Perfect Balance

    Lexa’s heart raced as she and Anya reached Raven’s workshop. She spotted Raven pacing anxiously outside, her face pale with worry. Without a word, Anya stayed back with Raven, sensing Lexa’s need to be with Clarke.

    Inside, Lexa found Clarke curled into herself in the floor in a corner, her knees drawn tightly to her chest and her body trembling with the weight of the overstimulation. The sight was a punch to Lexa’s gut, but she pushed past her own emotions. Clarke needed her calm, not her panic.

    Lexa lowered herself to the floor with careful movements, her braced leg protesting faintly. She knelt a few feet away, giving Clarke space. “Clarke,” she said softly, her voice even and steady.

    There was no response at first. Clarke’s head remained buried in her arms, her breathing shallow and erratic. Lexa stayed patient, her green eyes focused on Clarke.

    “It’s just me,” Lexa continued, her tone gentle and soothing. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

    A faint twitch in Clarke’s shoulders told Lexa she’d been heard. Slowly, Clarke raised her head, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the faint workshop light. Her eyes locked onto Lexa’s, and the unspoken connection between them began to pull her out of the chaos.

    Lexa didn’t move closer but instead kept her posture open and calm. “Breathe with me,” she encouraged, taking a deliberate deep breath. She exhaled slowly, her own calm presence an anchor.

    Clarke began to mimic her, haltingly at first, but the rhythm started to steady. After a few breaths, Clarke’s trembling hands reached out, as if seeking something solid. Lexa offered her hand, palm up, letting Clarke decide.

    Clarke hesitated before brushing her fingers against Lexa’s, the smallest touch grounding her further.

    Clarke let out a shaky exhale, her lips moving as if repeating something to herself. Lexa leaned in slightly, just enough to hear Clarke’s barely audible mutter.

    “Five things…” Clarke whispered, her voice cracking but determined. “Five things I can see…” Her glassy eyes darted around the room. “Workbench…tools…Lexa’s eyes…floorboards…light fixture…”

    Lexa nodded encouragingly, her soft hum a steadying presence. “Good, Clarke. Keep going.”

    “Four things I can hear…” Clarke’s voice was steadier now, though she still hiccupped between words. “Raven outside…the fan…my own breathing…Lexa’s voice…”

    Clarke glanced at Lexa then, the weight of her green eyes offering reassurance. Lexa gave her a small, supportive smile.

    “Three things I can touch…” Clarke moved her hand to the floor. “Concrete…my jeans…Lexa’s hand…”

    The touch lingered a little longer this time, and Lexa squeezed Clarke’s fingers gently.

    “Two things I can feel…” Clarke murmured, her breathing slowing further. “My heartbeat…and…” She looked at Lexa again. “Your calm.”

    Lexa’s heart ached at Clarke’s quiet vulnerability, but she kept her expression composed. “You’re doing great,” she said softly.

    “One thing I can smell…” Clarke inhaled deeply. “Lexa's perfume.”

    The last step seemed to loosen something inside Clarke. Her shoulders sagged as she took another deep breath, the trembling easing slightly.

    Lexa leaned back slightly, giving Clarke room to process. “You’ve got this,” Lexa said, her voice as soft as ever.

    Clarke’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, her body no longer rigid with tension. “I got it,” she muttered, almost to herself.

    The minutes stretched on, but Clarke continued to ground herself, her breaths becoming more even. Lexa remained by her side, her presence steady and unwavering.

    When Clarke finally looked up again, there was a glimmer of clarity in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but sincere.

    Lexa simply nodded, her green eyes meeting Clarke’s with a quiet understanding. She knew better than to overwhelm her with words, letting Clarke set the pace.

    “You did that yourself,” Lexa said after a while, her tone gentle but firm. “I was just here to remind you that you could.”

    Clarke’s lips quirked into a small smile, exhaustion still evident but accompanied by a flicker of gratitude. She clung to Lexa’s pinky finger as they both sat in silence, letting the calm settle between them.

    When Clarke was ready, Lexa stood carefully, offering Clarke her arm for support. Together, they left the workshop, Lexa walking a bit unsteadily beside Clarke as they made their way to her car, the weight of the evening slowly lifting.

    Lexa offered to drive Clarke’s car, knowing the journey home would be difficult for her. Anya followed behind them in her own car. Raven, understanding Clarke’s need for space, stayed at her place. 

    Lexa’s leg ached from the effort, the brace pressing against her skin uncomfortably, but she didn’t let it show. She focused on Clarke, on the road ahead, and on keeping Clarke steady beside her. Clarke was quiet, her head leaning against the window, her eyes closed. It was clear that she wasn’t ready to talk yet, and Lexa respected that.

    When they finally arrived at Clarke’s apartment, Lexa parked the car, careful with every movement. She got out and walked around to Clarke’s side, but Clarke was already halfway to the apartment building door.

