Chapter Text
Clarke stepped onto the front porch, her canvas tucked under one arm. The morning air smelled like pine and damp earth. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in on you if you stood still too long. Sunlight filtered through the tall trees lining the property, casting golden patterns across the ground. But she didn't notice the beauty of it.
Her left shoulder jerked sharply.
She exhaled through her nose and rolled it back like it was nothing. Like she could smooth it away.
No one was around to see it. That didn't stop the heat from creeping up her neck.
The easel stood exactly where she'd left it the night before. Clarke set the canvas in place and stepped back, tucking a pale strand of hair behind her ear. She'd tied the rest into a braid to keep it out of her face, but it never stayed contained for long.
Neither did she.
At twenty, she felt like she should've been somewhere else by now. Doing something bigger. Instead, she was here, bare feet planted in splintering porch wood, painting storms she couldn't name.
The canvas was violent with color. Reds slashed through deep blues, streaks of black cutting through both. It looked like fire swallowing the ocean. Or maybe the ocean fighting back.
She picked up her brush. A tremor ran through her hand, subtle but persistent. She dipped into indigo anyway.
A car engine hummed down the road.
Her spine went rigid.
The sheriff's cruiser rolled past at its usual slow pace, sunlight flashing against the windshield. It should've kept going.
It didn't.
The engine cut.
Clarke stared very hard at her painting, pretending her pulse hadn't just jumped into her throat.
Boots crunched against gravel.
"Morning."
The voice was low. Calm. Not intrusive.
Clarke turned slightly, just enough to see her.
Lexa Woods stepped into view, hands resting loosely on her duty belt. The uniform fit her like it had been tailored for her frame, sleeves pushed back just enough to reveal strong forearms dusted with faint scars. Her dark hair was pulled back today, but a few strands had escaped and caught the light, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones.
Her eyes—green, Clarke realized now that she was close enough to see—weren't hard like she'd expected.
They were steady.
"Hey," Clarke replied, and her voice caught halfway through the word.
Her jaw twitched immediately after, a quick, involuntary motion she couldn't suppress in time.
Lexa didn't react.
Didn't flick her gaze toward it.
Didn't look uncomfortable.
Didn't pity her.
"Sorry," Lexa said, nodding toward the canvas. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I've driven by a few times and always wondered who made these."
Clarke hesitated. "These?"
"The paintings." Lexa stepped a little closer, but not too close. Careful. "They're kind of incredible."
Clarke let out a short breath that might've been a laugh. "They're not."
The words came too fast. Too sharp.
Lexa tilted her head slightly, studying the canvas instead of Clarke now. "You don't paint safe."
That made Clarke blink.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Lexa said softly, "you don't hold back."
Clarke's fingers tightened on the brush again. Another twitch ran down her arm.
"I think they're honest," Lexa added.
Honest.
No one had ever called her art that before.
The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, just charged. Clarke became suddenly aware of how close Lexa was standing. Close enough that she could see the faint gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough that she could smell clean soap and something earthy beneath it.
"Anyway," Lexa said after a moment, stepping back again like she'd sensed the shift. "I should get back on patrol."
Clarke nodded once.
Lexa hesitated.
"If you ever sell one," she added casually, "I'd buy it."
Clarke's heart did something strange in her chest.
Then Lexa gave her a small smile.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't charming.
It was quiet.
And it didn't ask Clarke to be anything other than what she already was.
The cruiser pulled away a minute later, disappearing down the road in a trail of dust.
Clarke stood there long after it was gone.
Her shoulder jerked again, harder this time. Her breath hitched with it. She set the brush down carefully and pressed her palm flat against the canvas, grounding herself.
Honest.
That night, she sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, guitar resting against her thigh. Moonlight spilled across her sheets and shone against the loose waves of her hair. The tics came in waves—shoulder, jaw, wrist—but she let them.
Her fingers found the strings anyway.
The melody she played was soft at first. Tentative.
Then it deepened.
It sounded like indigo paint dragged through red.
Like a storm deciding whether to burn or break.
Like a quiet smile that didn't feel like pity.