Perfect Balance

    Clarke Griffin’s world was built on structure and predictability. Every part of her day was an intricate puzzle pieced together with routines—each segment fitting snugly into the other, leaving no room for surprises, a pattern that kept the chaos of the outside world at bay. At 25 years old, Clarke had learned that the world wasn’t made for someone like her, but within her routines, she’d found her balance.

    Diagnosed with highly functioning autism at the early age of 6, she’d spent most of her life figuring out how to navigate a world that often felt overwhelming—too loud, too fast, and too uncertain.
    As a child, Clarke had struggled with things other children seemed to manage effortlessly. She recoiled at the sound of the vacuum cleaner, cried when her schedule was disrupted, and preferred organizing her crayons by color over playing with other kids. 

    Her mom, Abby Griffin, a doctor with a sharp eye and an even sharper sense of intuition, had noticed these patterns early. After consulting with a pediatric specialist, she and Jake made sure Clarke received the support she needed. From that point, Clarke’s life became about finding ways to thrive in a world that didn’t always understand her. 

    Unlike many stories Clarke had read about neurodivergent children, hers wasn’t one of isolation or misunderstanding. Abby and Jake were patient and understanding, crafting an environment where Clarke could thrive. With Jake and Abby’s encouragement, she learned to embrace her strengths—her keen attention to detail, her vivid imagination—while her parents provided her tools to manage the challenges. It didn’t mean life was always easy, but it did mean Clarke always knew she had a safety net.

    Now, as an adult, Clarke relied on routines not just for stability but for survival.

Her weekdays were carefully constructed, a delicate framework she followed to the letter:

Mornings (7:00 AM–9:00 AM)

    Clarke’s mornings were sacred. At exactly 7:00 AM, her alarm clock chimed, signaling the start of the day. She rose, made her bed with crisp, precise folds, and brewed her coffee—black, no sugar. Breakfast was simple: plain toast with strawberry jam, always two slices. While she ate, she stared at the sunlit corner of her studio, grounding herself in the stillness.
    
    By 8:00 AM, she showered and dressed, her wardrobe a carefully curated selection of comfortable, muted tones that didn’t overwhelm her senses. Her favorite outfit was a soft gray sweater and black jeans, which felt like a second skin.

Work Hours (9:00 AM–12:00 PM)

    At 9:00 AM sharp, Clarke settled into her studio. The act of painting was more than an artistic outlet; it was a language she spoke fluently, one that helped her process the world. She worked in deliberate silence, the rhythmic sound of the brush against canvas grounding her.

    Around 12:00 PM, Clarke broke for lunch—usually a sandwich and a side of fruit. Her meals were predictable but satisfying, a comfort in their repetition.

Afternoons (12:30 PM–3:00 PM)

    After lunch, she returned to her studio, often losing herself in her work until 3:00 PM. During these hours, Clarke felt truly at peace, her focus honed as she brought her visions to life.
Evenings (3:00 PM–7:00 PM)

    At 3:00 PM, Clarke wound down her workday, cleaning her brushes and organizing her supplies. Dinner was always at 6:00 PM—simple, hearty meals like pasta or roasted vegetables. Afterward, she’d either read or work on small sketches, enjoying the quiet of her apartment.

This routine repeated itself Monday through Friday, giving her a sense of control and comfort.

    Her weekends, however, followed a slightly different pattern.

    Saturdays at 3:00 PM were reserved for visiting Raven at her workshop. This time was carved into her routine like stone, an unshakable part of her life. Raven usually didn't accept new customers after 2:00 PM on Saturdays except for emergency, only working on the cars that were already in her garage.

    Afterward, Clarke and Raven shared an early dinner at 5:00 PM, a longstanding tradition they both cherished.

    By 6:00 PM, they’d head to Octavia’s bar together, arriving early to avoid the crowd. Clarke preferred the quiet hours when the music was low, and the chatter wasn’t overwhelming.

    Sundays always reserved for a whole day with Jake and Abby. 

These routines were like anchors, grounding her in a world that constantly tried to unmoor her.

    Raven was Clarke’s oldest and closest friend, a sister in all but blood. They’d grown up together, Raven practically raised by the Griffins after losing her father as a baby and having a mother who was often absent. Despite her sarcasm and tendency to act like the most childish one in the group, Raven had an uncanny ability to know exactly what Clarke needed.

    When Clarke was overwhelmed, Raven would sit beside her in silence, tinkering with an engine part or flipping through her phone. But when Clarke seemed too comfortable in her shell, Raven would push her—sharp, witty remarks designed to tease Clarke into opening up. Raven’s jokes sometimes danced on the edge of too much, but she always knew when to pull back.

    At first, Clarke had struggled with Raven’s biting sarcasm. As a teenager, she often misunderstood Raven’s humor, taking her jokes at face value.

    "You're so literal, Clarke," Raven had once said with a laugh, after Clarke took a joke too seriously.

