Perfect Balance

    At 7AM Clarke woke instantly at the soft chime of her phone alarm. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up on the couch with a sharp breath, her muscles tense and ready for… something. Disoriented, she scanned the room. The throw blanket tangled around her legs felt unfamiliar. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen grated faintly against her nerves. A faint unfamiliar scent lingered in the air—a smell she didn’t associate with her own home.

    Her breathing slowed as her memory caught up. Lexa’s house. The tension in her chest loosened incrementally. Clarke flexed her fingers and glanced at her phone: 7:01 AM. She was still on schedule. That thought grounded her enough to swing her legs off the couch and plant her feet firmly on the floor.

    Movement across the room drew Clarke’s attention. Anya was sprawled on the opposite couch, one arm slung over her face, her legs dangling off the edge. The sight pulled a small, surprised smile from Clarke. Anya, with all her brusque practicality, had stayed the night to make sure Lexa was cared for.

    Clarke appreciated the gesture in her own quiet way, though she didn’t linger on the thought too long. The sight of Anya’s rumpled state added a touch of amusement to her otherwise rigid morning. Practical and thoughtful. A good combination.

    Rising to her feet, Clarke made her way toward Lexa’s room. She moved carefully, her socked feet gliding over the wooden floor as she avoided the creaky board she had noticed the night before. Peeking through the slightly ajar door, she saw Lexa asleep, her breathing soft and even.

    Clarke hesitated. For a moment, she simply watched, taking in the sight of Lexa’s peaceful expression. Lexa looked far younger when she was asleep, the tension that usually lingered in her features smoothed away. Clarke felt a faint warmth in her chest that she didn’t bother analyzing.

    Deciding not to disturb her, Clarke turned away and headed for the kitchen.

    Clarke moved efficiently, her steps measured as she pulled out bread and set the toaster. She didn’t eat elaborate breakfasts; plain toast was predictable and wouldn’t overwhelm her senses first thing in the morning. As the toaster clicked and began to hum, she mentally reviewed her day. Breakfast, check on Lexa, gallery by nine.

    The faint smell of coffee grounds from the counter distracted her momentarily. She wrinkled her nose and adjusted the position of the container to align with the edge of the countertop. Satisfied, she returned her focus to the toast, waiting for it to pop up.

    A loud yawn from behind startled Clarke. She tensed briefly before turning to see Anya sitting up on the couch, her hair sticking out at odd angles. “Morning,” Anya muttered, stretching her arms over her head.

    Clarke nodded. “Morning.” She turned back to her toast.

    Her stiff back and jerky movement showed her discomfort as she searched inside the grocery bag, and Anya noticed that,

    "What's wrong, Clarke?"

    Clarke frowned slightly. “I didn’t ask for any strawberry jam, I guess plain toast it is for me,” she admitted, reluctantly pulling a jar of Nutella from the grocery bag, as if it offended her.

    Anya hummed, “Noted for next time,” she said, watching Clarke’s methodical actions with mild amusement. Clarke didn’t respond, focused on slicing her toast into equal halves.

    After setting breakfast on the table, Clarke returned to Lexa’s room. This time, she found Lexa sitting up, her feet touching the floor. Lexa looked up as Clarke entered, her cheeks flushing slightly.

    “I was going to the bathroom,” Lexa explained, her voice firm despite the clear hesitation in her movements.

    Clarke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not supposed to be walking yet.”

    Lexa waved a dismissive hand, but Clarke was already stepping closer.

    “Let me help you,” Clarke said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

    Lexa tried to protest. “Clarke, I can—”

    “No,” Clarke interrupted, her voice sharp but not unkind. She crouched slightly, carefully placing an arm around Lexa’s waist. “Just… hold on.”

    Lexa relented, though her cheeks darkened further. Clarke guided her slowly to the bathroom, her hands steady but her touch as light as possible. Physical contact wasn’t something Clarke found easy, but she focused on the task, ignoring the faint prickle of discomfort that came with prolonged touch.

