#bellmyblake

It can't be. She just saw him yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she dropped him off at the airport and kissed him goodbye.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, her husband was in her arms. Warm. Safe. 

Alive.

"Yes," she says, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm— yes."

She doesn't know what else to say. She's not sure she's even capable of saying anything else.

Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

"Ma'am," the voice continues, serious and sober, "I'm calling today to inform you about your recent transgression against the Marine Corps, the Department of Defense, and the very Constitution of the United States."

Her breath stutters in her throat.

"Um," she squeaks out, "my what?"

"Transgression, ma'am," the voice repeats, an undercurrent of irritation lacing its patient tone. "Ma'am, are you aware that the defacement of government property is a serious federal crime?"

She actually drops her basket, the plastic clattering flatly to the linoleum floor of the supermarket. "The what of what?!"

"Penalties for this crime can go up to a maximum fine of up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or ten years imprisonment, or even both," the voice continues, unbothered by her incredulous tone. "The American government does not take kindly to destruction of its property, ma'am, not at all."

Her jaw drops. "What are you talking about? I didn't—" Cutting herself off in sheer frustration, she shakes her head violently, her blonde curls whipping about her face. "Look, what the hell is going on? Where's my husband? Is he okay?"

"Okay?!" There's a loud scoff on the other end of the line. "Ma'am, you've got a lotta nerve asking if he's okay! Especially after that giant contusion you left on Corporal Blake's person!"

Her brows knit into a sharp frown. "Contusion? What contusion?! I have never laid a hand on my husband!"

"You'd think after two years of marriage, you'd have the good sense not to leave it right out in the open where everyone can see," the voice continues over her protests. "Or at least aim for somewhere below the collar of our uniforms!"

All of a sudden, memories of the night before flood into her brain, the images of freckled skin and warm lips overwhelming her senses. The last night she and Bellamy shared together before he'd left for his second tour.

All the blood rushes out of her face, leaving her pale and dizzy for a brief moment before flooding right back in, her cheeks burning up in that way that always makes her look like she fell into a giant pan of bright red blush.

"Oh my God," she hisses, gripping the phone tight against her ear. "Are you talking about the hickey?"

A contemptuous sniff. "If that's what you two are calling that big old ugly—"

There's a loud bang in the background, like a door being flung wide open. Another voice booms, muffled and inaudible but reassuringly and thrillingly familiar — and then all of a sudden, there's nothing on the line but the sounds of what she can only make out to be a scuffle, a barked-out "Murphy!" and a high-pitched yelp, and then—

"Clarke?"

"Bellamy?" Even though she now knows full well that he'd been fine all along, the relief washes over her like a wave over the sand, cool and comforting. "Bellamy, God. It's you."

"Of course it's me, babe," he says, his voice turning soft and low in the way that always seems to melt her heart right in her chest. "Jesus, hang on—fuck off, Murphy!" There's a last muted mumble in the background, and then the sound of a door closing. "Okay, he's gone now. What was he—"

"Jesus Christ, Bell!" she explodes, no longer able to contain the fire of sheer indignation. "I thought you were dead! I was this close to losing it in the fucking grocery store!"

"What?" his voice roughens in concern. "What do you mean you— what the hell did that asshole say?!"

She throws her free hand up in exasperation. "He asked if I was me, if I was married to Corporal Bellamy Blake of the Marine Corps, yadda yadda yadda, and the whole time I was thinking something terrible had happened, I was just thinking about you and I was this close to going out of my mind, and then he fucking accuses me of destroying government property!"

Bellamy begins to laugh.

"It's not funny!" she half yells, but she can't quite suppress the grin already forming on her own face. "I thought you were dead, and your dickwad friend was giving me shit for giving my own husband a hickey!"

Bellamy can't stop laughing. "Oh, shit," he manages when he catches his breath. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it was a shitty joke. Murphy and a couple other guys have been teasing me all morning, but I'm gonna—" He dissolves into another peal of laughter, and it's not fair how the sound makes her picture him crystal clear in her head, eyes crinkled, mouth stretched wide, broad chest all rumbly and warm with the evidence of his amusement.