    Over the years, Clarke had learned to navigate the nuance of sarcasm, even mastering the art herself. Now, her brutally honest “jokes” often caught Raven off guard, sparking laughter between them.

    Raven, 26 and full of grit, ran her own mechanic shop—a chaotic contrast to Clarke’s structured world. Despite their differences, Clarke admired Raven’s resilience and ability to tackle problems head-on, even if she occasionally teased her for being too loud or impulsive.

    Octavia Blake, the youngest of their trio at 23, but usually the most level-headed. She was vibrant and unapologetic, working as a police officer by day and running a bar with her brother, Bellamy, in the evenings. The bar was sleek, stylish place where the music wasn’t too loud, and the drinks were served with a side of charm. She was wild in her way, always pushing boundaries, but when it came to Clarke, Octavia was steady and understanding. Clarke often found Octavia’s energy overwhelming but couldn’t help but admire her courage and fierce loyalty.

    “You’re like a golden retriever,” Clarke had once said, unfiltered as always. Octavia had laughed so hard she’d nearly fallen off her barstool.
Though their personalities often clashed, Clarke appreciated Octavia’s unwavering protectiveness. Octavia had a knack for making Clarke feel safe, even if her methods were occasionally reckless.

    As usual, this Saturday at exactly 3:00 PM, Clarke stepped into Raven’s workshop, the familiar scent of oil and metal greeting her. The clang of tools and Raven’s faint singing (off-key as always) made the space feel alive. Raven looked up from under the hood of a car, grinning.

    “Right on time, Swiss watch,” Raven said, wiping her greasy hands on a rag.

    Clarke tilted her head, momentarily puzzled, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

    Raven chuckled, “Yes, Clarke. It’s a compliment.”

    Clarke smirked and nodded, stepping around a scattered toolbox to sit on her usual spot—a slightly battered stool by the workbench.

    Raven glanced over her shoulder. “You know, one day you’re gonna show up, and I’ll actually have this place cleaned up.”

    “No, you won’t,” Clarke said flatly.

Raven barked a laugh. “Brutal. I’ve taught you well.”

    The two fell into an easy rhythm, Raven tinkering with the car while Clarke observed. It was a pattern they both enjoyed, a mix of silence and playful banter.

    By 5:00 PM, Clarke and Raven had cleaned up and walked to their favorite diner for an early dinner. Clarke liked the predictability of the menu—she always ordered the grilled chicken sandwich with a side of fries.

    “Did you see Octavia’s text?” Raven asked between bites.

    Clarke nodded. “She wants us to try her new cocktail.”

    “Bet it’s something ridiculous,” Raven muttered.
At 6:00 PM, they arrived at the bar, where Octavia greeted them with her usual energy.

    “You’re here early,” Octavia said, setting down two glasses in front of them. “Try this. I’m calling it the ‘Blake Blazer.’”

    Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Why does it have smoke coming out of it?”

Octavia grinned. “It’s called presentation.”

Raven took a sip and coughed dramatically. “Tastes like presentation too.”

Clarke scrunched her nose, taking a cautious sip, “It’s awful," the blonde said bluntly, Raven almost chocked herself to death as she laughed.

“You’re both hopeless,” Octavia declared with mock exasperation, before leaving to tend to another table.
--

    Sunday mornings were reserved for the two people who had always been her unwavering support system—Abby and Jake Griffin. The day started early, at precisely 9:00 AM, when Clarke would leave her apartment and head to her parents' cozy, two-story house on the edge of town. The drive itself was a routine she cherished, the familiar streets of Arkadia quiet and peaceful in the morning light.

    As she pulled into the driveway, the sight of her parents’ home always brought a sense of calm. Abby’s flower beds, meticulously maintained, framed the pathway to the front door, while Jake’s old but well-loved truck sat parked by the garage.

    Inside, the house smelled of fresh coffee and the warm, slightly sweet scent of Abby’s signature pancakes. Sunday breakfast had been a Griffin family tradition since Clarke was a child. Abby, a doctor with a talent for making every meal feel like a celebration, always insisted on cooking.

    “Clarke!” Abby greeted her daughter with a hug as soon as she walked in, her voice tinged with the warmth of someone who never took these moments for granted.

    “You’re just in time. Pancakes are almost ready.”

    Clarke flinched slightly at the sudden embrace. She used to feel overwhelmed by hugs—by any kind of physical touch, really. As a child, she’d pull away from hugs, often unintentionally hurting her mother’s feelings. Over time, Abby learned to give Clarke the space she needed, always giving her the chance to react before initiating any touch.

    Now, as an adult, Clarke was better at tolerating her parents' physical affection, but it still took her a moment to adjust.

    Abby’s hug lasted just long enough to feel like an expression of love, but not too long for Clarke to feel trapped. She stepped back, forcing a smile, and nodded. “Thanks, Mom.”

    Jake, sitting at the kitchen table with the morning paper and a steaming mug of coffee, looked up with a grin. “Morning, kiddo. Hungry?”