    “I'll be outside,” Clarke said as she helped Lexa to the bathroom door. “Call if you need help.”

    Lexa nodded, her embarrassment clear but unspoken. Clarke stepped out, closing the door partially and waiting just within earshot.

    Once Lexa was done, Clarke helped her back to her bed. But Lexa frowned. “I want to eat downstairs,” she said softly, her voice tinged with determination.

    Clarke hesitated, weighing her options. Finally, she sighed. “Fine.”

    Without another word, she bent down and scooped Lexa into her arms. Lexa stiffened slightly but didn’t protest. Clarke’s grip was firm but adjusted to minimize prolonged skin contact. She focused on keeping her movements smooth, mentally cataloging the safest way to navigate the stairs.

    “You don’t have to fuss so much,” Lexa murmured, her voice soft.

    “It’s not fussing,” Clarke replied curtly, her gaze fixed ahead. “It’s making sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

    Clarke set Lexa carefully in one of the dining chairs, ensuring it was positioned so Lexa wouldn’t have to strain, then stepping back almost immediately to regain her personal space. 

    “Are you comfortable?” she asked, her gaze flicking over Lexa’s posture and the position of her injured leg.

    Lexa nodded, though her smile was faint. “I’m fine, Clarke.”

    Satisfied but still cautious, Clarke handed her a glass of water before turning back to the counter to grab plates. As she returned, Anya shuffled into the room, “Morning,” she mumbled, plopping into the chair beside Lexa.

    “You look well-rested,” Clarke commented dryly, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Anya’s eyebags.

    Anya smirked. “Someone had to stay up making sure this one didn’t try to play hero,” she quipped, nodding toward Lexa, who rolled her eyes in response.

    Clarke’s lips twitched, though she said nothing as she distributed the breakfast plates—plain toast for herself, scrambled eggs and toast for Anya, and a modest spread of toast, fruit, and yogurt for Lexa.

    As they ate, Anya and Lexa fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. They discussed the work project that had brought them together, their voices rising and falling with a lighthearted camaraderie.

    “I still think we should’ve gone with the more minimalist design,” Lexa said, her tone teasing but firm.

    “And I still think you overcomplicate things,” Anya shot back, grinning. “But hey, that’s why you’re the architect, and I’m just here to make sure people don’t sue us.”

    Lexa chuckled softly, and Clarke glanced between them, her hands pausing mid-cut of her toast. Though she didn’t join the conversation, her ears perked up at the back-and-forth, and a small part of her admired their dynamic.

    As the minutes ticked by, Clarke became increasingly aware of the time. By 8:05 AM, her carefully planned morning schedule was slipping. Her movements grew sharper, more hurried, as she began clearing the table while still chewing her last bite of toast.

    Lexa frowned slightly, noticing Clarke’s abrupt shift. “Clarke, it’s okay. Sit down,” she said softly.

    “I’m running late,” Clarke replied curtly, stacking plates with precision. Her fingers clenched the edges of the dishes a little too tightly.

    Anya reached over and plucked the plates from Clarke’s hands. “Relax. I’ll take care of it,” she said, her tone firm but kind.

    Clarke hesitated, her gaze darting between Anya and Lexa. “Are you sure? Lexa needs someone to—”

    “I’ve got it, Clarke,” Anya interrupted. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither is she.”

    Clarke’s lips pressed into a thin line, her reluctance clear. She glanced at Lexa, who offered a small, reassuring smile.

    “Go,” Lexa urged gently. “I’ll be fine. Anya’s here.”

    Finally, Clarke sighed, her rigid posture softening ever so slightly. She leaned down, her hand brushing briefly against Lexa’s shoulder. “Behave,” she muttered, her voice half stern, half teasing.

    Then, before she could overthink it, she placed a small, fleeting kiss on Lexa’s temple. The moment hung in the air, brief but charged.