"I'm gonna kill him," she promises darkly, a wide smile on her own face, still flushed and warm with residual embarrassment. "It's Murphy, right? John Murphy? What's his middle name? Social security number?"

"Don't worry, baby, I'll get to him first," Bellamy chuckles. The last of his laughter dissolves into a small sigh. "Fuck, Clarke. I miss you so much already."

She exhales, leaning against the fridge door to cool her skin off. "I miss you too. When are you shipping out?"

"Three more days. Flight time isn't confirmed yet, but I'll let you know when I can. Should be set by the time we get to video chat tomorrow night."

"Any chance you could make it a private video chat?" she quips, smiling.

"My, my, Mrs. Blake," Bellamy says, and just from the tone of his voice she knows exactly which smile he's wearing — lopsided and charming, with a hint of teasing. "I'm not so sure you should be trusted alone with government property. Looking to make a repeat offense so soon?"

He probably genuinely means it as a joke, but even that flippant quip sends memories from their last two weeks together flickering through her brain again, igniting her senses and turning her insides to mush. The sight of Bellamy's tan skin, made even tanner from long hours of training and military exercises in the sun. The sounds he'd elicited from her with his hands and mouth. The sensations he'd sparked in her when he'd—

She clears her throat, letting the pitch of her voice drop even lower. "Well, Corporal, it appears I might have something of a vandalism streak."

"Shit, babe." Bellamy sighs, the sound distinctly strained even through the phone connection. "All I want is just to be with you right now. Why am I all the way out here again?"

"Because you love me," she reminds him with a smile, "and you love our friends, and you love your country."

"Right, right," he says, exhaling heavily. "Priority number one. Protect my family."

Tears prick at her eyes, but her smile only grows wider. "Priority number one," she corrects insistently, "protect yourself. Stay safe, and come home to your family."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, his voice soft and reassuring.

There's a long pause, the two of them hanging on just to hear each other in the faint buzz of the phone connection.

Finally, Bellamy clears his throat. "I gotta go," he says, his tone full of reluctant apology. "Get Murphy off whichever poor bastard he's torturing now."

She shakes her head, pushing off the fridge door. "Go. Text or call when you can."

"I will," he promises, and then adds, "Get yourself something other than frozen pizza for dinner?"

"I did," she says, eyes flicking to the two boxes of frozen lasagne in her basket.

"Or frozen lasagne." She can't see his face, but she can picture his raised brow, clear as day.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll get an apple, or something."

"Good enough," he says, and then he pauses. She can't explain it, but something about the extra beat of silence just tells her that he's smiling again, comforting and warm. "I love you."

Her heart grows about three sizes bigger in its ribbed cage.

“Fine,” she gasps, keeping her eyes on her handlebars and continuing her struggle. Even though she’s not looking at him, she can just feel his eyes burning through the back of her helmet.

That’s another thing about this biking group. They always have one experienced biker at the front, and one at the back. To be fair, being able to hang out with the unfairly hot guy usually trailing the back of the pack would normally be a plus. Except that he also gets to witness her humiliation every time, and she feels like he’s silently judging her for her lack of fitness.

Today, she even started a few minutes early, trying her best to keep up with Raven and Wells. It all went downhill the moment moment Octavia went whizzing by her, yelling at the entire group behind her “Try to keep up!” and the next moment, everyone— including Raven and Wells— were nothing but specks in the distance, and Unfairly Hot Guy was her only company.

Although he’s nice to look at, Unfairly Hot Guy never really makes conversation (which is a shame because his voice when he does talk is the sexiest thing she’s ever heard). No, it’s just awkward silence punctuated with Clarke’s loud gasps for breath, because everyone else has already gone over the top of the tree filled hill and are now sailing down the other side.

“You can go ahead, you know,” she pants at him as they ascend up another winding incline. They’re going offroad today, which Clarke sincerely regrets ever thinking would be ‘cool’. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

She almost thinks he’s not going to respond, because again, he hardly ever talks. But then he does, replying solemnly, “No one gets left behind.”

