The Noble Stag

    Clarke Griffin barely had time to breathe these days, let alone go out for drinks. Between long shifts at the hospital, endless paperwork, and trying to grab a few hours of sleep whenever she could, her social life had all but disappeared.

    She had once been the life of the party—the infamous Party Girl Griffin of her college days, who could drink anyone under the table and still wake up the next morning like nothing happened. But now? Now she was Clarke Griffin, dedicated pediatrician, sworn enemy of sleep, and regretfully estranged from her once-glorious ability to let loose.

    Which was exactly why Raven and Octavia had decided to drag her out tonight just after her shift ended and she, unwillingly let them.

    “Come on, Griffin, you’re becoming a hermit,” Raven complained as they walked down a lively Arkadia street, neon signs flickering overhead. “What happened to the girl who used to do body shots off hot strangers?”

    “She became a doctor,” Clarke replied dryly, adjusting the sleeves of her leather jacket.

    Octavia snorted. “Correction: she became boring.”

    Clarke groaned. “I am not boring.”

    “You’re wearing scrubs under that jacket, aren’t you?” Raven accused, narrowing her eyes.

    “…No,” Clarke said, not at all convincingly.

    Raven threw her hands up. “Unbelievable.”

    “Well, excuse me for being busy saving tiny humans,” Clarke shot back. “I don’t see either of you performing life-saving surgeries on a Tuesday night.”

    Octavia grinned, “Nope. But we do know how to have fun. And tonight, Griffin, you’re going to remember what that feels like.”

    Before Clarke could protest, they stopped in front of a sleek black door with a golden stag emblem engraved in the center. Above it, a warm-lit sign read:

    The Noble Stag

    Clarke tilted her head. “Never heard of this place.”

    “Because you’ve been buried in work,” Raven teased. “But trust me, it’s the best bar in town. Good drinks, good music, and”—her grin turned wicked—“good-looking staff.”

    Clarke rolled her eyes. “Right. Because I definitely came here for the ‘good-looking staff.’”

    “Just wait,” Octavia smirked, pushing open the door.

    The moment they stepped inside, Clarke was hit with the scent of aged whiskey, citrus, and something faintly spiced. The bar had an old-world charm, its deep mahogany furnishings and dim amber lighting giving it a cozy yet sophisticated feel. Vintage chandeliers hung low, casting a golden glow over the polished bar counter and the leather-upholstered booths lining the walls.

    It wasn’t too loud—just the hum of conversation mixed with the smooth sound of jazz playing in the background.

    Clarke was impressed.

    “Alright,” she admitted, nodding approvingly. “I like the vibe.”

    “Told you.” Raven grinned.
 
    They settled into the stools at the bar, and Clarke’s gaze swept over the bar—and that’s when she noticed something… odd.

    Every single bartender and server was dressed in sleek, well-tailored men’s clothing. Crisp dress shirts, vests, suspenders, slacks, polished shoes. Some even had ties or pocket squares, looking straight out of a 1920s speakeasy.

    And yet… something about them felt off.
  
    Clarke frowned. “Wait. Are all the employees…”

    “Women?” Octavia finished for her.

    Clarke blinked. “Wait, really?”

    Raven laughed. “Took you long enough to notice.”

    Now that Clarke was actually looking, she realized it was true. The staff—despite their sharp, masculine attire and gentlemanly demeanor—were all women. And they wore it well.

    Before Clarke could process further, a smooth voice interrupted.

    “Welcome to The Noble Stag.”

    Clarke turned—and froze.

    Behind the bar stood possibly the most attractive person Clarke had ever seen.

    She was tall, dressed in fitted black slacks, a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, a matching vest hugging her lean frame. A sleek black tie was tucked neatly under the vest. Sharp, polished, effortlessly put together.

    And her face.

    Strong jawline. High cheekbones. Striking green eyes framed by dark lashes. A mouth that looked like it knew exactly how to smirk in a way that made people weak. Effortless charisma radiated off her in waves.

    Holy shit.

    “First time here?” the bartender—Lexa, according to her nametag—asked, tilting her head slightly.

