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There’s music and vodka pounding through your veins when you take his hand in yours, fingers interlocking.
“C’mon, Bell!” You say, your voice unusually light as you drag him onto the dance floor.
And maybe you’ve had just a little too much to drink because he is looking at you with something you don’t know the name to (yetyetyet) in his eyes, and everything spins a little bit faster and slides a little bit more to the left.
“Clarke—” He says, and you frown, a little bit.
“Shut up and dance with me,” you say, because you don’t want to know (aren’t ready for) what’s in his eyes.
His eyes lock on yours and his lips part (closethegapclosethegapclosethegap) and—
“Alright, Princess.”
“Soon,” you mumble, “Soon.”
Promisepromisepromise.