Clarke sputters a laugh. Dramatic. “This can’t be fun for you. How do you always get stuck on babysitting duty in the back, anyway?”

She doesn’t expect an answer and she doesn’t get one. Silence falls on them again. With renewed determination, she pushes forward harder; as always, he smoothly accelerates with her without comment. She pedals faster, feeling sweat roll down her neck from under her helmet. It’s way too hot out for eight in the morning.

A wave of dizziness hits her all of a sudden and she presses the brake immediately, bracing one foot against the uneven ground.

“Clarke?” she hears from behind her, and she barely has time to register that Unfairly Hot Guy knows her name before she’s pitching sideways off the bike.

She’s bracing for the rocks and dirt she’s going to fall into, but instead she falls into a pair of solid arms and slowly guided to sit on the ground.

She blinks— the sun is in her eyes, and then it’s gone, disappeared behind his head as he kneels in front of her. He’s taken off his helmet and his dark curls are plastered to his forehead from the heat. It’s a good look on him.

Of course it’s a good look on him. Everything is. She’d be disgusted with herself if she wasn’t preoccupied with being dizzy.

He peers at her with his pretty brown eyes and makes a disapproving humming sound before turning to grab her water bottle out of her pouch from where she’s dropped it. He shoves it into her hands. She accepts and throws it back, drinking sloppily enough that some of it splatters onto her shirt, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She then lowers it. He’s still watching her oddly, and she lies, “I’m ready to go.”

“No, you need to rest,” he replies, and before she can object he sits down next to her on the rock. “You were going too fast.”

She huffs as he settles down beside her, trying not to notice his body heat. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“There’s no need to push yourself so hard to keep up, you know,” he says mildly as if she hasn’t spoken. “That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

She wipes her mouth. “Sure, but I bet you’d rather be at the front, actually getting a workout.” She sounds a little self-pitying without meaning to, which she loathes.

He’s quiet a moment before he says, quite seriously, “That’s the secret though.”

She looks at him quizzically.

“That’s why I volunteer in the back. I’m actually going as fast as I can,” he says, and she stares at him for a good five straight seconds before she notices the small smile curling on the corners of his mouth, and she realizes he’s making some sort of corny joke.

She rolls her eyes, feeling her own dry lips cracking into a smile. “Clever. No one would ever know how unathletic you are.” As if, honestly. When it’s pouring out, and everyone’s clothes are sticking to them, she can practically see his abs through his shirt. Something she definitely doesn’t think about, ever, of course.

Unfairly Hot Guy has apparently exhausted his reservoir of social energy because he doesn’t reply. Clarke leans back on her hands and they just sit there in silence for another minute, the only sound their breathing slowing to a steadier pace and the water sloshing in their bottles when they go to drink. The silence doesn’t feel strange with him. It feels completely comfortable.

It occurs to her that the rest of the biking group is getting farther and farther from them by the minute, and she caps her bottle and stands. “I’m ready.”

“You sure?” he asks, standing as well.

Clarke looks up the hill. There’s a steep section coming up. “Yeah,” she says determinedly, but a minute later she’s back on the bike and nope, she really isn’t.

While she’s leaning on the handlebars, gasping for breath, he stops next to her. “We can always—”

“I’m not going back,” she snaps. She will not complete her humiliation by doing that.

“I wasn’t gonna say that,” he replies. “We can always take another break.”

She shakes her head and dismounts her bike, accepting her defeat. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way up.” She feels humiliated by this stupid hill. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up at the top.”

“No way in hell that’s happening,” he replies, getting off his bike as well.

“I’m serious,” Clarke insists. “I’ll meet you at the top. Go.” She knows she sounds like she’s pleading a little bit, and that’s because she is. This entire situation is embarrassing enough without him being dragged behind with her.

“I don’t like going it alone,” he replies lightly. When she scoffs, he adds, “Why do you think I’m in a biking group?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Whatever.” Despite her protests, his insistence to stay with her makes her feel warm inside.