    Lexa’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, and Clarke straightened quickly, her own face warm as she turned toward the door. Anya, who had watched the exchange with a sly smile, said nothing but shook her head fondly as Clarke grabbed her bag and hurried out.

---

    By mid-morning, Clarke was fully immersed in her work at the studio. The smell of paint and turpentine filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of classical music playing softly in the background. She stood at her easel, her brush gliding over the canvas in deliberate strokes, her mind focused yet buzzing with a faint undercurrent of worry for Lexa.

    When her phone buzzed on the nearby counter, she set her brush down and wiped her hands on a cloth before picking it up.

Lexa: Still alive. Anya’s making tea, and she hasn’t burned the kitchen down yet. Hope your day is going well.

    Clarke’s lips curved into a small smile, a warmth spreading in her chest. She typed a quick reply,

Clarke: Good to know. Try not to overdo it. I’ll check in later.

    She placed her phone down and returned to her painting, her worry slightly eased.

    As the day wore on, Clarke’s focus shifted to cleaning her supplies. By 3:00 PM, she was at the sink, rinsing her brushes and organizing her workspace. The familiar routine helped her relax, grounding her in the predictability of her studio.

    Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it, already expecting another update.

Lexa: Alive and kicking! Anya hasn’t let me move much. I think she’s afraid of your wrath if something happens.

    Clarke snorted softly, shaking her head as she typed her reply,

Clarke: Good. She’s smarter than she looks.

    She lingered on the text thread for a moment, her thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, she added,

Clarke: Let me know if you need anything.

    As she hit send, she felt a quiet sense of relief. Though she didn’t fully understand the warmth Lexa’s messages sparked in her, she decided not to question it. For now, it was enough to know Lexa was okay.

---

    Clarke unlocked her apartment door, stepping into the familiar quiet of her home. Before she could even set her bag down, a small, furry missile streaked toward her. Juno, her tiny grey kitten, meowed insistently, weaving between her legs and brushing her soft fur against Clarke’s jeans.

    “All right, all right,” Clarke murmured, crouching to scratch behind Juno’s ears. “I know. Dinner first.”

    Juno purred loudly, nudging Clarke’s hand as if to ensure she didn’t forget her priorities. Shaking her head with a fond smile, Clarke rose and made her way to the kitchen. She opened a cabinet, pulling out the small bag of kitten food, and carefully measured the right amount into Juno’s dish.

    “There you go, little monster,” she said as she set the bowl down. Juno immediately dove in, her tiny tail swishing with satisfaction.

    Clarke stood for a moment, watching her kitten eat. The rhythmic crunching sound was oddly soothing, a reminder of the small routines that kept her grounded.

    With Juno fed, Clarke turned her attention to making her own dinner. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but skipping meals wasn’t an option—not anymore. She settled on a simple pasta dish, her movements precise and efficient as she chopped vegetables and stirred the sauce. The faint scent of garlic and basil filled the kitchen, mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator.

    Juno had finished eating by the time Clarke sat down to eat. The kitten perched herself on the windowsill, her wide eyes following Clarke’s every move.

    “You’re not getting any of this,” Clarke said, raising an eyebrow at Juno’s hopeful stare.

    The kitten meowed in response, making Clarke chuckle softly. Once her plate was clean and the kitchen spotless, Clarke grabbed Juno’s favorite toy—a feather tied to a string—and dangled it in front of her.

    “Come on, let’s get some energy out before bed,” she said, swishing the feather side to side.

    Juno pounced immediately, her tiny body leaping into the air with surprising grace. Clarke laughed under her breath, the sound light and rare.

    “You’re getting faster,” she observed as Juno batted at the feather with her paws.

    The kitten responded with a triumphant leap, snagging the feather and tumbling onto the floor with it in her grasp.

    “Show-off,” Clarke muttered, shaking her head with a smile.

---

    Later, as Clarke settled onto the couch with a sketchpad in hand, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at the screen, her brows knitting together when she saw Lexa’s name.

