Chapter Text
"So you know in horror movies, when the girl's like 'Oh no, there's something in the basement, let me just run down there in my underwear and see what's going on, in the dark,' and you're like 'What is your problem? Call the police.' And she's like 'Okay,' but it's too late because she's already getting murdered? Well, my brother's story is kind of like that.
"See, there was this girl, and Bell thought they were it, you know? Like total 2.5 kids, white picket fence and a labrador, all that shit. But what he didn't know was that she was five foot six inches of pure, concentrated evil. l mean, I knew from the start, don't get me wrong, I could tell shit was coming. Nothing gets past me. But this girl, when they first started seeing each other it was great! Total sophomore sweethearts, if that's even a thing. They were together for years.
"But then like a month ago, Bell was meant to be at this conference for history teachers? It would have meant missing their anniversary but Bell went anyway and then left early because he's the world's biggest romantic dork. And he means to show up at their apartment and take her out for dinner; you know, wine and dine her? So he walks in and it's great, she's thrilled to see him and they're just about to leave when his coworker walks out of Bell's bedroom, naked as the day he was born?
"And that was majorly upsetting, obviously, and Bell phoned me and I said to him that he could stay with me and Lincoln. But then he thought that was weird so I told him he could stay with you guys! Because it turns out that the lease to their apartment isn't actually in Bell's name at all; and then our call kind of devolved into this rant about how evil she was, it really wasn't great, painted us in a really bad light, like nothing about it was good...
"... but anyway, that's why he needs a new apartment, he's been sleeping on our couch and it's getting kind of weird. I'm sorry, what was the question?" Octavia finishes. Clarke is amazed by her lung capacity and practically bored to tears.
"How was your weekend?" she answers flatly.
“Not as great as mine!” Raven interrupts before Octavia can reply, entering the living room. She flops down on the couch, putting her feet up next to Clarke. “So tell us more about this Bellamy guy. I could use some fresh meat around here.”
“Okay, first of all,” Octavia says, rolling her eyes. “Gross, Raven, that’s my brother you’re talking about.”
“And second?” prompts Clarke. She eyes Raven’s feet next to her, then pushes them off.
“He’s a history teacher and a huge nerd - seriously, he collected Lord of the Rings figurines for three solid years - but he knows how to cook and-”
“I like him already,” Raven interrupts. “If I have to put up with Miller’s attempts at scrambled eggs one more time, I swear to God…”
Miller, hearing his name, walks in with a bowl of chips, practically overflowing with each step he takes. As he sits down next to Raven, the bowl sways precariously.
“Hey! My eggs aren’t that bad.”
Raven just sighs, shaking her head. She steals one of his chips and pops it in her mouth. “If it’ll make you feel better, then they’re the best I’ve ever had.”
“So are we just gathered here to insult my cooking, or…?” asks Miller, indignant.
Octavia laughs, turning towards him. “No, Bellamy needs a place to stay and I was kinda hoping that you guys would take him in out of the goodness of your hearts?” She looks to Clarke, who isn’t convinced, with pleading eyes.
“Octavia, we can’t,” Clarke rationalises. “Technically speaking, we’re only meant to have three people staying here; and God knows we may as well count you too.”
Octavia ramps up her puppy dog eyes, and Raven is forced to avert her gaze.
“Oh God, I can’t even look at her. Make it stop!”
“It’s disgusting,” Miller agrees, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth and chewing noisily. Clarke has to stop herself from wrinkling her nose at the sight.
“Says you?” she asks, with a pointed look towards the chips. “Jar, now.”
Miller groans in protest, but reaches in his pocket to pull out his wallet anyway. Raven reaches behind her to grab a mason jar that’s half-filled with coins and dollar bills, haphazardly decorated with glitter and labelled ‘Douchebag Jar.’ She presents it to Miller with a mocking flourish, a wide grin on her face. He puts in a dollar, to which Raven raises an eyebrow, and they hold eye contact for three tense seconds until Miller crumbles under the pressure, tossing in the rest of his change.
Octavia laughs. “I can’t wait til my brother fills that thing up.”
“It’s an honest cause!” Clarke defends. “We need that alcohol fund.”
Miller stops eating his chips to look at her.
“Clarke. You work at a bar.”
“Wait,” Raven says, turning to Octavia. “You’re not saying he’s a douchebag, are you? Cause we need someone to help with rent, not piss us off.”
“No no no no,” Octavia says quickly, panicked. “He’s a nice guy, I promise.”