They walk together to the top, wheeling their bikes along, and once they’re there, a cool breeze hits Clarke’s face and she sighs, tipping her head back. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“Just you wait til we start going down,” he says. She looks down the hill. It’s twisty but smoother, and there’s an actual bike path. It looks like it could be fun. “Takes about five minutes to get to the bottom. All the pain is worth it.”

“It’d be a lot sweeter if I could actually have biked all the way to the top,” Clarke sighs, twisting her handlebars. He doesn’t reply, so she looks over at him. He’s looking over at her handlebars with wide eyes. “What?”

“Your— your gears,” he says finally, and he sounds completely bewildered. “Your gear’s on the highest setting.”

She looks down, and sees that yes, the little knob is turned to the highest number and it’s not like she really knows a whole lot about biking, but… “Wait a minute,” she says slowly. “Does that mean—”

“Means you’re a badass, Clarke,” he says, and then he’s grinning widely at her. He’s got the cutest, most sweet smile and she melts a little bit upon realizing the full force of it is directed at her. “I can’t believe you biked up as high as you did on the gear with the most resistance.”

That registers, and she finds herself laughing a little. “I forgot about the whole gear system thing,” Clarke confesses. “It’s been a long time since I did any biking.” Long time meaning since childhood.

“A long time,” he repeats, and there’s something like pride in his eyes. He claps a hand on her shoulder. “Incredible. Ready to go down now?”

There’s a funny, light feeling in her chest as she stands up here, in the silence of this huge hill with the wind blowing in her face and her eyes on the buildings in town that look like little lego blocks from where they are. She’s giddy, and Unfairly Hot Guy thinks she’s a badass, and—

“Wait a minute,” he says, and he reaches forward, taking her face in his hands. She loses her breath staring at him for a moment, at least until she realizes he’s looking down at her chin, adjusting the straps on her helmet. “It’s too loose,” he explains.

He’s even prettier up close. And more freckly. “What’s your name?” she finds herself asking while he tightens the straps. She’d never had the bravery to ask him before.

His eyes flicker up to hers. “Bellamy,” he replies after a beat. “I’m Octavia’s brother.”

Well, that explains the weird, half-exasperated half-adoring dynamic those two have. “Hi, Bellamy,” she says, tasting his name on her tongue. It’s sweet. “I’m Clarke. But you knew that.”

He looks away, and could there be a blush on his cheeks or is that just from the sun? “Yeah, I did,” he replies, all gruff, and pulls away. But she thinks his fingers linger on her skin just a beat too long.

And yeah, that adds a little to her feeling of giddiness. “Let’s go then,” she declares, lifting back her kickstand with the heel of her sneaker. She delivers him a smirk before repeating Octavia’s words from earlier: “Try to keep up!”

Without waiting for a response, she starts down the hill. She hears the amused little exhale of air behind her before she goes though.

He’s right, as it turns out— the whole torture of getting up this hill is completely worth it on the way down. It’s a steep downhill slope and Clarke thinks she finally gets what Raven’s always talking about when she raves about the euphoria of biking hills. She’s grinning madly as she goes, the wind blasting in her ears as she navigates her bike through wild turn after turn—

And then.

She goes past another sharp turn and the only thing she registers is— a pile of bikes? A blur of people— before she collides.

She tries to veer out of the way at the last second but only succeeds in crashing into a bike on the ground and skidding, getting thrown off her own bike at the same time. She falls hard— The next thing she knows, she’s lying on the ground with a sharp pain in her hip and ringing in her ears.

The ringing fades, and she blinks hazily a few times to see Bellamy hovering over her, hands on her face. His own bike has been discarded a few feet back. She slowly comes back to hearing.

“...Clarke? Are you okay?”

She tries to shift onto her side, but there’s pain flaring through her hip again. She moans in response.

He swears under his breath. “You can’t move, can you.”

She shakes her head, one of her hands going to her hip to the painful area, only to find that one of his large hands is already there, gently prodding.

“Ouch!” she snaps. “That hurts.” She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling tears gathering.

