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Summer only means freedom when you’re lucky and young, but Clarke is both, and knows it. It’s the first weekend of June, warm enough still in the evening for sundresses and sandals; she’s playing drinking games in Raven’s kitchen while Octavia paints Maya’s nails a deep blue and Raven and Wells speculate about alien life, their voices swaying in and out of focus. Monty and Jasper, her competition, distract each other so badly she is assured her victory.
She abandons them, wanders out onto the porch for some fresh air.
Outside, Miller is talking to a boy Clarke has never seen before. Or the boy is talking. Miller’s standing there with his usual unreadable smirk, while the boy pantomimes some impassioned speech.
Something about him—
Maybe it’s the Jell-O shots she slammed back against Raven’s cluttered counter top. But she prefers to think it’s the shine of the streetlamp as it flickers on, or the smell of fresh cut grass and recent rain that floats up from the earth.
Or the unruly curl of his hair, or the way the muscles of his arm flex as he moves, or the hole in his shirt, like he’s worn it right down to the last threads.
Everything coalesces around him. Like she’s always known him. Like she’s been waiting for him.
Clarke takes in a slow breath. Shoves off her sandals. And walks with bare feet down the steps.
Her movement catches his attention, and he stops mid-sentence, turns. She flashes him a smile. Tentative at first, almost wary, he smiles back.
“Sorry to interrupt—” (Miller’s making some sort of skeptical noise) –“Just wanted to say hi. I’m Clarke.”
He’s staring back at her, appraising her. Up close he makes her breath catch. Then he nods. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Bellamy.”