Lexa: "Hey, just wanted to say goodnight a little early. Anya is still here, so don’t worry. Hope you had a good day."

    Clarke read the text twice, her fingers lingering on the phone. Lexa never texted this early. Was something wrong? The thought gnawed at her until she tapped the FaceTime icon, the concern already etched on her face.

---

    Lexa’s face appeared on the screen, slightly flushed, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked tired but relaxed, her green eyes soft as they met Clarke’s.

    “Clarke,” Lexa said, her voice gentle but steady. “Everything’s fine, I promise. Anya’s been playing guard dog all day. I haven’t even been allowed to grab my own water.”

    Clarke studied Lexa’s face closely, her sharp eyes scanning for any sign of discomfort. “You texted earlier than usual,” she pointed out. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

    Lexa smiled faintly, her blush deepening. “I’m fine, really. I just... I guess I missed you fussing over me.”

    Clarke blinked, her heart skipping an unexpected beat. The warmth in Lexa’s voice, coupled with the shy admission, left her momentarily speechless. “Well,” she said finally, her voice quieter than usual, “someone has to keep you in line.”

    Lexa chuckled softly, the sound low and genuine. “And you’re very good at it,” she replied, her smile widening. “Thank you for everything, Clarke. It means more than I can say.”

    Clarke shifted in her seat, unsure how to respond to the sudden tenderness in Lexa’s tone. “Just... don’t push yourself,” she said, reaching for her planner on the coffee table to distract herself. “Do you usually have any free time during the week?”

    Lexa tilted her head, intrigued. “Why?”

    “I thought maybe we could meet regularly,” Clarke said, her tone hesitant. “That way, I can keep an eye on you.”

    Lexa’s eyes lit up, her smile turning playful. “Is this your way of saying you want to spend more time with me?”

    Clarke rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in a faint smile. “Don’t make it weird. I’ll visit you tomorrow.”

    Lexa laughed softly, nodding. “I’d like that."

    After saying their goodbyes, Clarke ended the call and stared at her phone for a moment, her mind buzzing. There was something about Lexa—her voice, her presence—that felt different. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was significant, like finding a puzzle piece she hadn’t realized was missing.

    She set her phone aside and turned off the lights, heading to bed with Juno padding softly behind her. The kitten leapt onto the bed and curled up on the pillow above Clarke’s head, her tiny body radiating warmth.

    As Clarke lay under the covers, her thoughts drifted back to Lexa’s confession. The words replayed in her mind, stirring something new and unfamiliar in her chest.

    With Juno’s purring lulling her to sleep, Clarke closed her eyes, her lips curving into a faint smile. For the first time in a long while, the world felt just a little bit brighter.

---

    It had been two days since Lexa was discharged from the hospital, and Clarke found herself standing outside Lexa's apartment door again. She had spent most of Monday adhering to her usual routine, but thoughts of Lexa kept sneaking in, disrupting her focus, even more after Lexa said she missed Clarke fussing over her. 

    Now, on Tuesday late afternoon, her small notebook clutched in her hand, she had decided it was time to solidify something that would ease the strange, persistent pull she felt toward Lexa.

    The door opened before Clarke could knock. Anya smiled teasingly as she leaned on the door frame, “She’s in the living room, still refusing to stay off her leg, but what else is new?” Any said with an exasperated sigh, but the smile was still there.

    Clarke nodded, stepping inside. She murmured a quiet “thanks” as Anya walked past her, presumably retreating to the kitchen. The faint scent of herbal tea lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of home—a stark contrast to the sterile hospital environment Clarke had grown used to over the past week.

    Lexa was perched on the couch, her leg propped up on cushions and her cast resting awkwardly. Her wrist was wrapped in a brace, lying carefully on the armrest. Despite the discomfort, Lexa greeted Clarke with a small, tired smile that softened the sharpness of her usual demeanor.