“Okay,” he soothes. “Sorry.”

Blinking away her pain, she turns her head to look around them, and realizes what she collided with was just a pile of other injured bikers.

There’s five or six other people on the ground, bikes scattered everywhere, some still on the ground, some limping around. Octavia, apparently unharmed, is pulling a med kit out of her bag. Everyone, injured and uninjured has stopped their ride at the sight of the accident. But where is—

“Raven!” Clarke gasps. “Where’s Raven?” She’s struggling to push herself up. But she can’t. It hurts too much.

“Don’t move,” Bellamy barks at her. She ignores him, craning her head around. He huffs a laugh. “You’re injured, Clarke.”

“I can see that,” Clarke snaps, and finally someone— Octavia Blake— runs over to give them some answers.

“What happened, O?” Bellamy asks.

“I was at the front,” she says, sounding out of breath as she crouches next to Clarke. “There was a bear.”

“A big fucking bear!” Jasper yells from close by, where he’s gingerly standing on both feet with Monty’s help.

“It ran across the path, so I tried to brake,” Octavia continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “And then Raven came around the corner, and she didn’t have enough time to stop. And…”

“It went downhill from there,” Jasper says from where he’s standing, and then giggles. “Get it?”

“So there was a pile-up,” Clarke summarizes, and casts a glance around. “Where’s Raven?”

Octavia winces. “She twisted her knee bad. But it’s okay,” she adds quickly at Clarke’s distressed expression. “Wells and Miller took her to the hospital. It’s just down the hill, pretty much.”

Bellamy stirs. “What about Clarke? She can’t walk.”

“I can walk,” Clarke huffs, trying again to get up, but a surge of pain lances through her hip and she falls back with a small cry. Bellamy’s hands are on her shoulders after just a second, large and soothing.

“Stop it,” Octavia chastises her. “What do we do, Bell?”

Bellamy cocks his head, looking down at Clarke. She realizes what he’s thinking at once.

“No,” she says vehemently, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. “You are not carrying me down the hill.”

—

Bellamy carries her down the hill.

Clarke can’t say she’s too displeased.

—

Clarke feels her mouth twist into a grimace as they near the hospital. “I think I broke my pelvis.”

“That right?” He sounds sympathetic, adjusting her in his arms. One of his arms is around her back and the other under the backs of her knees. It’s a rough journey down, with all the winding and steep hills, but somehow being pressed up against him makes a good distraction from the pain. His body is hard and firm and impossibly he still smells good— she finds herself clutching tighter around his neck, even though it’s really not necessary at all. “Yeah, it can’t be my hip. I know a few things,” she mutters, at his raised eyebrows, pressing her nose against his chest just because she can and will probably never another opportunity to do so. “My mom’s a doctor.”

He simply nods.

As they enter the hospital, she mutters, “At least I have an excuse the next time Raven tries to get me into some new sport.”

He barks out a laugh. It’s the only time throughout this entire journey that she can tell he’s slightly out of breath. He hides it very well.

—

It turns out her pelvis is indeed fractured, and she’s going to need some sort of small surgery before she can leave. She’s in the middle of trying to call her mom— no one’s picking up, and Wells isn’t picking up either— he must still be with Raven. She’s panicking internally.

It must be telling in her expression, because she feels a hand slip into hers.

She looks up and it’s Bellamy. His eyes are soft. “I’ll be here when you get out,” he tells her softly.

“You don’t have to,” she tells him, a little touched.

He’s there anyway.

—

During her surgery, he apparently ran home and showered, because he’s wearing a new shirt, a dark blue one, and a dark jacket on top. Black cargo pants. She can’t help but let her eyes crawl all over him because he looks good.

And she’s fully aware that she probably looks like shit after the day she’s had, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. He offers to drive her home after she’s discharged.

Because her mom still isn’t answering, and Wells who hasn’t left the hospital since Raven was admitted and doesn’t have his car, she ends up accepting.

He parks at her apartment building and they sit in silence for a moment. At least, until Clarke’s stomach rumbles and she sighs in embarrassment.