    “Starving,” Clarke replied, taking her usual seat across from him.

    Abby set a plate of pancakes in front of Clarke, stacking them high with a dollop of whipped cream and fresh berries.

    Clarke raised an eyebrow at the towering stack. “You’re really going all out this morning, huh?”

    Jake shot her a grin. “Trying to fatten you up, kid. You’re looking a little thin. Should’ve seen the pancakes I used to make at your age.”
    
    Clarke looked at him, unimpressed. “You mean the ones that looked like charred hockey pucks?”

    Jake laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Hey, I was a busy guy. I didn’t have time to be a short-order cook like your mom.”

    Clarke snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.”

    Abby rolled her eyes but smiled warmly. “Jake, please. Don’t give her any more ammunition.”

    But Clarke couldn't resist. “Mom, I’m pretty sure the only thing you could make back then was scrambled eggs.”

    Abby shot her a playful glare. “Don’t you dare underestimate my culinary skills, young lady.”

    Clarke smiled, her mouth full of pancakes. “Fine, but I still don’t get why you insist on pancakes every Sunday. It’s like you’re trying to set me up for a sugar coma.”

    Jake leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “She just likes to see the look on your face when you finish the whole stack. You know, like she’s raising the perfect daughter or something.”

    Clarke blinked, pretending to be shocked. “I think you just ruined the moment, Dad.”

    “Hey, it’s the truth. You’re our pride and joy,” Jake said, his grin wide. “Also, you’re the only one who can actually eat this much and still look halfway decent.”

    Clarke made a face at him. “You know I’m not your typical daughter, right? I can’t handle compliments like that. It makes me want to take a nap.”

    Abby leaned over, offering her a mug of coffee. “So, how’s your collection going? Have you made anything new?”

    Clarke looked up from her pancakes, her expression softening as she thought about her recent work. “I finished a couple of pieces. I’m working on some new ones too. The ocean-inspired ones. The ones I’ve been painting with those swirls?”

    Abby nodded. “Oh, I remember. Your ‘stormy seas’ phase. They’re beautiful, Clarke. Really.”

    Clarke shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the attention. “Yeah, well, I don’t know. They sell, and that’s good. But... I don’t know if I’m really happy with them. You know what I mean? They just feel... safe.”

    Jake raised an eyebrow. “Safe? I think you’re being too hard on yourself. They look amazing. I’ve seen people walk by your gallery and stop, just to look at them.”

    “Yeah, but I’m just repeating myself. I’m not challenging myself anymore.”

    Abby placed a hand on hers. “You’re challenging yourself in other ways, Clarke. And besides, you don’t always have to be reinventing the wheel. Sometimes, peace comes from routine. You deserve to enjoy the process too.”

    Clarke considered her mother’s words, still not fully convinced, but grateful for her gentle reminder.

---

    After breakfast, the three of them would go for a walk in the park nearby—a habit that had started when Clarke was young and had carried on into adulthood. The park was a tranquil space with wide paths, tall oak trees, and a small pond that shimmered under the sunlight.

    Clarke found solace in these walks. The steady rhythm of their footsteps, the chirping of birds, and the occasional rustle of leaves all created a sense of balance.

    “So, how’s the gallery this week?” Jake asked as they strolled, his voice light, yet filled with genuine curiosity.

    Clarke shrugged lightly, her gaze lingering on the ducks paddling in the pond. “It’s been good. I sold two paintings.”

    “That’s great!” Abby said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Are they from your latest series?”

    “No,” Clarke shook her head, “The ones inspired by the rainforest I painted last year. The buyers said they felt peaceful looking at them.”

    Abby smiled knowingly. “Your art has always had that effect, Clarke. It’s your way of bringing balance to the world.”

    Clarke didn’t respond right away, her mind turning over her mother’s words. It was true that painting gave her peace, but she often wondered if that same peace could exist beyond her studio.

    Jake broke the silence. “Well, if you’re asking for our honest opinion... we think you’re doing amazing. And you should give yourself credit for it.”

    Clarke gave him a sideways glance. “Dad, the whole ‘self-worth’ talk is ur usual thing. Can we just get a little normal advice for once?”

    Jake chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll dial back on the dad wisdom.”

    Clarke smirked. “Maybe you could’ve started by not calling me ‘kiddo.’ I’m twenty-five, not twelve.”

    Jake let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not gonna win this one, am I?”

    “Nope,” Clarke said, grinning.

---

    After the walk, the afternoon was spent in quieter pursuits. Clarke usually brought her sketchpad and worked on rough drafts while Abby read a book and Jake tinkered with his woodworking projects in the garage.

    It was during these afternoons that Clarke felt closest to her parents. Sometimes they would sit in comfortable silence, the kind that spoke of deep understanding. Other times, they’d talk about more serious topics.