    “Clarke,” Lexa said, her voice warm but slightly hoarse. “You're here,”

    Clarke hesitated, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the room before sitting on the chair opposite Lexa. “Of course, I'm here. I just—” She stopped, fidgeting with the edges of her notebook,

    “I thought we should talk about what we discussed over FaceTime last night, about meeting regularly, my new routines.”

    Lexa tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her green eyes. “Routines?”

    “Yes.” Clarke opened her small notebook, flipping through pages with precision until she landed on a blank page. “I like structure. It helps me, uh, stay balanced. And I’ve been thinking…” She paused, searching the right words as her gaze dropped to the lines of her notebook. Juno’s claw marks were faintly visible on one corner, a reminder of her kitten’s mischief. “You’ve become important,” Clarke blurted out finally, her words blunt but earnest.

    Lexa blinked, and for a moment, silence hung in the air. Clarke’s chest tightened as she wrestled with the weight of what she’d said, unsure if she’d expressed herself correctly.

    “I mean—important enough to plan for,” she added quickly, glancing up to gauge Lexa’s reaction. “I was thinking… Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Those could be, uh, your days. If that’s okay.”

    Lexa’s smile grew, gentle and understanding. She set her good hand on her lap, leaning forward slightly despite the discomfort it caused her. “Clarke, are you asking if we can make this a regular thing? Spending time together?”

    Clarke nodded, the directness of Lexa’s words making her cheeks flush. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. But it’s more than that. I just…” She hesitated, searching for the right way to explain. “I feel better when I know what to expect. And I like seeing you, and I need to make sure you take a break and eat. So it makes sense to fit you into my routines.”

    Lexa chuckled softly, her gaze warm and deeply observant, her cheeks took on a darker hue. “You like seeing me,” she repeated, her tone teasing but kind. “That’s good to know.”

    Clarke frowned slightly, her lips pressing together as she tried to decipher Lexa’s tone. “Does that mean you feel the same?” she asked, her words coming out almost too bluntly. “That you like seeing me, too?”

    Lexa’s eyes softened further, and she nodded without hesitation. “I do, Clarke. I feel the same. And I’d like to be part of your routine if that’s what works for you.”

    The simplicity of her response made Clarke relax, the tension in her shoulders easing. She glanced down at her notebook again, scribbling quick notes for Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. Her handwriting was neat, methodical, each stroke deliberate.

    Lexa watched her with quiet amusement and a growing affection. She had already begun to piece together Clarke’s way of processing emotions—the structure, the routines, the occasional bluntness masking a deep well of care. It was clear Clarke hadn’t fully process the feelings she was navigating, but Lexa did.

    “Clarke,” Lexa said gently, breaking the comfortable silence. “It’s okay to just feel things, even if you can’t always explain them.”

    Clarke looked up, her pen pausing mid-note. “I know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter. “It’s just… harder. I don’t always know what to do with emotions. But I like it when it come to people I care about.” Her gaze flicked to Lexa, hesitant but steady. “And I think I’m starting to care about you. A lot.”

    Lexa’s chest tightened at Clarke’s words, the honesty in them cutting through her usual composure. “You’re not alone in that,” she said softly.

    Clarke nodded, her lips twitching into a small, almost shy smile. “Good,” she said simply.

    From the kitchen, Anya’s voice cut through the moment. “If you two are done being adorable, someone should bring me cookies before I starve!”

    Lexa groaned, but there was laughter in her eyes as she looked at Clarke. “You are in the kitchen, Anya." Lexa said with mock annoyance, then looked back to Clarke, "Welcome to my world,” she said wryly.

    Clarke’s smile grew, and for the first time, she felt like this new routine might be the start of something important—something worth navigating, no matter how confusing it might seem.

---

    That night, Clarke sat cross-legged at her kitchen table, her trusty planner open in front of her, its pages a symphony of careful structure. The soft scratch of her pen against the paper was a soothing rhythm, but her chest felt tight. Anxiety simmered beneath her skin as she stared at the blank spaces where new routines would have to fit.

