The Noble Stag

    Clarke had been feeling bold lately.

    Ever since Lexa started flirting with her more openly, there had been this undercurrent of something between them. Something Clarke hadn’t quite figured out yet, but she felt it.

    And when Clarke felt something—she drew.

    Which was how she ended up sketching a scene from the manuscript she wasn’t supposed to have read.

    It wasn’t her fault.

    Really.

    She’d accidentally flipped to that particular page in Lexa’s manuscript and, well… things had escalated.

    Now, a certain scene was stuck in her head—one filled with tense gazes, half-unbuttoned shirts, and the kind of breath-stealing closeness that made Clarke’s stomach twist in ways she didn’t want to think too hard about.

    She didn’t think much of it as she sketched.

    Until she looked down at the finished drawing.

    Sharp cheekbones. Intense green eyes. A familiar smirk—too familiar.

    It was Lexa.

    Clarke stared.

    Then she closed the sketchbook so fast it nearly bent in half.

    She told herself she’d just… hide it. No one had to know.

    Except she left the damn sketchbook on Lexa’s coffee table the next day.

---

    Lexa was exhausted from a long night at the bar when she saw Clarke’s sketchbook sitting on her coffe table.

    She hadn’t meant to snoop, but she figured Clarke had just forgotten it.

    Flipping it open, she skimmed past a few abstract paintings—

    And then she saw it.

    Lexa froze.

    Because it wasn’t just a random drawing.

    It was her.

    In a scene straight out of her novel.

    A scene she knew Clarke shouldn’t have even read.

    Her first instinct was shock.

    Her second?

    Flirt even harder. And showed Clarke who was the boss.

---

    The next time Clarke showed up at The Noble Stag, she was ready for Lexa’s teasing.

    She was not, however, ready to be distracted by Lexa’s bartending skills.

    Clarke had always noticed the way Lexa moved—graceful, confident, effortlessly cool.

    But watching her mix drinks?

    Something about it was hypnotic.

    The way she twirled the shaker, poured liquor with precision, the smooth flick of her wrist—Clarke couldn’t look away.

    So, she did what any normal person would do.

    "Teach me how to mix drinks," she blurted out.

    Lexa raised a brow. "You? Bartending?"

    Clarke shrugged. "You make it look easy."

    Lexa smirked. "Flattery won’t make you any better at it, Clarke."

    "Just say yes."

    Lexa pretended to consider before giving a slow nod.

    "Fine," she said, eyes glinting. "But we do it my way."

---

    Lexa’s way meant Clarke showing up at her apartment.

    Which Clarke was totally fine with.

    What she wasn’t fine with was when Lexa wordlessly led her straight into the bathroom.

    Clarke blinked. "Uh… why are we going in here?"

    Lexa smirked. "Take off your clothes."

    Clarke short-circuited.

    "WHAT?"

    Lexa rolled her eyes. "You’re gonna get messy, and I don’t want my floors covered in spilled liquor."

    Clarke squinted. "That sounds so fake, but okay."

    With a huff, she pulled off her sweater and jeans, revealing a tight tank top and boyshorts.

    Lexa looked up—

    And immediately regretted everything.

    Because toned arms, bare legs, and hint of cleavage, Clarke’s entire figure was on display.

    Lexa.exe had officially crashed.

    Clarke crossed her arms. "Your turn."

    Lexa blinked. "My what?"

    "You said to take off our clothes." Clarke gestured vaguely. "So?"

    Lexa refused to back down.

    So she turned, went to her room, and came back wearing only a sports bra and boyshorts.

    Abs? On full display.

    Clarke? Still oblivious.

    She just nodded, completely thinking this was normal bartending-lesson attire.

    Lexa had never suffered more.

    She had expected many things when Clarke asked her for a bartending lesson.

    She had expected clumsiness, bad liquor measurements, maybe even a spilled drink or two.

    She had not expected to be in her bathroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and boyshorts, while Clarke Griffin tried to murder her with sheer obliviousness.

    The bathroom was small—just enough space for the both of them to stand comfortably. But with Clarke standing so close, watching Lexa’s every move, the space felt a hundred times smaller.

    Lexa took a slow breath. Professional. Stay professional.

    She placed a set of bartending tools—a shaker, a jigger, a strainer, and a mixing spoon—on the counter before pulling out a few bottles of cheap liquor.

    "Alright," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "We’ll start with something simple. A whiskey sour."

    Clarke nodded eagerly. "Cool. What’s in it?"