    “Clarke,” Abby said, her tone gentle as they sat on the porch, sipping lemonade. “Have you been feeling okay lately? You seemed a little off last weekend.”

    Clarke hesitated, her pencil pausing mid-sketch. “I’m fine. Just... tired, I guess.”

    Jake, coming up the porch steps with a glass of iced tea, added, “You know, it’s okay to feel off sometimes. You don’t have to have everything figured out.”

    Clarke looked at both of them, their faces filled with quiet concern, and felt a wave of gratitude. They’d always been there for her—through every moment of doubt, every challenge, every time the world felt too overwhelming.

---
    The day always ended with an early dinner, usually something hearty and comforting. Jake was in charge of the grill, his steaks and burgers the stuff of family legend, while Abby prepared salads and sides.

    As they ate, the conversation would wind down, laughter mingling with the clink of cutlery.

    “Thanks for today,” Clarke said as she stood by the door, her car keys in hand.

    “You don’t have to thank us,” Abby replied, pulling her into a soft hug. “We love having you here.”

    The hug wasn’t as difficult as it used to be. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but she understood the importance of the gesture now, of the love behind it. She’d learned to tolerate the touch, to let it wash over her like a soft wave.

    “Drive safe, kiddo,” Jake added, squeezing her shoulder.

    Clarke nodded, and got in the car. The familiar routine settling around her like a warm blanket as she drove back to her apartment. Sundays were her anchor, a day to remain steady.

---

A week later,

   The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Clarke’s studio, casting golden streaks over her worktable. Saturday mornings, like the rest of her routines, were sacred to her—a time for quiet focus, the soothing hum of her favorite classical playlist in the background, and the familiar scent of paint and canvas.

   Clarke loved the feel of a smooth paintbrush gliding across canvas. The soft bristles, the weight of the wooden handle, even the faint chemical scent of the acrylic paints—all of it felt right. Familiar. Comfortable. Unlike so many other things in her world.

   The feeling of damp socks or itchy fabrics made her skin crawl. The sound of people chewing was unbearable, and she hated the way certain perfumes clung to the air, heavy and cloying, threatening to choke her. Her bestfriends, Raven and Octavia, knew this about her. They’d seen her pull at the seams of an irritating shirt until it finally tore, or retreat from crowded parties where the music was just too much.

   Clarke didn’t like loud sounds—except when she was the one to turn on the music. Then, it was different. Then, she was in control. But the smell of paint? That she could live with. Paint smelled like possibility.

   Colors were her safe space. Clarke’s world often felt overwhelming, too sharp and too loud, but colors didn’t hurt. They calmed her. She had an uncanny ability to mix pigments into exactly the shade she imagined in her mind.

   “Clarke, how do you even do that?” Octavia once asked, watching as Clarke turned three random blobs of paint into the perfect shade of stormy blue.

Clarke didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Get the color exactly right. You just…know.”

“It’s not hard,” Clarke replied with a shrug. “You just need to understand how the colors interact.”

Octavia laughed, shaking her head. “Not hard for you, maybe. For the rest of us, it’s like magic.”

Clarke didn’t understand why people made such a big deal out of it. Mixing colors was logical. Predictable. It was one of the few things that made sense to her.

---

    Clarke had just settled into her chair, a brush poised over a fresh canvas, when an unexpected noise broke the tranquility.

   It started as a faint rustling, then a series of sharp, chaotic clatters. Clarke froze, her brush hovering mid-air. Slowly, she turned toward the source of the noise—a corner of the studio where her tools and supplies were meticulously arranged, and only realized that a tube of cerulean blue paint lay punctured on the floor. To her horror, a small, gray kitten was perched precariously on a shelf, its tiny paw, which already stained with paint, swiping at a jar of brushes.

   The jar tipped, spilling brushes across the floor.
Clarke’s first reaction was a spike of irritation, followed by a wave of unease. Her routine, her carefully structured sanctuary, had been disrupted. She clenched her fists, her breathing quickening as her mind raced.

How did it even get in here? The door was shut.

   The kitten, seemingly oblivious to the chaos it had caused, mewed innocently before attempting to leap down. Clarke caught it mid-air, cradling its tiny body in her hands.

   “You’re not supposed to be here,” she muttered as she stared down at the kitten, her voice tight.

   Clarke’s chest tightened as she surveyed the mess. Paintbrushes were scattered everywhere, a few canvases tilted precariously on their stands. Tiny cerulean blue pawprints littered the floor The overwhelming urge to fix it all at once clawed at her, but she stopped herself.

  Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her therapist’s voice echoing in her mind. 

“Pause. Name what you’re feeling. Focus on the present.”

   “I’m upset,” she said aloud, her voice shaky. “But it’s just a mess. It’s fixable.”

   The kitten nuzzled against her hand, its soft fur a grounding sensation. Clarke opened her eyes, taking in the small creature’s vulnerability.