    Clarke realized she was staring. She cleared her throat. “Uh—yeah. My friends dragged me here.”

    Raven threw an arm around Clarke’s shoulders. “Our dear Clarke has been too busy being a doctor to go out and have fun.”

    Lexa’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “A doctor, huh?”

    Clarke nodded, trying very hard not to get distracted by the way Lexa’s sleeves were rolled up just enough to show the definition in her forearms.

    Lexa leaned slightly closer, one elbow on the bar. “Then I suppose you deserve a good drink.”

    She reached for a glass, her movements calm, precise, practiced. “What’s your poison?”

    Clarke, not wanting to look inexperienced after so long without drinking, smirked slightly. “Surprise me.”

    Lexa raised an eyebrow. “Tequila?”

    “Stronger,” Clarke challenged, her bravado kicking in.

    Raven and Octavia exchanged an amused look.

    Lexa, never breaking eye contact, wordlessly grabbed a bottle of whiskey.

    Neat. No ice. No mixer.

    Clarke’s smirk wavered slightly.

    She had spent her college years downing tequila like it was water, had once won a drinking contest involving straight vodka shots—but whiskey?

    She never touched whiskey, not after the incident it caused at her early party days.

    Lexa slid the glass toward her with an unreadable expression. “Enjoy.”

    Raven snickered. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

    Clarke, trying to look unbothered, grabbed the glass.

    She brought it to her lips, inhaled, and—immediately regretted all her life choices.

    The burn hit first. Then the smoky intensity of the liquor, coating her tongue like liquid fire. She had remembered the strength, but not like this. 

    Her throat clenched as the burn traveled down, her eyes watering just slightly.

    She refused to choke. Refused to react.

    With great effort, she swallowed, placing the glass back down with a neutral face.

    Lexa’s lips twitched.

    “Hmm,” The bartender propped an elbow on the bar, resting her chin on her hand. “Thoughts?”

    Clarke exhaled slowly. “That was…” she forced a casual shrug, “alright.”

    Raven snorted.

    Lexa, amused, tilted her head. “Want another?”

    Clarke hesitated. Her mouth was still on fire.

    “…Maybe less stronger,” she admitted, trying to save face.

    Lexa chuckled, reaching for a different bottle. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”

    And just like that, Clarke—completely oblivious—missed the way Lexa watched her with quiet amusement.

    Raven and Octavia settled into a corner table not far from the bar, perfectly positioned to watch the disaster unfold.

    “Just as predicted,” Octavia muttered as she swirled her drink, “She’s clueless.”

    Raven snorted. “Oh, completely. I’ve seen dogs recognize affection faster than Clarke.”

    Both of them had a clear view of the bar, where Clarke, steadily downing her drink, sat completely enthralled—not by Lexa, but by the smooth way the employees carried themselves. The refined, effortless manner in which drinks were poured, glasses polished, orders taken. She had always been observant, and right now? She was watching.

    But not watching.

    Not in the way she should have been.

    “I give it five minutes before Clarke starts analyzing their efficiency like a hospital workflow,” Raven whispered.

    Octavia smirked. “Three.”

    They clinked their glasses.

    Back at the bar, Clarke remained completely unaware of the chaos around her.

    Lexa had returned her attention to Clarke, noticing her almost empty glass, leaning just slightly closer. “Another drink?”

    Clarke mulled for a second before nodding and asked for the bartender's advice, “What is your favorite mix?"

    Lexa considered her for a moment, then reached for a bottle of gin and another liquor. As she expertly mixed the drink, Clarke finally addressed what had been occupying her mind.

    “This place is really well-run,” she mused.

    Lexa arched a brow. “You think so?”

    “Yeah. Everyone moves so smoothly,” Clarke said, watching another bartender handle an order. “It’s impressive.”

    Lexa smirked, sliding the new drink toward her. “Glad you approve.”

    Clarke took a sip—and this time, the drink went down much easier.

    She exhaled, pleased. “Better.”

    Lexa leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting on her hand. “You know,” she said, voice dropping just slightly, “I think I might just have a drink for every mood of yours.”

    Clarke blinked, caught off guard. “My moods?”