Bellamy’s lips twitch up. “Breaking your pelvis is a lot of work. Not surprised you’re hungry.”

She rolls her eyes, hitting him on the arm. And then promptly wonders when in the past several hours she became comfortable doing that. “Let’s hope I have something edible to eat in my apartment.”

He’s quiet a moment, looking as if he’s pondering something.

“What?” She asks.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing before he asks slowly, “We could go out for food, you know.” She blinks at him and he adds, “Just for food. As friends. I’ll pay.”

She stares at him. He won’t look at her, his gaze straight out the windshield. But his jaw clenches as he awaits her response. But all she wants to ask is, Is this... a date?

She immediately internally slaps herself for even thinking that. No, obviously this isn’t a date. He feels bad for her after everything that happened. He’s just a good guy. And she has a terrible, terrible crush that she should shut down firmly right now.

So naturally, she says, “Sure.”

He releases a breath she didn’t realize he was holding. He finally looks at her, up and down.

Which makes Clarke self-conscious of the ratty clothes she’s wearing. “I can’t go like this,” she mutters, half to herself, but he hears her.

“You look fine,” he says. She gives him a look. His lips twitch. “If you really want to, then go ahead and change first.”

“I can’t walk right now,” she points out. “You’d have to carry me up three flights of stairs, because our elevator isn’t working, and then back down, and then again when we get back.”

He grins, wide and boyish. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, Clarke, but carrying you isn’t really a problem.”

She rolls her eyes even as she blushes. “Humble.”

—

She can’t say she’s complaining, though.

—

On the way to the Chinese restaurant they agreed on, Clarke gets a flurry of texts from her mom, and she speedily sends back reassurances that she’s fine, with a friend, being cared for.

She shoots a look at Bellamy, driving. Being cared for— oh, man. This crush is gonna hurt. She doesn’t care.

And then a text from Raven.

Heard u were with Bell ;)

Clarke texts back: We’re just getting food. Get your head out of the gutter.

Immediately, her phone pings. Nah u right. Sex would be hard with a fractured pelvis now that i think abt it.

Clarke rolls her eyes and doesn’t respond. But a moment later, she gets another text from her friend.

Something to think about while ur both pretending not to like each other tho. Another message pops up: he only started volunteering to stay in the back of our bike group once u joined.

Clarke stares at that text for the rest of the ride, continuing to stare at the blank screen even when her phone fades back into sleep mode.

When Bellamy pulls his car into the parking lot, she manages to work up the courage to speak. Although her throat feels very dry. “Bellamy?”

He nods to show he’s listening.

“Thanks,” she whispers. “For everything today.”

He looks at her, and his eyes are warm. He nods again, and then unbuckles his seatbelt, pushing open his door.

“It’s kind of weird if you carry me into the restaurant,” Clarke muses as he comes around to her side.

“I could always throw you through the window instead, if that’s your preference,” he replies.

She laughs and holds out her arms. He takes the signal, wrapping his arms around her waist and legs again to hoist her out of the car seat. “Hmm. I’m not sure you have enough upper arm strength for that.” She bats her eyelashes at him.

He scoffs and feigns dropping her for a moment, and she squeals without meaning to at the sudden dip. He laughs and she buries her face into his shoulder.

“Jerk.”

They enter the restaurant and the hostess takes one look at them and giggles.

“She broke her pelvis,” Bellamy explains, sounding a bit awkward.

“Fractured,” Clarke corrects, and the hostess shakes her head with a huge grin on her face before beckoning them to their table.

Bellamy puts her gently into her side of the booth and then sits opposite. They order drinks, and it’s suddenly an awkward silence.

“So,” Clarke says, making the word long and drawn-out.

“So,” he echoes with a small smile on his face. “How you holding up?”

“The doctors say I’m going to have to take it easy for a while.” Clarke makes a face. “Doesn’t sound fun.”

“It doesn’t,” Bellamy agrees. “I was in a similar situation a while back and the bedrest thing nearly killed me.”