    “I’ll be fine,” Clarke said, her voice low but firm. She was exhausted, but her pride still made her hesitate. She glanced back at Lexa as she placed her hand on the door handle, a small but unmistakable uncertainty in her expression.

    Lexa gave her a nod, but something in her heart urged her to stay just a little longer. She followed Clarke up the steps and paused at the door.

    "Let me walk you up to your floor? If that's okay with you," Lexa offered,

    "But your leg," Clarke looked down, uncertain.

    "I'm fine, Clarke. But if you're not comfortable..."

    "Okay," Clarke agreed, her voice were quiet,

    Lexa smiled and opened the building's door and let Clarke in first then climbed the stairs. Fortunately, Clarke's apartment was on the second floor.

    Anya who was worried Lexa might hurt her leg, followed few minutes later and stayed a bit further to giv them privacy.

    When they reached Clarke's apartment door, Clarke's exhaustion was evident. The blonde took out her keys from her jeans back pocket, and fidget with them.

    Lexa observed Clarke, and stayed with her, needed to provide support for her without saying much. Minutes ticked by, and Lexa smiled softly when Clarke finally lifted her head, blue eyes fixed on Lexa's green ones.

    "Is there anything on my face?" Lexa teased lightly, causing Clarke to tilt her head, "You're staring," Lexa pointed out, her face was a darker hue, a soft smile on her lips. 

    "I... I like your eyes. They are bright and green. I like green," Clarke said quietly, her face a bit flushed from exhaustion and shyness.

    "Thank you," Lexa said softly, Clarke nodded, her movement sluggish but stiff, telling Lexa that Clarke needed to rest.
 
   "I'm leaving now, you can call me if you need anything, okay?" Lexa broke the silence, her voice gentle but firm.

    "Okay," Clarke said shortly, the discomfort was still prickling on her skin, but this felt different, Clarke didn't know what it was and what caused it. She catalogued it in her mind to be revisit later when she was ready.

    Lexa nodded, and turned around to walk back to the stairs, where Anya was seated on the upper step, but stopped and turned back around when Lexa heard Clarke called her name.

    Clarke hesitated before in one swift movement, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Lexa, her embrace tentative at first but growing firmer with each passing second.

    Lexa froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden physical closeness. Lexa asked if Clarke want her to hug her back, Clarke shook her head, instead she whispered a soft “thank you” against her neck, the words left Lexa breathless, struck by the raw vulnerability in them.

    Before Lexa could respond, Clarke pulled back, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of gratitude and something else—something harder to define. Clarke looked away, her gaze avoiding Lexa’s as she unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment. “I’ll be okay,” she murmured, forcing a tired smile as Juno meowed from inside.

    Lexa stood still for a moment, watching Clarke disappear into the warmth of her home. Then she turned, the dazed smile on her face softening into something more reflective.

    The pain in her leg had become sharper, but Lexa barely noticed it as she walked away, her thoughts still lingering on the quiet trust Clarke had just given her.

    As Lexa walked down the steps and Anya followed after, her cousin's teasing voice broke through her thoughts,

    “You good there, Lexie? Because I saw that hug, and it’s definitely not something I expected to see from Clarke.”

    Lexa glanced at her with a small grin. “It wasn’t like that,” she said, brushing off the comment with a shrug. She wasn’t ready to explain everything, not yet.

    Anya raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. She could see the faint glow of Lexa’s smile and understood.

    The reality was, Clarke had made progress, more than Lexa had realized. She had never been one to initiate physical contact with people other than her tight cirlce, even that was a rare occurance, not after years of learning to mask and hide her feelings. But with Lexa, there was a trust growing between them—a trust that made Clarke feel safe enough to let her guard down.

    It wasn’t about fixing Clarke’s struggles; it was about respecting her boundaries. Lexa understood that now. She knew Clarke needed time to process at her own pace, and to choose when to allow others in. But tonight had shown Lexa just how far Clarke had come—and how much farther they could go together.

    As Lexa drove home that night, her leg still aching but her heart full, she smiled softly, the faint sound of Clarke’s whispered thanks still echoing in her mind.

---
    The door clicked shut with a faint finality, and Clarke stood still for a moment, leaning her back against it. The quiet of her apartment wrapped around her, but the tension from earlier lingered like an invisible weight. Her arms still felt the ghost of Lexa's body when Clarke hugged her—a warmth that stirred both comfort and unease. Clarke swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling with effort.

    The hug had been impulsive, a breach of her usual boundaries. And yet, when Lexa’s steady presence had been the only anchor in the storm, it had felt... right. But now, under the fluorescent kitchen light, insecurity bubbled up like an unwelcome guest.

What if Lexa sees me differently now?

What if she treats me like I’m fragile?