    Lexa’s lips curved. “Mmhmm. For example…” She tapped the rim of Clarke’s glass. “This one? Suits your ‘I’m trying very hard not to be impressed’ mood.”

    Clarke huffed a laugh. “That obvious?”

    Lexa’s gaze flickered. “A little.”

    At the table, Raven facepalmed.

    “She’s flirting, Clarke.”

    Octavia sighed. “And Clarke is Clarke.”

    Clarke’s fingers tapped absently against the counter, her gaze flicking between the different bartenders. She wasn’t paying attention to Lexa, not in the way she should have been. She was too distracted by how effortless everything was.

    She watched as another customer—a brunette in a sleek red dress—slid onto a stool a few seats away. The woman leaned forward, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she addressed Lexa with an easy smile.

    Clarke, ever the observer, noted how Lexa turned toward her. Calm, collected, polite. She poured the woman’s drink with the same grace as before, speaking in that same smooth, measured tone.

    From where Clarke sat, it looked like standard bartending behavior.

    She’s just making the customer feel comfortable, Clarke thought absently, watching Lexa hand over the drink with a practiced ease.

    She didn’t notice the difference.

    Didn’t notice that, unlike with her, Lexa didn’t lean in close to them.

    Didn’t let her voice dip lower, didn’t tilt her head quite so much, didn’t hold the faint, teasing smirk that she had when speaking to Clarke.

    Lexa spoke, engaged, but with a calm detachment. Professional. Distant.

    And Clarke completely missed it.

    At the table, Raven groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Clarke.”

    “She really doesn’t see it,” Octavia muttered, equally exasperated. “Lexa’s flirting. That’s actualflirting.”

    “To be fair,” Raven mused, taking a sip of her drink, “Clarke’s had, like, three relationships, and all of them started with someone literally spelling it out for her.”

    Octavia considered. “Yeah. She needs someone to grab her by the collar and say ‘Hey, I am flirting with you.’”

    Raven leaned back. “Lexa’s got her work cut out for her.”

    As they continued to eavesdrop, a smooth voice suddenly interrupted.

    “Enjoying the show, my lady?”

    Octavia choked on her drink.

    She looked up—and immediately regretted it.

    Echo stood by their table, dressed in the same sleek, gentlemanly fashion as the others. Crisp button-down, dark vest, tailored slacks. She had one hand tucked casually into her pocket, the other balancing a tray of drinks, her smirk effortlessly smug.

    And damn.

    Octavia had been served by Echo before. Had sat here multiple times, had been smirked at, winked at, and flirted with repeatedly.

    And yet.

    Yet.

    Every time, without fail, she still got flustered.

    She hated it.

    She also really didn’t hate it.

    Octavia cleared her throat, willing herself to be unaffected. “Just… enjoying my drink.”

    Echo’s smirk widened slightly. “Is that all?”

    Raven grinned.

    Octavia, damning every god in existence, felt her ears heat.

    Echo chuckled. “Let me know if you need anything… else.”

    And with that, she turned, walking away like she hadn’t just ruined Octavia’s ability to function.

    Raven burst out laughing.

    “Every damn time,” Raven wheezed. “You’re hopeless.”

    Octavia scowled, taking a very large sip of her drink. “Shut up.”

    Meanwhile, at the bar, another presence joined the mix.

    Anya—bartender, effortlessly sharp, equal parts intimidating and hot—stepped into their vicinity.

    Raven, always one to appreciate a challenge, took immediate notice. Raven had tried to ruffle the composed and hot bartender since the first time she and Octavia came here, but Anya barely reacted, though her smirk told Raven to try harder next time— every damn time.

    Anya set down a drink in front of her with a raised brow. “You look like someone who drinks whiskey.”

    Raven smirked. “You look like someone who assumes a lot.”

    Anya matched her smirk. “Am I wrong?”

    Raven glanced at the drink, then back at Anya. Then, without breaking eye contact, she took a slow sip.

    Anya’s gaze flickered, just slightly.

    “Alright,” Raven admitted, licking her lips. “Not bad. But I bet you can do better.”

    Anya hummed, amused. “Cocky.”