“Nice guy?” Miller asks with an arch of his eyebrow. “Or nice guy?”
“He’s a good guy!” Octavia amends exasperatedly. “I wouldn’t raise him to be a douchebag, I swear.”
Clarke snorts a laugh, stealing Miller’s half-empty bowl of chips. “Technically he raised you, unless you had some twisted foetal superpowers going on.”
“I was a gifted child,” Octavia proclaims, flipping her hair and inadvertently hitting Miller with the trailing ends. He ignores it, with the seasoned patience of someone who lives with two girls.
“Back to the matter at hand,” Raven cuts in. “We need a new roommate and Bellamy needs a new apartment. All in favor?”
She raises her hand as she speaks, and Octavia smiles giddily. Miller huffs and raises his too, after a moment of consideration. Heads turn to Clarke, who’s sitting with her arms crossed.
“What?” she snaps, aggrieved. “Like I said, we aren’t allowed four people in this apartment.”
“It’s only temporary!” argues Octavia. “Please, Clarke!”
“Kane literally never comes up to check on us,” Raven points out, referring to their sketchy landlord who has a penchant for truly horrifying Hawaiian shirts. “We could be running a drug cartel and he wouldn’t notice.”
“True,” Miller agrees. “He’d probably just ask for a cut of our profits, the cheap bastard. And I’d kill for another guy around here - have you seen this place? I’m practically drowning in estrogen.”
“Jar!” Clarke, Octavia and Raven chime in unison.
Miller rolls his eyes and gestures to his empty wallet, lying abandoned on the coffee table.
“Would that I could,” he says tiredly. “But I literally have no money left. You better not waste my hard earned, unfairly taken cash on shitty booze, Clarke.”
“Hey!” Clarke says, offended. “I have excellent taste in booze!”
Raven crosses her arms, glaring at her bickering roommates. “Stop that, you two! Clarke, we need an answer. Can Bellamy move in, yes or no?”
Clarke sighs dramatically, sinking back into the couch. “I guess I could see the benefits. Maybe it’d stop you moaning about paying most--”
“All,” Raven interjects.
Clarke makes a face and continues. “All of the rent. And maybe it would be nice to live with someone who can actually make a decent meal.”
“Think of the other benefits,” Raven adds, leaning in to close the sale. “You won’t always have to be the sober one! And maybe he has hot friends - we can get you back out there.”
Clarke straightens at the mention of potential eye-candy. It’s been a long, lonely few months since Lexa dumped Clarke on her ass in favor of her childhood sweetheart, Costia. Not that she’s bitter, or anything.
Octavia crosses her fingers, bouncing in her chair excitedly.
“So he can move in? Great!” She enthuses, then checks her phone. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
Miller stares at her. “You mean to say that you already said he could move in? Without asking us?”
Everyone turns their heads to glare accusingly at Octavia, who shrinks back in her seat. She has the decency to act sheepish, at least.
“He was really upset, okay?” she says defensively. “Besides, you guys will thank me later, I promise.”
*****
They’re definitely not thanking her later. The problem isn’t living with one extra occupant, no. That gets easy as soon as Bellamy takes the smallest bedroom without complaint - a room that was formerly the overflow wardrobe and home to Miller’s precious beanie collection.
In fact, they accept Bellamy pretty much the second he shows up at their door, duffle bag clutched to his chest and suitcase in tow. Clarke watches as Bellamy makes his way through the door, dragging her eyes down his frame in a way that hopefully doesn’t come off as explicit as it feels. His hair is unspeakably sexy, brown curls thrown in all directions. He blinks at all of them, eyes underlined with dark shadows as he takes in their faces.
"Hi," is all he manages.
As Octavia throws herself into his arms, the roommates share a look. Miller looks happier already from the idea of having another guy around, and Raven's eyes bore into Clarke, pleading: Can we keep him?
Clarke sighs and looks back at Bellamy, brow furrowed as he wraps his arms around Octavia, probably squeezing the life out of her. Raven pokes her in the shoulder and Clarke uncrosses her arms, sighing. Fine.
He’s decent company, Clarke quickly learns - when he isn’t yelling at history channel reruns about blatant inaccuracies, that is. Bellamy can hold up a conversation, and has a sarcastic, dry sense of humour. He fits in.
