Chapter Text
Lexa's POV
You scratch at the twisting grain of the oak tabletop, waiting for your drink. The atmosphere here is always warm, always filled with people caught up in their own worlds, laughing or studying or having conversations. The bare rafters above catch your eye; through them, motes of dust drift lazily, illuminated by the bare hanging lights that cast a sweet incandescent glow over the entire room. Outside it is snowing. Soon, the owner of the shop will stop by each table and politely tell them that due to weather they'll be closing early. Along the walls, amongst other things, napkins with quotes and notebook pages filled with drawings and cartoons hang from two cork boards. The table that sits tucked behind a giant rusting coffee roaster in the back used to hold a secret notebook in which only those who were keen to the tradition would express themselves anonymously through words or illustrations. Declarations of love riddled those pages, along with inspiring quotes and meaningful elegies and illustrations of varying significance. Recently, the owner relocated the pieces of art to the two cork boards. It added to the introspective atmosphere the place seemed to encourage.
Your eyes drift down to one of the employees, who approaches you with drink in hand.
Sauntering over with an effortless smile curving his lips and kind eyes fixed, Bellamy Blake sets a ceramic mug down in front of you.
"Here's your coffee, babe," he says with a wink. He lingers for a second, brow furrowing the slightest bit. “You always look so lost, Lexa.”
From behind his aproned back, a cookie appears. He places it next to your coffee. A pick-me-up, you surmise.
“I am never lost. But thank you.” He raises his eyebrows, with a ghost of skepticism playing on his face. You see it but he's not one to press, so he turns away to return to work, an uttered, 'you're welcome,' trailing behind.
When he is not looking, you stow the plastic wrapped cookie in your bag with a sigh. The gesture isn't lost on you. You lean into the table once again and stare into your coffee as you sink three creams into it, which swirl lazily in a way that reminds you of ink. There's always been a sort of understanding rapport between you and Bellamy that you couldn't have with Octavia or any of your other mates. He is reliable and anchoring, always seeming to know what he is doing. It gives you a sense of security. And you can talk to him about almost anything without the fear of everyone else suddenly knowing too, what secrets you've divulged. You learned the hard way that Octavia is not as tight-lipped as her brother. Your eyes follow the curly-haired boy past the small bar near the back of the shop, where he stops to talk to a pretty blonde girl who you assume is new considering you don't recognize her.
She nods to Bellamy and returns to the counter where customers wait in line, while he disappears around a corner.