“You broke your pelvis?” She asks, cocking an eyebrow up at him and lifting her glass of water to her lips. “Common injury for cyclists, I heard.”

“Actually, I broke my back and shattered both my ankles.”

She does a spit take, water slopping back into her glass. He watches her with faint amusement. “What?” she sputters, grabbing a napkin from the centre of the table.

“It was a few years ago,” he explains. “After I recovered, I started biking as a way to get exercise without over-exerting myself.”

She’s still trying to catch up. “How did you— how did that happen?”

He blinks slowly at her. “I fell,” he merely says.

“You fell— “

They’re interrupted by the waiter with food, and then throughout dinner Clarke slowly gets the full story out of him. Sperlunking.

“I never would’ve taken you for someone who was into extreme sports,” she giggles at the end.

He grimaces. “Not anymore, trust me.”

Something about his tone makes her ask, “Are you okay now, though?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Good enough. It’s been a few years since it happened.” She has a feeling that’s not the full story, but he sounds like he’s done talking about it. He offers her a fortune cookie and she accepts, feeling ridiculously happy and glow-y inside.

“Okay, but seriously,” she says again as she cracks her cookie open. “Thank you. For everything today.”

His eyelids flutter, and she gets the feeling he’s not used to being thanked. He’s silent a moment, and Clarke arches up a brow, letting him know she’s expecting a response. “It’s nothing,” he replies gruffly.

“It’s not nothing. It means a lot to me.”

“Would’ve done it for anyone.”

Clarke wouldn’t have the courage to say what she says next if it weren’t for Raven’s text. She can only pray her friend wasn’t screwing with her. “Would you have asked anyone to dinner after?” She holds her breath.

He looks at her sharply then, takes in the way she’s looking at him under hooded eyes, biting her lip and her head tilted— she’s really not sure how she’s supposed to make it more obvious— and then he definitely blushes, she can see it even in the poor lighting of the restaurant.

“Probably not,” he finally admits. And then he peeks through his lashes, as if gauging her reaction.

She tries her best to stay cool even though she’s internally screaming. What a strange day this has been. She started the day not even knowing his name, and thinking he was just a judgmental, hot, possibly mute guy— and now? Well. She really wants to know what those full lips of his feel like.

She’s taking too long to reply, apparently, because Bellamy releases a breath and leans back in his side of the booth. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Come over here,” Clarke interrupts.

He blinks rapidly. She sighs and elaborates.

“If my pelvis wasn’t fractured, I’d lean over this table and kiss you right now. But I can’t. So you’re going to have to do all the work.”

His lips part, eyes widening fractionally. She raises a brow challengingly.

In a flash, he’s out of his seat, she’s shimmying over to the side, and he plunks down next to her in the booth. He secures a hand at her waist and tilts his head to kiss her; it’s sloppy since there’s still half a giggle on her lips.

But the laugh fades once Bellamy’s kissing her. Softly, delicately of course— but she’s having none of that shit. She threads her hand into his hair and deepens the kiss. He follows her lead immediately, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck to pull her carefully closer to him and surging forward with an enthusiasm that slightly surprises her— and then she’s left feeling a bit lightheaded.

They pull away for air. She gulps in breaths. He’s staring at her and there’s something dark in her eyes that makes her shiver.

To distract herself, she snarks, “You taste like sweet and sour pork.”

He pokes her side. “You taste like chow mein.” He kisses her, a short one, and then another, and then he pauses, looks down at her lips like he’s wondering if it would be okay to do it again, so she saves him the trouble and bridges the gap herself.

They break apart finally, but don’t go far. He’s silent, just gazing at her in that way that he does— a way that he’s been looking at her for a while, she realizes, and she just hasn’t been noticing what it meant. He hasn’t been silently judging her on all these bike rides, no; he’s been silently admiring her, in the most childishly innocent way.

Well— if she had a crush on him before, she’s definitely falling in love with him now. And so, with her nose still brushing against his, Clarke whispers into the space between them, “Next time you want to ask me out on a date, don’t wait until I’m in the hospital.”