    "Whiskey, lemon juice, simple syrup, and egg white," Lexa explained. She held up the jigger. "First, we measure. Two ounces of whiskey, three-quarters of an ounce of lemon juice, and half an ounce of syrup."

    Clarke watched intently. Too intently.

    Lexa wasn’t sure if it was the focused gaze or the fact that Clarke’s lips were slightly parted as she concentrated, but she suddenly felt warm.

    She cleared her throat. "Your turn."

    Clarke took the jigger and poured the whiskey.

    Immediately, Lexa’s bartender instincts screamed in horror.

    "Okay, stop, stop—!"

    Clarke stopped. But the whiskey was already overflowing past the measurement line.

    Lexa sighed, reaching for the bottle. "You have to be careful, Clarke."

    Clarke pouted. "I was being careful."

    "You were about to drown the shaker in whiskey."

    "…Maybe I just like whiskey."

    Lexa rolled her eyes but smirked. "Try again."

    Clarke took the bottle and tried again—this time successfully measuring it right.

    "Nice," Lexa said, nodding. "Now, add the lemon juice and syrup."

    Clarke did, biting her lip in concentration.

    Lexa didn’t notice.

    She didn’t notice the way Clarke’s brows furrowed or how she had a tiny splash of syrup on her knuckle.

    She definitely didn’t notice how Clarke licked it off absentmindedly.

    Lexa was fine.

    She was totally fine.

    "Okay," she said, shaking herself out of it. "Now, grab the shaker and—"

    Clarke picked it up and started shaking way too aggressively.

    "You're not trying to beat it to death, Clarke!" Lexa laughed, reaching to steady her hands.

    Clarke grinned. "You never know, maybe the liquor deserves it."

    She gave one final shake—too strong—and the top of the shaker popped off.

    And they had liquor flying everywhere.

    Some splashed on Clarke’s chest and stomach, dripping down her tank top.

    And the rest?

    Went straight onto Lexa’s abs.

    Lexa sucked in a sharp breath as the cold liquid dripped down her stomach.

    Clarke stared at her own mess.

    "Shit," she laughed. "Okay, that one was on me."

    Before Lexa could react, Clarke stepped forward and—without thinking—

    She wiped Lexa’s abs with her hand.

    Lexa. Stopped. Breathing.

    Because Clarke’s warm fingers were tracing over her stomach, brushing against defined muscles, completely unaware of what she was doing.

    Clarke, still clueless, hummed. "Damn, your abs are solid."

    Lexa’s brain? Gone. Dead. Buried six feet under.

    Clarke kept wiping.

    Lexa could not move.

    Every single part of her body was screaming either to run or to throw Clarke onto the counter and kiss her senseless.

    She did neither.

    Instead, she turned on her heel and bolted.

    "I’ll be right back," she blurted out, voice an octave higher.

    Then she practically sprinted out of the bathroom.

    Lexa power-walked to her bedroom, slammed the door, and pressed her forehead against it.

    She was in so much trouble.

    Clarke Griffin was going to be the death of her.

    Meanwhile, in the living room, Raven, Octavia, Anya, and Echo—who had been eavesdropping outside the bathroom— scrambled back to the couch, trying (and failing) to contain their laughter.

    Clarke walked out, still damp from spilled liquor, looking for a towel.

    Raven wheezed. "You just broke the unbreakable bartender."

    Octavia shook her head, grinning. "How the hell are you still haven't kissed?!"

    Clarke frowned. "What? She was just teaching me to mix drinks."

    Echo snorted into her drink. Anya smirked, shaking her head.

    Lexa, in her room, pressed her face into her pillow.

    This was so much worse than she thought.

    Lexa took a full five minutes to calm herself down.

    Five minutes of deep breaths.

    Five minutes of telling herself that Clarke was not doing this on purpose.

    Right? Right??

    Once she was absolutely sure she could face Clarke without combusting, she re-entered the bathroom—more composed, more focused.

    She was determined.

    Clarke Griffin was going to successfully mix a drink.

    And Lexa was going to survive it.

    Even if her survival instincts were screaming at her to just call it a night.

---

    When Lexa returned, Clarke was already bouncing on her heels, excited.

    "Okay, round two!" Clarke announced, wiping her still-damp hands on her shorts.

    Lexa exhaled, ignoring how Clarke’s boyshorts rode up slightly as she moved.

    Focus.

    "Alright," Lexa said, keeping her voice steady. "Let's try again. This time, less violence with the shaker."

    Clarke grinned sheepishly. "No promises."

    Lexa smirked but guided her through the steps again.

    This time, Clarke measured everything properly. No overflowing whiskey. No drowning the shaker in lemon juice.