Although maybe the Lord of the Rings collectables are a little bit off-putting. Logically, everyone has their quirks, but there’s a difference between ‘adorkable’ flaws and rows upon rows of meticulously arranged figurines. Thankfully, they’re much less disturbing when they’re hidden away in Bellamy’s room so that Clarke can’t see them, instead of just sitting on the living room floor and staring at her with their beady little eyes.
Even that’s pretty manageable. It’s no less idiosyncratic than Raven’s early morning treadmill sessions in their living room, or how, when Clarke was in med school, she used to blast classical music to help her study. Besides, it’s something for he and Miller to bond over, although Miller enjoys the Lord of the Rings to a far less obsessive degree.
But then there’s his cat. No, it isn’t a cat. It’s the demon-possessed body of an aging orange tabby. Miller avoids the monster at all costs, Raven threatens to throw it out the window twice a day, and Octavia constantly chases it around in a vain bid to force it to love her. So of course the damn thing imprints on Clarke from the word go.
She refuses to dignify it with a name; a vow made immeasurably easier by the fact that Bellamy calls it Cleocatra. Cleocatra. Technically, it’s Cleo for short, although Clarke rejects that on principle.
Not only has it made it a ritual to walk across her keyboard the second she gets her laptop out, but then it gives her that look. It’s possibly the most smug look a one-eyed cat can manage, and it oozes superiority. Finally, inevitably, the godforsaken thing will start to meow, and won’t shut up until Clarke pets it. Which she doesn't. Most of the time.
Even Cleocatra the she-demon pales in comparison to the real issue at hand. Bellamy hasn’t left the apartment in nine days.
The first day is fine; unremarkable, even. Octavia’s there to help move Bellamy in, a blur of hair and excitement. Introductions are made, and Miller takes Bellamy on a tour while the girls help carry his stuff, with Raven confiding to Clarke that she’s only doing it so that she can con Bellamy into making dinner. It works, too, and he makes an amazingly complicated pasta dish, full of flavour - and more importantly, liberally sprinkled with bacon - which the group of tired and hungry friends demolish in a matter of minutes.
In no time at all, the plates have been scraped clean and Octavia’s gone. Clarke waits until Miller and Bellamy are bro-ing out in the kitchen before grabbing Raven’s arm and dragging her into the bathroom. Raven pulls away as soon as Clarke pushes her in, slamming the door behind them.
“What the hell, Griffin!?” Raven exclaims, washed out in the harsh fluorescent light. She rubs her arm and scowls. “If this bruises, I swear to God.”
Clarke purses her lips, knowing full well she didn’t grab Raven hard enough to do any damage.
“We need to talk,” she states.
“About…?”
“The sex eyes you were giving Bellamy earlier!” Clarke hisses, not wanting to be overheard. Loud laughs echo from the kitchen and she moves away from the door a little. “He’s our new roommate, Raven, you can’t fuck that up!”
Raven rolls her eyes, leaning against the vanity counter. “I was just being friendly!”
Clarke scoffs, incensed. “Hah! Sure. Because I look at all my friends like I want them to pin me up against a wall.”
Raven opens her mouth to protest, then pauses as if she’s considering Clarke’s words. She raises an eyebrow.
“I mean…”
“Wow, remind me to not let you near him anymore,” Clarke notes. She shakes her head, trying not to think about how hopeless her efforts are.
“Wait,” Raven interrupts, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Are you jealous?”
Clarke’s jaw drops and she steps back slightly, pressing against the bathroom cabinet.
“No!” She splutters. “Why would you even- we only met him today!”
“So?” Raven shrugs, unconcerned.
“He’s Octavia’s brother. And our roommate!”
“So?” Raven repeats. “He’s single, I’m single - you’re unattached too... Hey! How about we--”
“No,” Clarke cuts her off firmly.
“But what if--”
“No.”
“You’re no fun,” Raven grumbles.
Clarke huffs and crosses her arms. She needs to get to the point.
“Look, we can’t risk fucking up the roommate dynamic. Because when something inevitably goes wrong, it won’t just be awkward for the parties involved, but for the other people that live here too.”
“I get it, friendship is sacred, blah blah blah. Fine. I’ll keep my hands off him if you do. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at him though…” Raven grins, and wiggles her eyebrows.
“Gross, Raven, none of that either. He’s a human being.”
“Clarke, don’t even pretend to be all holier-than-thou,” Raven smirks. “I saw you looking earlier. That pasta got you going, don’t deny it.”
Clarke bites her lip, hard, and tries to dispel the image of Bellamy in an apron and nothing else that refuses to leave her mind. She blushes furiously and looks away from Raven, avoiding the brunette’s smug gaze.