    Clarke’s stomach twisted. Her hands fidgeted by her sides, her fingers tracing the grooves of her jeans in a rhythmic pattern. The thoughts spun faster, but exhaustion began to dull their sharp edges. Her body craved rest, urging her to focus on the familiar routines that kept her grounded.

    She pushed off the door and took a steadying breath, muttering softly to herself. “Okay, one step at a time. You’ve got this.”

    In the kitchen, Juno’s soft meow broke through the haze of Clarke’s thoughts. The grey kitten padded over, her usual excitement tempered. She rubbed against Clarke’s leg, her purring a low, soothing hum. Clarke reached down stiffly, her muscles still sore from the tension earlier, and gently scratched behind Juno’s ears.

    “Hey, baby girl,” she murmured, her voice softer now. “Missed me, huh?”

    Juno didn’t demand attention like usual, as if sensing Clarke’s exhaustion. Instead, she stayed close, her small body a warm presence as Clarke reached for the kibble. The motion of pouring food into the bowl was mechanical, yet comforting in its familiarity.

    “There you go,” Clarke said, watching Juno nudge her bowl with her nose before settling in to eat. She filled the water dish next, the sound of the faucet briefly cutting through the silence.

    The mundane tasks gave Clarke a sense of normalcy. Her fingers grazed the counter as she moved, grounding herself in the texture of the cool surface. She was careful not to rush, letting each small action pull her further from the residual discomfort of the meltdown.

    Clarke proceed to do her evening routine—brushing her teeth, changing into soft, familiar clothes, and carefully arranging the pillows on her couch, she preferred sleeping outside after the overstimulation hit. Each action was deliberate, her movements slower than usual.

    Clarke paused in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes shadowed with fatigue. She studied the faint tremor in her hands before clasping them tightly in front of her.

    “You’re okay,” she whispered to herself, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. “You got through it. You’ll be fine.”

    Her voice wavered but didn’t break.

    Back in the living room, Clarke sank onto the couch, pulling a soft blanket over her lap. Juno jumped up to join her, curling into a ball at her feet. The kitten’s rhythmic purring filled the silence, steady and soothing.

    Clarke leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering shut. Her body ached from the tension she’d carried all evening, her muscles protesting even in stillness. She focused on her breathing, slow and measured, and the points of contact grounding her—Juno’s warmth, the weight of the blanket, the soft cushions beneath her.

    She was a capable adult; she knew how to take care of herself in moments like this. But the toll it took, the way her mind stayed trapped in a loop of sorting and processing, often left her drained.

    The lingering discomfort prickled under her skin, a sensation she couldn’t quite name but knew well. Clarke instinctively pressed her palms flat against the couch, feeling the texture beneath her fingers.

    Five things she could see: the light overhead, the blanket on her lap, Juno’s sleek fur, her planner on the table, the half-full water glass she’d forgotten to move earlier.

    Four things she could touch: the blanket’s softness, the couch’s firmness, Juno’s fur under her toes, the cool glass in her palm.

    Three things she could hear: Juno’s purring, the faint hum of the refrigerator, her own slow breaths.

    Two things she could smell: the faint floral scent of her laundry detergent, the remaining scent of Lexa's perfume that lingered on her shirt.

    One thing she could taste: the lingering mint from her toothpaste.

    She repeated the grounding exercise until the residual tension ebbed, replaced by a deep, aching fatigue.

    Her thoughts briefly circled back to Lexa—the way the architect had been so steady, so patient. The way her green eyes had seemed to anchor Clarke in a way nothing else had. Clarke shook her head slightly, trying not to dwell on it.

    Lexa’s presence had meant something, but Clarke wasn’t ready to untangle that knot just yet.

    For now, it was enough to be home, to feel Juno’s quiet presence, and to let her mind rest. Clarke curled onto her side, Juno shifting to snuggle closer, and let herself drift into the quiet comfort of sleep.

--

    On the next day,

    Clarke stirred from sleep as her alarm softly chimed at 7 AM. Her body felt heavy, her mind sluggish, but she forced herself upright, dragging her feet to the bathroom. The familiarity of brushing her teeth, washing her face, and tying her hair into a loose bun steadied her. She avoided looking too long in the mirror, unwilling to confront the shadows under her eyes or the lingering tension in her expression.

    In the kitchen, she made breakfast: a single slice of toast, thinly and evenly spread with strawberry jam, and a mug of black coffee. After that, she fed Juno . She moved with deliberate precision, each action grounding her in the present. The simplicity of the routine brought her a semblance of normalcy, even as exhaustion tugged at her.

    Clarke knew breaking her schedule would only exacerbate the discomfort. Routine was her anchor, a shield against the chaos of her emotions. At 9 AM, she readied Juno, placing the kitten in her carrier. Juno meowed softly, her bright eyes peeking through the mesh, offering a small source of comfort.