   “You didn’t mean to,” she said, her tone softening.
Setting the kitten down on the floor, Clarke began to clean up the mess. She moved methodically, one step at a time, repeating another mantra from therapy: “Control what you can, let go of what you can’t.”

   She spent the next hour cleaning, her movements sharp at first but gradually softening as she worked through her frustration. 

   By the time the brushes were back in their jar and the canvases were upright, Clarke felt the tension in her chest easing. The kitten watched her the entire time, its head tilted as if in apology.

    “Alright,” Clarke said, crouching down to its level.

  “Where did you come from?”

   She checked the windows and doors, eventually finding a small gap near the back door. 

   The kitten meowed again, looking up at her with wide, unblinking eyes. The kitten mewed plaintively from under her worktable. Its wide green eyes stared up at her, a mix of guilt and innocence. Clarke exhaled sharply, crouching down.
   

   “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, reaching out. The kitten flinched but didn’t run as she scooped it up.

    By the time she’d corralled the kitten into a makeshift bed in a cardboard box, she felt more composed. 

    The rest of the day passed in a blur. Clarke went through her routines, but the morning’s disruption lingered in her mind, casting a shadow over her mood. Her schedule was already skewed, and that nagging sense of being behind lingered as she drove to Raven’s workshop.

    By the time she arrived at Raven’s workshop, she was running late—only by five minutes, but enough to bother her.

    She pulled up to the workshop at 3:05 PM, her jaw clenched as she parked. The sound of metal tools clinking and Raven’s playlist of rock classics spilled out from the open garage. Clarke stepped inside, her shoulders tense.

    Raven glanced up from under the hood of a car, a wrench in her hand. “You’re late,” she teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.

    Clarke frowned, guilt prickling at her. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be.”

    Raven smiled softly, realizing Clarke's mood. “Clarke, it’s five minutes. Not a big deal.”

    “It’s not okay,” Clarke insisted, crossing her arms. “I’m supposed to be here at three.”

    Raven sighed, stepping closer and patting Clarke’s shoulder with her grease-stained hand.

  “Relax, Princess. Sometimes life happens. It’s not like I’m gonna dock your pay or something.” 

   Clarke grimaced at the grease mark on her shirt but didn’t pull away. “I just hate being late. It throws everything off.”

    “Yeah, I know,” Raven said, her voice softening. “But seriously, cut yourself some slack. Five minutes isn’t the end of the world.”

    Tossing the wrench onto her workbench, Raven straightened up, “What happened anyway? You rarely arrived late. Did you finally sleep in, or what?”

    “No,” Clarke said curtly, plopping onto her usual stool. “There was a kitten in my studio.”

    Raven raised an eyebrow, wiping her hands on a rag. “A kitten? Seriously?”

    “Yes, a kitten. It got into my paints, then spilled my brushes.”

    Raven snorted. “Let me guess—you had a meltdown first, then started cooing over it like a mom?”

    Clarke shot her a glare but didn’t deny it. “I handled it.”

“Sure you did,” Raven said, smirking

    As the minutes passed, Clarke’s tension eased. She watched Raven work, occasionally handing her tools or commenting on the cars.

    “Anything exciting today?” Clarke asked, leaning against the workbench.

    Raven shrugged. “Just the usual. Oil changes, a tune-up, and one guy who swears his car’s haunted.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Haunted?”

    Raven grinned. “Yeah, says it makes weird noises at night. Turns out, he had a family of squirrels living under the hood.”

    Clarke snorted, the tension in her shoulders finally releasing. “Only you would get a haunted car case.”

“Hey, I’m a mechanic and an exorcist,” Raven said, winking.

    The two fell into an easy rhythm, Raven working on the car while Clarke observed. Just as she was beginning to settle, the sound of a tow truck pulling into the lot broke the tranquility.

    Clarke tensed slightly, her routine disrupted, again. She shifted on the stool, her eyes narrowing as she watched a tow truck back into the driveway, depositing an old, battered dark green car, its paint faded and edges rusted. It looked ancient, like it belonged in a museum of poor decisions.

   “Is that a client?” Clarke asked.

   Raven glanced up and let out a bark of laughter.

“Nope. That’s Lexa Woods’ car.”

  “Who?”

  “Anya’s cousin and best friend,” Raven replied, tossing the rag aside. “I’ve been keeping that old clunker alive. Honestly, it’s a miracle it’s still running.”

   Clarke tilted her head. “You’ve mentioned her before.”

    “Yeah, she’s cool,” Raven said, heading toward the door. “A bit too polite for my taste, but she’s got this dry humor that sneaks up on you. You’ll see.”

    Clarke followed Raven as the car door opened, revealing a tall brunette in faded jeans, steel-toed boots, and a dark gray T-shirt streaked with dust. The woman moved with quiet confidence, though the faint crease of frustration on her brow suggested she wasn’t entirely at ease.

    Raven waved her over. “Hey, Woods! What’s up with your ancient jalopy now?”

    Lexa gave a small, tired smile. “It started making a noise this morning.”