“I fucking knew it!” Raven crows victoriously.
Clarke shushes her awful, traitorous friend and puts her face in her hands. Raven, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to burst into laughter.
“I admit he’s hot, okay?” Clarke finally says, swallowing her pride. “I’m a functioning human being; I have eyes. But sleeping with him would just end badly for all of us. And we can’t just kick him out if things get weird - we owe Octavia. If I’m not going to sleep with him, neither are you. We’re in this together. Deal?”
“Deal,” Raven agrees reluctantly. “And believe me, you have no idea how much self-restraint it’s taking me to refrain from making a High School Musical joke right now.”
Clarke groans and shoves at Raven’s arm, making sure to aim for the area that she grabbed earlier.
“Ow! Geez, be careful,” Raven yelps. She sulks as she moves past Clarke to open the door. “Come on, I don’t want anybody thinking we’ve fallen in the toilet and drowned or something.”
Clarke huffs a laugh and follows Raven back into the living room. Miller and Bellamy are cleaning up in the kitchen, chatting as if they’ve been friends for years. She catches hints of their conversation - “No, man, what the fuck? Frodo’s a way better character.” - but she can’t bring herself to pay any more attention than that.
It almost feels as if Bellamy’s always lived with them, stopping a hole in the apartment that Clarke didn’t know needed filling. She settles back into the sofa, her feet tucked in beneath her, and listens as Bellamy and Miller’s voices wash over her, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. It feels right, being here, like all the pieces of her life have finally fallen into place. She feels at home.
*****
On the fourth day, Clarke takes a stand. Bellamy’s been camped out on the couch for an uncomfortably long period of time, and she can’t take it anymore. The whole living room now carries the unmistakable odor of recently-dumped man, all aged whiskey and self-loathing.
“You have to get some sunlight,” she orders, hands planted on the back of the couch. “And maybe stop hogging the TV - because while I’m sure that the hierarchies of Ancient Rome are incredibly fascinating, I’d like to watch something where there isn’t a violent death every two minutes.”
Bellamy shoots her a disgruntled glare and, rolling his eyes in a motion eerily similar to Octavia, turns back to the TV. The devil-cat on his lap mirrors his look of disdain and hops off, sauntering away. Bellamy doesn’t even dignify her with a response, the bastard. Clarke throws her hands up in the air, huffing out a frustrated puff of air.
“Real mature, Bellamy. Sure, fine, ignore me until I go away.”
Clarke stands there pointedly a few moments more, awaiting his response, but none comes. She spins on her heel, stalking out of the room with her shoulders high. Halfway down the hallway, however, Miller pops out of his room, holding out his hands to stop her.
“Woah woah woah,” he starts, reaching to grab her shoulders. “What are you doing? You can’t leave him like that.”
Clarke scowls in response, shrugging violently to displace Miller’s hands. She moves to side-step past him and sidle into her bedroom - the door is right there! - but Miller’s too fast for her. Clarke straightens her back and looks him in the eye challengingly.
“I can do what I want. And so can he, evidently. It’s none of my business if a grown man wants to sit and mope over the Romans, but could he maybe not do it in our shared living room? This is your fault; I told you it was a bad idea.”
Miller shakes his head, mouthing the word: unbelievable.
“He just got out of a relationship,” Miller argues. “Cut him some slack! Do you have any idea how much of a mess you were after Lexa?”
“I was fine after Lexa, thank you very much. I handled it in a mature, adult way.”
“Clarke,” Miller says flatly. “You watched Grey’s Anatomy reruns and did a shot every time there was a medical inaccuracy. Raven and I were seriously worried for your health.”
Clarke shudders at the thought. She’s purposely erased that horrible week from her memory (or was that the alcohol’s fault?) and glares at Miller for bringing it up. It was a dark time, okay? She dares Miller to get dumped in the most casually callous way possible and be completely fine afterwards.
And it’s not like she went completely crazy. There were maybe a couple of ill-advised, drunken voicemails, but everyone with a broken heart does that, right?
MIller’s shoulders sag as he sees her bitterness. He moves aside to let her pass, but gets a few words in, trying to change her mind.
“He needs to talk. You’re good at that shit, you know? Putting people back together. You were almost a doctor, and now you’re bartender, so you’re practically a licensed therapist.”
Clarke stops and turns around, some of her fire gone.