    “Juno,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with tension. “Did you know that Lexa rarely take breaks? How does someone live like that?”

    The kitten, sprawled lazily on the windowsill, stretched a paw toward the sunlight streaming through the glass. Clarke sighed.

    “I mean, she probably doesn’t even have a planner.” She tapped her pen against the edge of the table. “Do you think she knows how important it is to schedule downtime? No, of course not. Too busy being carefree and... structured in her own chaotic way.”

    Juno meowed softly, tilting her head as if to respond.

    “You’re right,” Clarke replied, smiling faintly. “I don’t know that for sure. Maybe she has one of those apps. But I have my intel from Anya, you know. Can you imagine, she often forgetting to eat on time or rest? That’s... irresponsible.”

    Clarke’s tone was playful, but her fingers gripped the pen tightly. Talking to Juno helped distract her from the growing weight in her chest, the pressure of adding new person into the routines she had depended on for years.

    Clarke’s gaze flicked back to the planner. Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturdays. The days were chosen carefully, after extensive mental rehearsals of how her week would shift around them. Yet, even as she wrote, her mind spiraled with “what ifs.”

    What if she forgot because it was new? What if the change disrupted her workflow at the studio? The logical part of her knew these fears were unlikely, but it rarely soothed her.

    She reached out, absently scratching Juno’s chin. The kitten purred, grounding her.

    “You’re a good listener,” Clarke murmured. “Way better than me when I was your size.”

    She tried to laugh, but it came out strained. The act of writing wasn’t just a simple task; it was an act of deliberate focus, a battle against the anxiety of uncertainty. For others, changes to a routine might mean mild discomfort. For Clarke, it was an upheaval that required strategy and care to navigate.

    After a few deep breaths, Clarke began writing down the new routines:

   Monday: Dinner with Lexa after work.

    A manageable start to the week, keeping the disruption minimal.

   Wednesday: Lunch at 12:30 PM with Lexa .

    It would be at Lexa’s house while she was still recovering, and later  when Lexa was healed enough, would be in the café where they first shared lunch time. A slight adjustment to her midday break, but one she could adapt to.

   Saturday: Meet Lexa at Octavia’s bar after dinner with Raven.

    It was essential to keep her time with Raven and Octavia intact; she wouldn’t compromise that.

  As the ink dried, Clarke let out a shaky sigh.

    “There. Done,” she said, leaning back in her chair. Juno hopped down from the windowsill and padded over, curling up in her lap. Clarke stroked her fur, the rhythmic motion calming.

    “You know,” she said softly, “this is worth it. Lexa is worth it.”

    Juno’s purr seemed to agree.

    Clarke’s meticulous planning wasn’t just about keeping her life in order; it was a necessity. Each step of the process—from choosing the days to physically writing them down—helped her manage the overwhelming anxiety of change. Even the playful conversation with Juno was more than just chatter; it was a coping mechanism, a way to focus her energy and distract from the intrusive thoughts threatening to spiral out of control.

    For Clarke, routines weren’t just preferences. They were lifelines. And while the thought of rearranging them was daunting, she knew Lexa was someone worth making space for, even if the adjustment would take time.
---

    The first few days after new routines that involved Lexa were nice, except on Saturday where most of important people in Clarke's life were cramped into the same schedule on the same day. Lexa, being stubborn with her leg, determined to join them at O's bar, didn't want to wait until her leg was fully healed. She knew how important it was for Clarke to experience the changes soon so the artist would be able to adapt with Lexa being added into her Saturdays' evening routines, and see if there was any adjustment needed depended on the how it went.

    It was why Clarke found herself breaking her lunch routine on Monday the next week with urgent need to fix her Saturday routines which included her bestfriends.

---

    The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed in Clarke’s ears as she stepped into the Arkadia Police Department. The sterile smell of coffee, paper, and worn leather chairs filled the air, mingling with faint chatter from officers across the room. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag, twisting it tighter with each step. She glanced at Raven, who walked beside her, effortlessly confident as always.