“Again?” Raven groaned, hands on her hips. “Didn’t I just fix this thing two weeks ago?”

   Lexa nodded, looking faintly sheepish. “Monday. It stalled on the way home,” Lexa replied. “Probably something in the engine again. I’ll let you work your magic."

   Raven nodded, tossing a rag over her shoulder.

  “Magic takes time, but I’ll see what I can do. Anya’s right, though—you should really think about upgrading.”

   Lexa crossed her arms, her tone firm but not unkind. “I’m not replacing it, Raven.”

   Raven shrugged. “Your call. Just don’t blame me when it leaves you stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

   “Let me guess, Anya said I owed her a drink for all these referrals ?” Raven smirked.

   “Of course she did,” Lexa replied smoothly, offering a small smile. “She called the tow truck for me. Apparently, my driving doesn’t ‘deserve better,’ but my car does.”

   Raven snorted. “Sounds like Anya.”

   Clarke stayed silent as she observed the interaction from a few steps back. She didn’t like unexpected disruptions, but there was something about Lexa’s calm and composed demeanor, even in the face of a malfunctioning car, that intrigued her.

   “Clarke!” Raven called, motioning her forward.

   “Lexa, meet Clarke Griffin.” Raven said, gesturing toward her.

   “Clarke, meet Lexa. She’s Anya’s cousin and best friend. And I personally think that Anya’s grudge for Lexa's love for it also the reason this poor car keeps ending up here.”

   “It’s old but reliable,” Lexa said, her tone defensive but good-humored.

    Clarke raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t seem reliable if it keeps breaking down.”

   Raven snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. Lexa blinked, momentarily surprised, but then she chuckled.

   “You’re not wrong,” Lexa said, her smile growing.
For a moment, Clarke felt a strange pull in her chest. Something about Lexa’s calm reaction to her bluntness felt... steadying.

   Lexa extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Clarke hesitated for a moment before shaking it. “You too.”

   Lexa’s grip was firm but brief, and Clarke quickly pulled her hand back, unsure of what else to say. Socializing with strangers wasn’t her strength, but Lexa didn’t seem fazed by the awkwardness.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Lexa asked, turning back to Raven.

Raven leaned against the car with mock seriousness. “Depends. Do you want the quick fix or the ‘this might actually last longer than a month’ fix?”

Lexa sighed. “The second one, obviously.”

“Then leave it with me,” Raven said. “Clarke and I were just about to head to dinner, but I’ll take a look after that.”

Clarke blinked. “We are?”

“It’s 4:45,” Raven said with a smirk. “We always go to the diner around now.”

“Oh. Right,” Clarke muttered, glancing at Lexa.

Lexa gave a small smile, sensing Clarke’s discomfort. “Don’t let me keep you. I can take a cab home.”

“No way,” Raven said. “Clarke’s not eating all her fries alone. You’re coming with us.”

---

   Clarke followed Raven and Lexa into their usual diner, the faint buzz of conversation and the scent of sizzling burgers greeting her. It was supposed to be just another Saturday meal with Raven—a comfortable, predictable routine. Now, with Lexa tagging along, Clarke felt like she was walking on uneven ground, trying to maintain her balance while pretending it was effortless.

She slid into the booth, sitting opposite Raven. Lexa, without hesitation, settled beside Raven. The seat wasn’t cramped, but the way Lexa’s presence subtly shifted the energy in the booth made Clarke uneasy. She folded her hands in her lap, trying to keep her irritation from bleeding into her expression.

“Grilled chicken sandwich with a side of fries  and soda, right?” Raven asked, already flipping open the menu despite knowing exactly what she wanted.

Clarke nodded stiffly.

“Wait—” Lexa interjected, her voice calm but curious. “You order the same thing every time?”

“It’s reliable,” Clarke said flatly, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Lexa tilted her head slightly, studying Clarke.

“What’s reliable about a diner sandwich?”

“Everything,” Raven chimed in before Clarke could respond, grinning. “You can mess up a lot of things, but even a bad diner sandwich still works.”

Lexa raised a brow, her lips quirking. “That’s a pretty low bar.”

“Welcome to Raven’s philosophy on food,” Clarke muttered, unable to help the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

---

As they waited for their food, the conversation shifted to Raven’s latest projects at the shop. Clarke stayed quiet, letting Raven and Lexa bounce comments back and forth, her mind half-focused on the words and half-distracted by... Lexa.

There was something about Lexa’s green eyes—unusual and vivid, a shade Clarke couldn’t place. They were sharp, like emeralds polished to an edge, yet softened by the warmth in her expressions. Clarke caught herself staring a few times, quickly averting her gaze whenever Lexa glanced her way.

Then there was the scent. Clarke had always been hypersensitive to smells, something Raven often teased her about. Strangers wearing heavy perfume or cologne usually made her scrunch her nose, her discomfort clear. But Lexa’s scent was... different. It was subtle, clean, with a faint trace of cedarwood. It didn’t bother her—it didn’t even feel like an intrusion.