“Why don’t you talk to him? You guys are ‘best bros’ now, after all.”
Miller huffs a laugh, as if her idea is as ridiculous and outlandish as they get. “Clarke. We’re men. We don’t discuss feelings, like ever. We don’t even acknowledge that we have them.”
“Men? Are you kidding me? That man,” she points to the living room, where Bellamy has started yet another fit of swearing. “Has been crying into his drink on the couch for the past twenty minutes. And don’t even get me started on you! I still have video proof of you dancing to ‘Single Ladies’ half-naked with a lampshade on your head.”
Miller’s eyes narrow at her, outraged that she’d even bring it up. “Everyone deals with shit differently, Clarke. And that was under the influence of True American, you know how important that game is to me. Please, talk to Bellamy. Do it for me.”
At that, Clarke looks tiredly in the direction of the living room. Her temper flickers, then dies out completely. It’s hard to stay angry at one of her oldest friends, and even harder to stay angry at a high school teacher who’s currently a heartbroken mess, curled up on her couch like a lost puppy. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?
“Fine, I’ll talk to him. But if he starts crying about the lost Library of Alexandria one more time, I’m sending him to you.”
“I don’t blame him for crying about that,” Miller says, with what he clearly believes is a winning smile. “It was a tragic loss of knowledge!”
Clarke just flips him off in response, and Miller’s laughter echoes down the hallway as she turns back into the living room. She takes a breath, giving herself a mental pep talk.
When she enters the room, Bellamy shifts in his spot and refuses to acknowledge her. He stares straight forward, eyes boring into the wall, perfectly still. Clarke wouldn't be all that surprised if the wallpaper started to peel off.
She sits hesitantly on the far end of the couch, and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Look,” Clarke begins, “I know what you’re feeling--”
Bellamy snorts in disbelief, reaching for his drink.
“No, really. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
Bellamy’s hand stops. It must be something in her voice that makes him look over at her, waiting for her to continue.
“Six months ago, I was on this couch just like you. A heartbroken wreck, ice cream in lap, mascara halfway down my face. I just couldn’t stop thinking about our first date, or the way she laughed, and I'd get these sharp, sudden pangs in my chest. My head would get heavy, and then that awful swooping feeling in my gut would come. And there was the intense... desperation, even though I'm not even sure what I was desperate for. I didn't want it to end, didn't want to accept it.”
She stops and blinks a few times, wondering where all that came from. When Bellamy speaks, it surprises her. She’d almost forgotten he was there.
“What did you do?” he asks, an edge of vulnerability in his voice. “To accept it. To move on.”
Clarke exhales and looks over at him. His eyes are focused on his thumb as it runs over the edge of the blanket wrapped around him, his eyebrows drawn together as he waits for her to answer. There’s a stain on his shirt and his hair is a frizzed mess, head ducked low as it shades most of his face.
“It wasn’t easy. My friends tried to help, but there was only so much they could do for me. I was letting my emotions control me in an unhealthy way. Once I took charge, took responsibility, things changed. I moved out of her place, cut ties, picked up more shifts at the bar. I did what I could until the pain stopped coming.”
Bellamy looks up at her questioningly.
“Gone completely? Just like that?”
“No,” she answers, lips pressed together in a wry smile. “But almost. And you have to tell yourself that that’s enough.”
“It feels like it’ll never go away,” Bellamy admits. “Like one day I’ll wake up and I’ll be a bitter old man who’s yelling at kids to get off my lawn, all because my girlfriend cheated on me. You know, if she hadn’t, I would have married her.”
Clarke moves closer hesitantly, the ancient sofa groaning under her as she shifts her weight. She debates reaching out to comfort Bellamy, but chickens out at the last second, settling instead for giving him a sympathetic nod.
“But she did, and you didn’t. In a way, that breakup saved you from a painful divorce. It was bound to happen, no matter what you did right or wrong. Relationships end for a reason.”
Clarke tilts her head to the side, watching as her words take effect in Bellamy. His back seems to straighten and he takes a deep breath, one hand rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. He nods absently, and Clarke notices how tired he looks. It sends an unexpected rush of sympathy through her, but she bites her lip, scared of stepping over boundaries. She barely knows the guy, after all. She reaches for anything to say to break the unnervingly intimate silence.
“You smell awful, you know,” she criticizes, hoping, if nothing else, to at least get a reaction out of him.