    “You didn’t have to come,” Clarke murmured, keeping her voice low.

    Raven shot her a grin. “You’re kidding, right? Like I’d miss watching you squirm while trying to talk feelings with Octavia.”

    Clarke rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She was grateful, even if she wouldn’t admit it. The unplanned visit was already pressing on her nerves. Everything about it felt... off. Out of order.

    When they reached the front desk, a young officer greeted them. “Hey, Raven. Clarke. Here to see Officer Blake?”

    “Yeah,” Raven said, leaning casually on the counter. “Tell her her favorite duo’s here.”

    The officer smirked and picked up the phone, and within minutes, Octavia strode into the room, her uniform crisp and her expression curious.

    “What's up, guys?” she asked, her tone light but her sharp eyes flicking to Clarke, catching the telltale signs of her discomfort.

    Clarke hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Words formed and dissolved in her mind as she tried to piece them together. She felt the familiar tightening in her chest, the sensation of too much unsaid crowding her thoughts.

    Raven jumped in, her voice casual but nudging. “Clarke’s got something to talk to you about. Thought we’d drop by and save her from overthinking it to death.”

    Clarke shot her a glare, but it lacked heat. She sighed and turned to Octavia, finally meeting her friend’s curious gaze.

    “Can we talk? Privately?” Clarke asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

    Octavia’s brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded. “Sure. Let me check with Kane first.”

    As Octavia walked away, Clarke’s nerves spiked. She rubbed at her wrist as she tried to stop the twitch of her fingers

    “Relax,” Raven whispered. “It’s Octavia. She gets you.”

    Clarke nodded but didn’t respond.

    When Octavia returned, she motioned for Clarke and Raven to follow her into a quieter office space. “I cleared the rest of my afternoon,” she said, leaning casually against the desk. “What’s up?”

    Clarke’s stomach churned. The words were there, but they felt heavy, like trying to lift a weight she wasn’t sure she could carry.

    “I... I wanted to talk about Saturdays,” she began, her voice hesitant. “With you and Lexa. I don’t think it’s working.”

    Octavia tilted her head, her expression softening. “What do you mean?”

    Clarke shifted again, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “It’s hard to explain. When we’re all together last week, I feel like I’m... distracted. Like my attention isn’t where it should be. And I don’t want you to feel—”

    “Neglected?” Octavia finished gently, a small smile tugging at her lips.

    Clarke’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I don’t want to ruin our time together, O. You’re important to me.”

    Octavia nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I get it. Honestly, I’ve noticed. And I’m not upset, Clarke. You’ve got a lot going on, and Lexa’s clearly important to you, enough for being put into your routines. But so is our friendship.”

    Relief washed over Clarke, though the tension in her body didn’t fully ease. “I thought maybe... we could have our own day? Fridays, maybe? Just us?”

    Octavia grinned. “Fridays sound perfect. And we’ll keep it chill—grab lunch, hang at the gallery, whatever works.”

    Clarke nodded, the weight in her chest easing slightly. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

    “Hey, you don’t have to thank me,” Octavia said, crossing the room to clap a hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “Friendship isn’t a competition. You’ve got room for all of us, Clarke. Even if you have to schedule it out.”

    Clarke laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I do like my schedules.”

    “Understatement of the year,” Raven quipped from the corner.

    Octavia chuckled. “You’re fine, Griffin. Just don’t stress yourself out, okay?”

    “I’ll try,” Clarke said, her voice more confident now.

    When they left the station after they had impromptu lunch together and talked some more, Clarke felt a little lighter deaspite the change in her lunch routine on that day. Adjusting her routine hadn’t been easy, but the reassurance of Octavia’s understanding made the effort worthwhile.

    The new routine was supposed to make things easier, but for Clarke, the first two weeks felt like trying to balance on a tightrope in a storm. She liked spending time with Lexa—something about her presence steadied Clarke’s often chaotic mind—but managing this new addition alongside her other commitments stretched her thin.