Raven, ever the observant best friend, picked up on it. She noticed how Clarke didn’t fidget or wrinkle her nose like she usually did around new people. And when Lexa leaned slightly closer to emphasize a point, Clarke’s posture didn’t stiffen as it normally might.

Smirking to herself, Raven filed that observation away for later.

---

“Clarke, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Raven said, leaning back against the booth. “Cat got your tongue?”

Clarke flushed slightly. “Just tired.”

“Or bored,” Lexa quipped dryly, her lips twitching in the barest hint of a smile.

Clarke’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Bored?”

“Of my car troubles, most likely,” Lexa said, her tone as even as ever but laced with subtle humor.

“I can’t blame you. Hearing about an aging clunker isn’t exactly riveting dinner conversation.”

Raven snorted. “True. But hey, Clarke loves boring. Reliable, remember?”

Lexa’s lips curved into a small smirk. “Ah, yes. Howcould I forget? I’ll try to be more... reliable in my storytelling.”

Clarke blinked, caught off guard by the dry humor. She felt something inside her ease, the irritation that had been simmering quietly dissipating like steam. Against her better judgment, she let out a small laugh—soft, almost reluctant, but genuine.

“There it is,” Raven said, pointing her fry at Clarke.

“A Clarke Griffin laugh. Mark the date, folks.”
Clarke rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming, but the moment had broken her tension.

As the conversation flowed, Clarke found herself relaxing more, though her focus often drifted back to Lexa. The architect’s calm, composed demeanor was oddly magnetic. Every now and then, Clarke caught herself watching Lexa’s hands as she gestured—a mix of deliberate movements and understated elegance—or studying the way her lips curved when she spoke.

The curiosity about those green eyes lingered too. They were... distracting. Clarke couldn’t decide if it was their rarity or the way they seemed to hold a quiet intensity, as though Lexa was perpetually observing the world with a kind of quiet reverence.
It wasn’t just curiosity, though. There was something else stirring beneath the surface—a faint tug she couldn’t quite define.

Raven, sharp as ever, didn’t miss the way Clarke’s attention lingered on Lexa. She noticed how Clarke leaned slightly forward whenever Lexa spoke, her posture softening, the faint lines of tension in her brow easing.

It wasn’t just that Clarke didn’t scrunch her nose at Lexa’s scent—she didn’t seem to mind Lexa’s proximity at all. Usually, Clarke needed her personal space. With Lexa, it was different.

When their waitress came by with their food, Raven used the moment to nudge Clarke under the table, smirking when her friend shot her a warning glare.
Clarke ignored the nudge, focusing instead on her plate, though she couldn’t ignore the warmth creeping up her neck.

---

    Another unexpected thing that Clarke had  learned to accept in life was the weather.

    As they enjoyed their dinner, it was raining all of a sudden.

   Clarke sighed as she looked at her watch. It was almost 6:00 PM, and she was going to be late for their weekly get together at Octavia's bar. 

    As Raven and Lexa talked about random things, Clarke's eyes often locked on to Lexa. Her presence weirdly calming in the midst of Clarke's anxiety caused by her messed up routines.

    At 6:35 , the rain finally stopped.

    The trio left the diner, stepping into the brisk evening air. The faint scent of rain lingered, mingling with the distant hum of traffic.

    Clarke walked a step behind Raven and Lexa, her tired frame betraying the weight of a long day. The uneven rhythm of her footsteps didn’t go unnoticed by Raven.

    “You’re dragging, Griff,” Raven said lightly, glancing over her shoulder.

    “I’m fine,” Clarke muttered, though her slumped shoulders and weary tone told a different story.

    Raven stopped walking, turning fully to face her. “No, you’re not. You’re exhausted, and we're not going to the bar in this state. O will understand.”

   Clarke frowned, the corners of her mouth tugging downward. “It’s our thing, Raven. I don’t want to bail.”

   Raven stepped closer, lowering her voice to something more soothing. “Clarke, it’s just one weekend. O and Bell own the place; they’ll be there next weekend, and the one after that. It’s not like we can’t reschedule. You need rest.”

Clarke hesitated, glancing at Lexa. She wasn’t sure why, but the quiet strength in Lexa’s presence seemed to steady her. Maybe it was the calm way Lexa listened without judgment, or the subtle nod of encouragement she offered.

“She’s right,” Lexa added softly. “Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean letting others down. It’s just... prioritizing.”

Clarke sighed, her resistance crumbling. “Alright, fine. But you’re explaining it to Octavia.”

Raven smirked. “Already handled. Told her you owe her a shot next time, and she said, ‘Make it two, or she’s dead to me.’”

That earned a faint smile from Clarke, and Raven knew she’d won.

---

As they walked toward Raven’s workshop, the streets grew quieter, the sounds of the city dimming into the background. Clarke’s pace slowed, her steps heavier with each passing block.