    Lexa felt a little proud.

    Clarke then grabbed the shaker, hesitating.

    "I swear, if I mess this up again—"

    "You won't," Lexa assured her. "Just shake it. Gently, this time."

    Clarke nodded, focused.

    She shook the drink—not too hard, not too soft—and this time, no disasters.

    Lexa smiled.

    "That’s it," she said, softer now. "Perfect."

    Clarke beamed.

    Something warm settled in Lexa’s chest.

    Clarke was genuinely excited about learning this, and Lexa?

    Lexa was just as lost in watching Clarke’s joy as she was in trying to suppress her attraction.

---

    Once Clarke successfully mixed a full drink and poured it into a glass, she raised her arms in victory—completely forgetting she was still soaked in liquor.

    "Yes! I did it!"

    Lexa chuckled, watching as Clarke looked down at herself.

    Clarke sighed. "Okay, but now I smell like a walking cocktail."

    Lexa smirked, grabbing a clean towel from the shelf. "Here."

    Clarke dabbed herself dry, but her tank top was a lost cause.

    She made a face. "I should probably just take this off and rinse it out."

    Lexa's brain short-circuited for the second time that night.

    Abort. Abort. Abort.

    Clarke didn’t seem to notice.

    "Do you have a spare shirt?" Clarke asked, already peeling off her ruined tank top.

    Lexa did not have time to prepare.

    Clarke stood there, completely unfazed, in just her boyshorts and a sports bra.

    Holy Cleavage!

    Lexa barely managed to function.

    "Yeah," she said, turning too quickly toward the door, "I'll—uh—get you one," and ran to the laundry room, where she kept her newly washed clothes in.

    She grabbed a random T-shirt,walked back to the bathroom and handed it over.

    Clarke threw it on.

   And Lexa regretted everything.

    Because Clarke Griffin? Wearing Lexa’s clothes?

    Was an entirely new level of torture.

    The T-shirt was a little loose, but somehow still fit Clarke perfectly.

    The sleeves hung slightly off her shoulders, and the hem rested just above Clarke’s mid-thighs.

    Lexa was dying.

    And when Clarke walked to the living room, and saw Raven, Anya, Octavia, and Echo—who had, at this point, made themselves very comfortable in Lexa’s living room—

    The teasing began immediately.

    Raven took one look at Clarke in Lexa’s shirt and lost it.

    "Oh. My. God."

    Clarke blinked. "What?"

    Octavia and Echo grinned at each other.

    Anya smirked. "Nothing," she said. "You just look… comfortable."

    Lexa glared.

    Raven waggled her eyebrows. "Yeah, Clarke. Real comfortable."

    Clarke, still oblivious, shrugged. "I mean, it's a nice shirt?"

    Echo choked on her drink. "Oh, she has no idea."

    Lexa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

    Clarke ignored them and walked toward the laundry room.

    "I’m washing my tank top," she called over her shoulder.

    As soon as she was out of earshot—

    Raven turned to Lexa, grinning. "You’re so in trouble."

    Octavia laughed, nudging Echo for a high-five.

    Lexa groaned, sinking onto the couch.

    This night was a disaster.

    And Clarke Griffin still had no idea what she was doing to her.

    After one of the most amusing nights of her life, Clarke found herself lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single moment in excruciating detail.

    The bartending lesson.

    The spilled liquor.

    Lexa’s reactions—or rather, her attempts at keeping her reactions under control.

    The way Lexa had practically malfunctioned every time Clarke got too close.

    And then, the teasing.

    Raven’s knowing grin.

    Octavia’s conspiratorial laughter.

    Echo and Anya exchanging smug glances.

    "You just broke the unbreakable bartender."

    At the time, Clarke had brushed it off.

    But now?

    Now, lying in the dark with nothing but her own thoughts to torment her, it hit her all at once.

    She bolted upright in bed.

    "Wait."

    A horrifying realization dawned.

    "Wait… has she been flirting—flirting with me this whole time?!"

    Clarke groaned, burying her face in her hands.

    How had she not noticed sooner?

    How had she been so oblivious?

    The pool table scene.

    The teasing touches.

    The way Lexa never quite took her eyes off Clarke.

    Oh my god.

    She flopped back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling in mute horror.

    "…I’m an idiot."

    Because if this was true—if Lexa had been flirting with her this whole time—

    Then Clarke had spent the last few months unknowingly flirting back.

    Heat crept up her neck.

    This was so much worse than embarrassment.

    This was a full-on existential crisis.

    She needed confirmation.