    “Confident.”

    Anya tilted her head. “Same thing.”

    Raven leaned forward. “Nah. But I could teach you the difference.”

    Anya chuckled—low, deep, unbothered. “You think you can handle me?”

    Raven’s grin widened. “Sweetheart, I think the real question is—can you handle me?”

    Anya laughed.

    Octavia, watching this unfold, sighed. “Of course they hit it off.”

    Lexa moved effortlessly behind the bar, tending to customers with that same detached elegance. She made her rounds—fixing drinks, listening to requests with quiet attentiveness—but no matter where she went, no matter who she served, she always drifted back to Clarke.

    It was subtle, unintentional to the untrained eye.

    To Clarke, it seemed natural—as if Lexa was simply making sure every customer was taken care of.

    To Raven and Octavia, seated just a few feet away, it was anything but.

    Raven narrowed her eyes, watching as Lexa poured a drink for someone at the far end of the bar, then—almost immediately—returned to lean against the counter where Clarke sat.

    Octavia nudged Raven. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

    Raven smirked. “Oh, no doubt.”

    They turned their attention back to Clarke, who—completely unaware of the focused attention she was getting from the smoothest bartender in existence—was casually sipping her drink, seemingly oblivious.

    “This is painful to watch” Octavia muttered.

    “We should help,” Raven said, already raising her hands.

    Octavia mirrored her.

    From their table, both women gestured wildly at Clarke—hands moving in dramatic, exaggerated signals that, in any other context, would have made it clear they were saying:

    PAY ATTENTION. UP YOUR GAME. SHE LIKES YOU. WAKE UP.

    Clarke, catching their movement from the corner of her eye, turned to them.

    Then she frowned.

    She clearly didn’t get the message.

    Instead of responding appropriately, she waved them off.

    Raven and Octavia groaned.

    “Hopeless,” Octavia muttered.

    Raven downed half her drink in one go. “This is torture.”

    And then—

    Lexa was there.

    Too Close

    Clarke barely had a second to react as she turned right into Lexa’s presence.

    Lexa, who had returned so quietly, so effortlessly, that Clarke had no warning.

    One second, she was brushing off Raven and Octavia’s antics.

    The next—Lexa was inches away.

    Clarke jolted slightly in her seat, surprised, as sea-green eyes met hers.

    Her breath hitched without permission.

    Lexa’s voice dipped just slightly—smooth, even, but unmistakably lower than before.

    “You look like you could use something to eat.”

    Clarke, blinking rapidly, tried to gather herself.

    That first whiskey was hitting now, added by the other drinks, leaving her just tipsy enough to not pick up on the way Lexa’s voice deepened just for her.

    She blinked. “What?”

    Lexa’s lips quirked at the edges, amused.

    “I asked if you needed food.”

    Clarke exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease. Right. Food.

    She hummed, glancing down at the bar as if only now realizing she hadn’t eaten much that evening. The warmth of the drinks spread through her limbs, relaxing her further.

    “Maybe,” she admitted. “What do you recommend?”

    Lexa tilted her head, studying her.

    “Something light,” she said after a moment. “Bread, maybe some fries. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”

    Clarke huffed a quiet laugh, resting her elbow on the bar. “You always this responsible?”

    Lexa leaned in just a fraction closer.

    “You have no idea.”

    At the table, Raven slammed her forehead onto the wood.

    Octavia, muttering a curse, took another long sip of her drink.

    Clarke?

    Completely unfazed.

    She just smiled.
    “Well,” she said, voice light, “I’ll trust you to take care of me, then.”

    Lexa’s fingers paused against the bar.

    Her eyes flickered.

    Her barely there smirk stayed in place, but the briefest flicker of something passed through her expression.

    Then, just as smoothly, she nodded.

    “Alright,” Lexa murmured, pushing off the bar with an easy grace. “I’ll get you something.”

    And as she walked away, Raven and Octavia both exhaled loudly.

    “She is killing me,” Raven muttered, motioning wildly at Clarke’s oblivious face. 
    “How—HOW—does she not see it?”

    Octavia shook her head.

    “She’s not flustered anymore.”