Bellamy looks down at his rumpled clothes, nose wrinkling like he’s just noticed his total lack of hygiene. Clarke isn’t one to mince words, not usually, but she’s pretty sure that erring on the side of caution is the right way to handle Bellamy right now.
“Shower?” he asks abashedly.
“Shower,” Clarke echoes, standing up from the couch.
Bellamy laughs, and it makes Clarke smile warmly, proud to have brought him around. She reaches down and grabs him by the arm, half-pulling him up and exaggerating the effort. He grips her hand tightly, and Clarke feels a fire ignite where they touch. Suddenly, they’re close, too close, her hand tingling from the contact. Bellamy’s face is inches away from hers, his expression unreadable. Clarke swallows and steps away quickly, consciously moving back to put an appropriate amount of space between them.
“I’m just going to…” Bellamy breathes, and even though Clarke’s moved away he’s still looking at her with those stupidly big brown eyes.
“Yeah,” Clarke manages to choke out. “You do th--”
“Hey guys, have you seen my charger?” Miller interrupts, walking out of his room and causing the tension to dissipate abruptly. “Because I’m sure I left it…”
He looks up from his phone and trails off, taking in the scene. Bellamy looks at him like a startled deer and Clarke fixes her gaze to the floor, avoiding all eye contact.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you guys to… whatever this is,” Miller says, waving his hand awkwardly.
Clarke’s eyes snap up and she fumbles for words, an edge of desperation in her tone.
“No, no, Miller, I’ll go look for it; I might have a spare one if it doesn’t turn up. You can teach Bellamy how to use the shower - you know I always forget which of the taps you have to run to make sure the water’s still hot.”
It’s a blatant lie, to anyone who knows Clarke. But Bellamy doesn’t, so she rolls with it. Miller nods at her conspiratorially and launches into action, leading Bellamy away. Soon Clarke hears the shower screech to life, accompanied by Miller’s voice calmly explaining the finer mechanics of their plumbing. Her shoulders relax and she flops onto the couch with a sigh of relief.
The orange demon chooses that moment to waltz back into the living room, jumping up onto the couch. Clarke tries ignoring it but it fights for her attention, stepping on her boobs in rage.
“Ow! Fuck,” Clarke exclaims, moving the beast onto her stomach. She looks around to make sure no one is watching before petting it.
“Your owner is an idiot,” Clarke sighs affectionately, scratching at it’s bitten, ragged ears. Just as Clarke was thinking it was tolerable, the cat agitates at the mention of Bellamy and digs its claws into her shirt. She promptly shoves it off her lap, swearing.
When Miller comes back out, she’s flopped onto her side, eyeing Bellamy’s drink. She’s not normally a whiskey girl, but with the day she’s having, she’ll drink anything if it’ll get rid of the weight in her chest and the tingling feeling Bellamy’s grasp left behind. Clarke scrubs her arm vigorously, willing away the memory of his skin under her fingers. Maybe she needs a shower, to wash his touch off.
Clarke looks up at Miller, hovering over the end of the couch, and he looks back, his eyes curiously sympathetic.
“What?” she snaps, awaiting the rush of questions she doesn’t want to answer.
Miller just shakes his head.
“It’s none of my business,” he says at last.
The rest of Clarke’s anxiety fades, and she feels a rush of affection for her longtime friend. She flings herself up from the couch and wraps her arms around him tightly. He freezes for a second, then hugs her back, a warm, rare, Miller hug. After a few seconds, Clarke starts to feel better and she smiles into the crook of Miller’s neck, rocking up onto her tip-toes.
“So can I borrow your charger?” Miller asks finally, breaking Clarke out of her reverie.
“Shit, Miller, I didn’t even look for yours, did I? Of course; it’s on my dresser,” she replies sheepishly, reluctantly pulling away.
Miller half-smiles at her before turning and walking toward her room. Halfway there, he stops and turns back.
“If you wanna talk…” he offers awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.
“Thanks for the offer, Miller, but I think I’ll go to Raven.”
Miller sighs in relief, clearly thanking her for not putting him through the horror of heart-to-heart conversations. He nods and pushes into her room, the door closing heavily behind him.
Clarke settles back on the couch, pushing aside all thoughts of Bellamy Blake. He’s off-limits. He’s Octavia’s brother. He’s their new roommate. He’s just gotten out of a long-term relationship. The list of reasons why Bellamy is forbidden is endless.
But the memory of him still lingers on her skin and in her thoughts regardless. No matter what logic tells her, she can’t get rid of him. Not completely.