    She needed to be absolutely sure before she did something stupid.

    Because what if she was wrong?

    What if she confronted Lexa, only for Lexa to give her that sophisticated, smug smirk and say,

    "Oh, Clarke. You actually thought I was flirting with you? How adorable."

    No.

    Clarke refused to let that happen.

    She needed evidence.

    She needed to study this situation like she would a painting.

    Carefully.

    Patiently.

    Observing every tiny detail before making her final conclusion.

    So Clarke did what she did best.

    She planned.

    The next few visits to The Noble Stag and Lexa’s apartment would be her research field.

    She would watch Lexa closely.

    She would listen.

    She would note every smirk, every touch, every lingering glance.

    She would be absolutely certain before she risked embarrassing herself beyond repair.

    And if—if—she found undeniable proof that Lexa was, in fact, flirting-flirting with her?

    Well.

    Then Clarke Griffin was going to do something about it.

---
    Step 1: The Observation Phase

    Clarke was on a mission.

    A mission to determine—beyond a shadow of a doubt—whether Lexa Woods, smug, sophisticated, stupidly attractive bartender and possibly the most self-controlled person on the planet, had actually been flirting with her this whole time.

    So, like any good scientist, Clarke devised a strategy.

    "Raven, I need your help."
    
    Raven, who was tinkering with some car parts on their kitchen table, didn’t even look up.

    "No."

    Clarke frowned. "You don’t even know what I was gonna say."

    Raven wiped her hands on a rag. "If this is about your 'Does Lexa Actually Like Me or Am I Just an Idiot' research project, then no. Because I already know the answer, and watching you suffer is fun."

    Clarke scowled. "You're a terrible best friend."

    "And yet, here we are."

    Fine. Clarke would do this alone.

    The plan was simple:
1. Observe Lexa in her natural habitat.

2. Apply light pressure (read: flirt back) and see if Lexa cracked.

3. Gather undeniable evidence that Lexa was, in fact, into her.

4. Profit.

Step 2: Field Research at The Noble Stag

    The first test came when Clarke strutted into The Noble Stag, plopped herself onto a barstool, and made direct eye contact with Lexa.

    Lexa, cool and composed as ever, arched an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, Griffin?"

    Clarke’s eyes narrowed. "Nope. Just… observing."

    Lexa gave her an amused smirk. "Observing what, exactly?"

    "You," Clarke said without hesitation.

    Boom.

    Lexa blinked.

    For a split second—just a fraction of a second—Lexa’s cool demeanor wavered.

    Clarke filed that away for later.

    Test One: Mild Success.

    But she needed more data.

    So she escalated.

    The next time Clarke visited, she decided to turn up the charm.

    Which, in Clarke’s case, meant chaotic goofball seduction.

    She made bad jokes.

    She laughed at everything Lexa said.

    She deliberately found ways to touch Lexa—on the hand, on the shoulder, brushing past her at the bar.

    At one point, Lexa reached for a bottle at the same time Clarke did, and their fingers brushed.

    Clarke did not move.

    Lexa’s green eyes flicked to her. "Are you… holding my hand?"

    Clarke grinned. "I dunno, Lex. Am I?"

    Lexa huffed a laugh and pulled away, but Clarke did not miss the slight pink dusting her ears.

    Test Two: Significant Progress.

    Clarke wasn’t satisfied yet.

    No, she needed to break Lexa’s self-control.

    Clarke had one last trick up her sleeve.

    If everything she’d done so far wasn’t enough to confirm it, she was about to seal the deal.

    See, Clarke had a superpower.

    It wasn’t just being ridiculously charming.

    It wasn’t just being an artist and a damn good doctor.

    It wasn’t even her ability to somehow win at pool while talking nonstop.

    No, Clarke Griffin’s true superpower was her ability to weaponize her intelligence.

    And tonight?

    She was bringing out the big guns.

    The Pediatrician Smart-Flirt™.

    She leaned back against the bar, swirling her drink lazily, her blue eyes locked on Lexa with a look that said, I know something you don’t know.

    Lexa noticed.

    Lexa always noticed.

    "You're plotting something," Lexa said, narrowing her eyes.

    Clarke took a slow sip of her drink, grinning over the rim of the glass.

    "Me? Nooo. I’m just sitting here, thinking… about anatomy."

    Lexa froze.

    Clarke almost lost it right there.

    But she kept her cool.
    
    Barely.

    Lexa, to her credit, stayed composed. "Anatomy."

