping him anchored to her.
“Bellamy…” Her voice broke against his mouth, breath shaky, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise her ribs.
Bellamy caught the sound in another kiss, lips insistent yet reverent, torn between hunger and restraint. She knew this was what she wanted—had for longer than she’d ever let herself name. Yet beneath the certainty, something shifted. As if stepping closer might change everything, as if the wrong move could splinter the fragile thing they’d been holding between them.
Bellamy kissed her like he couldn’t help himself, but also like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, words scattered between kisses, his mouth brushing hers like he couldn’t quite pull away. The confession held more than hesitation—it carried fearFear that this was fleeting, that she didn’t mean it the way he did, that soon when they manage to break away it might all vanish.
She shook her head, fierce and certain, fingers curling tighter in the fabric at his shoulders.
“Never.”
For a moment, their foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, both of them trembling under the weight of how much they wanted and how much they stood to lose. His heartbeat thrummed against her ribs, ragged and unsteady, each breath pressing hard into hers. And in that closeness she felt something shift — the way his body eased against hers, as if now that he finally had her, he could stop fighting, could finally let go of the endless tension he carried.
Bellamy had meant it when she asked.
He still had hope—so long as she was by his side, and he, beside her.