    “No,” Raven agreed. “She’s just completely, utterly fucking clueless, just as always, even more when she had whiskey.”

    The night was getting late, and the bar was almost empty by this time. Clarke noticed this and downed her now much more manageable drink, and ate the last of her fries. She couldn’t help but watch her friends struggle—in very different ways.

    Raven, bold and self-assured, was going toe-to-toe with Anya in a battle of sharp grins and sharper words.

    Anya, the no-nonsense bartender, held her own with dry wit and a stare that didn’t break.

    It was a game neither of them wanted to lose.

    And then there was Octavia.

    Clarke bit back a grin as Echo—the ridiculously smooth, ridiculously handsome-in-a-suit server—spoke in that steady, no-room-for-argument tone while placing Octavia’s bill on the table.

    “You’ll come again, won’t you?”

    Octavia looked like she forgot how to breathe and nodded.

    Clarke swore she saw a faint pink creep up her friend’s ears.

    Chuckling, Clarke shook her head. Her friends were so obvious.

    She turned to Lexa, amusement in her eyes. “Raven and Octavia are hopeless.”

    Lexa lifted a single eyebrow and smirked.
She didn’t comment.

    Didn’t say how Clarke, who had just effortlessly observed her friends’ crushes, was missing what was right in front of her.

    Instead, Lexa let the moment pass, simply tilting her head slightly, letting Clarke keep her blissful ignorance.

    “I’ll close your tab,” she said instead.

    The night wind was cool when they stepped outside.

    The Noble Stag’s golden glow spilled onto the quiet street, casting long shadows as Clarke, Raven, and Octavia prepared to head home.

    Lexa stood by the door, her hands casually in her pockets, her gaze settling on Clarke.

    “Come by again,” she said smoothly.

    Clarke, unaware of how much weight those words carried, simply smiled.

    “I just might.”

    Lexa’s lips quirked. “I’ll be waiting, then.”

    Clarke hummed. “That’s a lot of confidence.”

    Lexa just tilted her head slightly.

    “I don’t make bets I can’t win.”

    Clarke let out a soft laugh. “I’ll see you around, Lexa.”

    Lexa’s eyes lingered before she nodded.

    “Goodnight, Clarke.”

    Clarke turned toward Raven and Octavia, completely missing the amused glint in Lexa’s gaze as she watched her go.

    Anya and Raven’s conversation hadn’t ended so much as it had reached a temporary truce.

    Instead of words, Raven simply smirked—lifting an eyebrow as she sent Anya a slow, deliberate wink.

    Anya, standing behind the bar, simply huffed a quiet laugh and shook her head.

    But Clarke saw it—the way Anya’s mouth barely curved into something entertained.

    Then there was Echo.

    Echo, who had been watching Octavia all night like a cat watching a particularly amusing mouse.

    Octavia, halfway down the street, glanced back—just once.

    Echo’s arms were crossed over her chest as she stood by the doorway, expression unreadable except for the knowing glint in her eyes.

    “Don’t keep me waiting too long, sweetheart,” Echo called smoothly.

   That had Octavia blushing and walk faster.

    By the time they were all squeezed into a cab, Clarke felt content.

    Her limbs were warm, her drink had settled in nicely, and her friends were endless sources of entertainment.

    So, naturally—she poked at them.

    She turned to Octavia first, barely hiding her grin.

    “So,” she mused, “that one server, huh?”

    Octavia groaned. “Shut up.”

    Clarke ignored her, turning to Raven instead.

    “And that bartender,” she added, feigning innocence. “Seemed like you two were really getting along.”

    Raven groaned louder. “I will actually throw you out of this cab.”

    Clarke just grinned.

    Octavia crossed her arms, looking at Clarke pointedly. “Of all the things you noticed—”

    Raven groaned. “Seriously.”

    Clarke blinked, confused. “What?”

    Raven and Octavia exchanged a look.

    And then—at the exact same time—

    They slumped dramatically against their seats, throwing their hands up in exasperation.

    “She’s hopeless,” Raven muttered.

    “Completely hopeless,” Octavia echoed.

    Clarke just laughed.