    Clarke nodded, her expression completely innocent. "Mhm. You know, as a doctor, I’ve spent years studying the human body. Every muscle. Every nerve. Every…" She let her gaze drop, just for a second, before looking back up. "…detail."

    Lexa’s jaw shifted.

    Clarke continued, her voice all casual, as if she wasn’t currently playing a dangerous game.

    "It’s fascinating, really. How certain things affect the body."

    Lexa raised a slow eyebrow. "Like what?"

    Clarke pretended to think.

    "Like, for example…" She traced the rim of her glass with her finger. "The way different stimuli trigger autonomic responses. How certain words, touches, or even…" Her eyes gleamed. "…prolonged eye contact can cause a spike in adrenaline, a quickened heart rate, and—"

    She leaned forward just slightly.
"—pupil dilation."

    Lexa blinked.

    Then she immediately reached for a glass to polish.

    Oh. Oh, Clarke had her now.

    Clarke smirked. "Huh. Interesting."

    Lexa took a steady breath. "And what, exactly, are you implying, Dr. Griffin?"

    Clarke took her drink, sipped it slowly, and shrugged. "Nothing. Just… making observations."

    Lexa gave her a look.

    Clarke gave her one right back.

    For a moment, neither of them moved.

    And then—Lexa smirked.

    A real one, this time. Slow. Knowing. Infuriatingly confident.

    "Hmm." Lexa set down the glass. "You know, Clarke… I think you enjoy pushing buttons."

    Clarke tilted her head, playing along. "And?"

    Lexa leaned just slightly over the bar, green eyes flickering with amusement.

    "And," she said, her voice lower, smoother, dangerous, "if you keep playing, you might find out what happens when you push too hard."

    Clarke almost choked on her drink.

    Test Four: Catastrophic Backfire.

    Abort. ABORT.

    Lexa knew exactly what she was doing.
  
    And Clarke was not prepared.
    
    She scrambled for her composure, straightened up, and cleared her throat. "Anyway!" She downed the rest of her drink. "That concludes tonight's research. Thanks for your time, Miss Woods."

    Lexa chuckled, victorious.

    "You’re welcome, Dr. Griffin."

    Clarke groaned.

    This woman was going to kill her.
 ---

    Clarke lay on her couch, staring at the ceiling.

    Her sketchbook was open on her lap, but for once, she wasn’t drawing.

    No, because her brain had finally caught up with reality.

    She had spent the past week meticulously gathering data, testing theories, analyzing reactions—hell, she had treated this like a full-blown research study.

    And what was the conclusion?

    Lexa had been flirting-flirting with her this whole time.

    Clarke groaned. Out loud.

    Raven, who was sitting on the floor playing some dumb mobile game with Octavia, barely looked up. "You finally done with your science experiment?"

    Clarke threw a pillow at her face.

    Raven caught it without looking.

    "Guys. I’m an idiot."

    "Yeah, babe, we know." Octavia said, sagely.

    Clarke sat up, gesturing wildly. "No, you don’t understand. She’s been flirting with me—like, aggressively flirting with me—for weeks, and I just—" She ran her hands through her hair. "I just thought she was naturally like that!"

    Raven finally looked up, eyes gleaming. "Ohhh. You just now figured that out? After the whole bartending lesson disaster? After the anatomy-flirt-off at the bar? After she literally called you out for pushing her buttons?"

    Clarke grabbed another pillow.

    Raven dodged it. Again.

    "Okay, okay," Raven said, laughing. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

    Clarke opened her mouth. Closed it.

    Raven narrowed her eyes. "Oh my God. You still don’t get it, do you?"

    Clarke threw her hands up. "I get it, I just—Lexa is so put together, you know? What if I’m reading too much into it? What if—"

    Raven’s face slowly morphed into pure disbelief.

    "Clarke."

    Clarke froze.

    "Be honest with me," Raven said, setting her phone down. "Do you think Lexa does this with anyone else?"

    Clarke blinked.

    Images of Lexa flashed through her mind—Lexa smiling just for her. Lexa whispering words meant only for her. Lexa letting her in, piece by piece, in a way Clarke had never seen her do with anyone else.

    Her heart skipped.

    "Oh," she whispered.

    Octavia facepalmed. "Dear God, help her."

    Clarke flopped back onto the couch.

    Lexa had been flirting with her.

    Hard.

    For weeks.

    And Clarke, the idiot, had just now realized.

    She groaned into a pillow.

    Raven grinned. "Soooo, what now?"

    Clarke lifted her head, blue eyes sharp, focused.

    "Now?" A slow, mischievous smile spread across her lips.

    "Now, I flirt back. Full throtle."