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.