“Hey,” Raven said after a moment, breaking the silence. “Why don’t we just head back to my place? You can crash on the couch or something. No pressure.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Clarke replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

“You’re not,” Raven said firmly. Then, with a sly grin, she added, “Besides, I’m inviting Lexa too. Gotta show off my stellar hospitality skills.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her green eyes. “I’m not sure what I’m being invited to.”

“Nothing fancy,” Raven said with a shrug. “Just a little post-diner hangout. I’ve got a stash of snacks, decent beer, and a couch with your name on it.”

Lexa hesitated for a beat, her gaze flicking to Clarke. “If Clarke’s alright with it, then sure.”
Clarke, who had been quietly observing the exchange, shrugged. “It’s fine. Might be nice to unwind.”

---

The familiar scent of grease and metal greeted them as they stepped into Raven’s workshop. Clarke felt a flicker of comfort as she glanced at the half-finished projects scattered across the room.

“Home sweet home,” Raven announced, flicking on the lights. The warm glow illuminated the organized chaos of the space. “Upstairs is where the magic happens. Come on.”

They climbed the narrow staircase to Raven’s apartment above the shop. The small space was cozy, a mix of industrial charm and personal touches. Posters of classic cars adorned the walls, alongside framed photos of Clarke, Raven, and Octavia. A worn couch sat in the center of the room, flanked by mismatched chairs.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Raven said, heading to the kitchenette. “I’ll grab some drinks.”

Clarke sank onto the couch with a sigh, her head falling back against the cushions. Lexa chose a chair nearby, her posture relaxed but attentive. She watched as Clarke closed her eyes, her exhaustion finally catching up with her.

Raven returned moments later, setting three bottles of beer on the coffee table. She plopped down beside Clarke, nudging her gently. “Drink up. It’ll help.”

Clarke opened one eye, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Beer as medicine? That your new motto?”

“Works every time,” Raven quipped.

---

The conversation drifted as they sipped their drinks. Raven carried most of it, sharing stories about her latest projects and teasing Clarke about her stubbornness.

Lexa, meanwhile, observed quietly, chiming in when prompted. She noticed how Clarke’s tension seemed to ease as the evening went on, her sharp edges softening in the warmth of the space.

At one point, Raven leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. “You know,” she said, glancing between them, “it’s kinda wild seeing you two together. Like, Clarke doesn’t usually tolerate strangers this well.”

Clarke shot her a warning look. “Raven.”

“What? It’s true!” Raven said, grinning. “You hate when people wear perfume, or when they sit too close, or when—”

“Alright, we get it,” Clarke interrupted, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Lexa tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes.

“You don’t like perfume?”

“Not usually,” Clarke admitted, her voice quieter.

“It’s... a sensory thing. Some smells are too strong.”

Raven smirked. “And yet, here you are, sitting next to Lexa like it’s no big deal. She must be magic.”
Clarke rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it. Lexa, for her part, looked amused but didn’t press the matter.

As the night wore on, Clarke found herself glancing at Lexa more often than she realized. There was something about her presence—calm, grounded, and strangely familiar—that felt... easy. Despite her fatigue, she felt a flicker of curiosity, like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Raven noticed too, the subtle shifts in Clarke’s demeanor, the way her usual irritability seemed to dissolve in Lexa’s presence. She didn’t say anything, but a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Alright,” Raven said eventually, standing up and stretching again. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Clarke, you’re crashing here. No arguments.”

Clarke didn’t protest, too tired to fight. She shot Lexa a small, tired smile. “Thanks for coming along tonight. It was... nice.”

Lexa nodded, her own smile soft. “Anytime.”
As Raven showed Lexa out, she couldn’t resist one last comment. “You know,” she said, glancing back at Clarke, “I think you two might actually get along.”

Clarke groaned, throwing a pillow at her. But as she settled back into the couch, she couldn’t help but wonder if Raven was right.
---
When Raven came back, Clarke was already nodding off on the couch. 

"Hey, sleepyhead. Let's do your night routine then go to sleep," Raven chuckled at Clarke's mumbled protest, but then the artist's eyes popped up,

"Rae, the kitty was still in my studio!" 

"Oh, right. Did you left some food for it?" Raven asked as she took her keys, already knew Clarke wouldn't be able to sleep before she knew the kitten and her studio were safe.

"No, can you..." Clarke trailled off, and grinned when she saw Raven already at the door with keys dangled on her fingers,

"Let's go fetch him some food," 

"Her," Clarke corrected as she walked out of the door,

"What?" Raven asked while she locked the workshop door,

"The kitten, it's a female," Clarke said matter-of-factly,

"How did you... no, never mind, let's go before the cat eat your paints," Raven laughed at Clarke's horrified expression and they drove to a nearby petshop to buy cat food, as Clarke prayed her paints and brushes were safe from the menace that was a hungry kitten.