    By the second Saturday, on a night out at the bar with Lexa, Anya, Raven, and Octavia, the overstimulation began to claw at her. She could feel it building like static under her skin, her senses fraying with each passing moment.

    The bar was alive with chatter, music, and laughter—each sound layering over the other until it became a cacophony in Clarke’s head. She sat at the booth’s edge, shoulders drawn up tightly as she tapped her fingers rhythmically against her thigh. It was a subtle tic, one she often used to self-soothe, but tonight it wasn’t enough.

    Lexa sat beside her, noticing the way Clarke’s gaze darted to the loudest group nearby. “Clarke, you okay?” she asked quietly, her voice calm but concerned.

    Clarke nodded quickly. “I’m fine,” she said, though her tone was clipped. Her fingers tapped faster.

    Lexa didn’t push further but brushed her pinky finger against Clarke’s under the table—a gentle, grounding gesture. Clarke hesitated, but the touch helped her focus, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

    On the other side of the table, Raven was in the middle of one of her sarcastic stories, her voice cutting through the noise. “So there I was, knee-deep in engine grease, and this guy has the audacity to ask if I even know what a carburetor is.”

    Anya smirked, sipping her drink. “Please tell me you made him regret it.”

    “Oh, I did,” Raven said, grinning wickedly. “I built one out of spare parts in front of him and said, ‘Here, you can use this to fix your mouth.’”

    Clarke’s lips twitched at the quip, a faint smile breaking through her tension. Lexa noticed and gave her pinky a small, reassuring squeeze.

    Despite their efforts to keep her grounded, the sensory overload continued to build. By the time the group decided to leave, Clarke’s chest felt tight, her skin prickling with overstimulation.

    Lexa and Anya left in Anya’s car, planning to head home, while Clarke and Raven walked the short distance to Raven’s workshop. The crisp night air helped, but Clarke was still quiet, her focus inward as she tried to keep herself together.

    Raven noticed the shift in Clarke’s demeanor. “Hey, you’re really quiet. You good?”

    “Yeah,” Clarke murmured.

    Raven gave her a side glance but didn’t press. Instead, she started recounting another work story, hoping the distraction might help. Clarke nodded along but didn’t respond.

    When they reached the workshop, Clarke followed Raven inside and settled on the couch. “I’ll grab some water,” Raven said, heading upstairs to the apartment.

    By the time Raven came back down, Clarke had retreated further into herself. She had moved from the couch and was curled into a tight ball on the floor in the corner of the workshop, her arms wrapped around her knees and her head buried against them. Her body trembled, small, shaky movements that made Raven freeze mid-step.

    “Clarke?” Raven said cautiously, setting the bottles of water down.

    Clarke didn’t respond. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

    “Shit,” Raven muttered under her breath, unsure of what to do. She crouched beside the couch, trying to reach Clarke. “Hey, it’s me. You’re safe, okay? Just breathe with me.”

    Clarke flinched slightly but didn’t lift her head.

    Raven ran a hand through her hair, frustrated with her own helplessness. In her panic, she grabbed her phone and dialed Lexa instead of Abby.

    Lexa and Anya were halfway home when Raven’s name lit up on Lexa's phone that she put on the car’s dashboard. Lexa answered immediately. “Raven?”

    “Clarke’s in a meltdown and is not responding to me,” Raven said quickly. “I— I don’t know how to help her. Can you come?”

    “We’re on our way,” Lexa said, her voice steady despite the worry evident in her tone.

    Anya, having heard the conversation faintly, immediately turned the car around, her expression tight with focus. “What happened?” she asked Lexa as she sped toward the workshop.

    “Raven said that Clarke is overwhelmed, and not responding to her,” Lexa replied, keeping her voice calm. 

    "Hopefully, I can help her," Lexa said quietly, worries evident in her furrowed brows.