    The drive to her parents' house was quiet. Clarke kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on Juno’s carrier, her fingers brushing the fabric for reassurance. The familiarity of the route brought a faint ease to her tense shoulders.

    As she pulled into the driveway, Clarke spotted Jake outside, watering the front garden. He wore his usual plaid shirt and a kind smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

    “Morning, kiddo,” he greeted, setting down the hose. His gaze lingered on her stiff movements and furrowed brows, but he didn’t comment, instinctively knowing she needed calm.

    “Morning, Dad,” Clarke replied, her voice subdued. She grabbed Juno’s carrier and headed toward the house. Jake followed at a respectful distance, his presence steady and nonintrusive.

    Inside, Clarke let Juno out. The kitten stretched before darting off to explore, her little paws padding softly against the hardwood floor. Clarke made her way to the kitchen, where Abby stood at the counter, slicing fruit.

    “Hi, Mom,” Clarke said, leaning briefly against the doorway.

    Abby glanced up, her practiced eye immediately catching the tightness in Clarke’s expression. “Hi, sweetheart,” she replied warmly.

    Jake entered, sitting at the dining table with his coffee. “How was your week?” he asked gently, his tone devoid of pressure.

    “Fine,” Clarke replied shortly, her shoulders tense.

    Abby and Jake exchanged a glance but said nothing. Abby returned to her task, while Jake sipped his coffee, letting Clarke settle in at her own pace.

    A few minutes later, Abby placed a steaming mug of chamomile tea in front of Clarke at the table. Clarke hesitated before wrapping her hands around it, the familiar warmth soothing her frayed nerves.

    “I made it just the way you like,” Abby said softly, sitting beside her. Her daughter loved the chamomile tea after rough weeks and meltdowns, but only if it was Abby who prepared it.

    Clarke took a sip, the taste anchoring her. “Thanks, Mom,” she murmured.

    The silence stretched comfortably for a moment before Clarke exhaled deeply. “It’s been... a lot this week,” she admitted, her voice wavering.

    Jake leaned forward slightly, his expression attentive. “Do you want to talk about it?”

    After a a few moments of silence, Clarke nodded, her fingers tightening around the mug. “I’ve been adjusting to these new routines. Spending time with Lexa has been... nice. Really nice,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But it’s been more of a change than I expected," Clarke frowned,

    “Saturdays used to be Raven and Octavia’s day,” Clarke explained, her fingers tracing the mug’s rim in small, circular motions. “At 3 PM, I’d head to Raven’s workshop. We’d hang out while she worked on an engine or gadget, then grab dinner at the diner. After that, we’d go to O’s bar to unwind together. It was just the three of us—my best friends and me.”

    Jake nodded, encouraging her to continue.

    “But now, Saturday nights at the bar also included Lexa,” Clarke admitted, her voice tinged with guilt. "I’ve loved spending time with Lexa. It’s been... incredible. But I noticed I wasn’t giving O the attention she deserved. I got so wrapped up in talking to Lexa, in just being with her.”

    Jake leaned forward, his brow furrowing with thought. “That’s a tricky balance to manage, kiddo.”

    Clarke nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah, it is. That’s why I moved O’s day to Fridays. Now we’ve got our own routine, and it’s been good. But honestly? Adjusting to these changes—it’s harder than I thought. Yesterday, I completely broke down. It reminded me of those meltdowns I used to have as a teenager, trying to juggle school, art, and all the pressure I put on myself.”

    She paused, her voice growing quieter. “I just... I got overwhelmed. And it all came crashing down. Lexa was there, and she helped me through it, but I can’t stop thinking about what she must think of me now.”

    Abby reached across the table tentatively , resting a hand gently on Clarke’s arm when Clarke nodded her permission. “Sweetheart, it’s obvious how much you love your friends. You’re doing everything you can to make room for them in your life, even when it’s hard for you. That speaks volumes about your heart. Change is hard, even when it’s good. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.”

    Jake nodded in agreement. “You’re not that overwhelmed teenager anymore, Clarke. We're proud of you. You’ve grown so much since then. You’ve learned from those moments, and you’re stronger now. Trust yourself—you’ll find a way to balance this.”

    Clarke gave a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Dad. That helps. A little.”

    Clarke hesitated, biting her lower lip before continuing, “But I’m still scared about how Lexa sees me now. She was so calm and patient last night, but what if she’s rethinking everything? What if she decides I’m too much to handle?”

    Abby’s gaze softened. She had seen how Lexa interacted with Clarke during her post-operation check-ups and hospital visits. Even when Lexa was in pain or frustrated by her recovery, she’d never turned her sharpness on Clarke. Instead, Abby had observed a quiet attentiveness, the way Lexa’s expression softened when Clarke spoke, how she listened so intently.

    “Clarke,” Abby began gently, “I don’t think Lexa is the kind of person who scares easily. I’ve seen how she looks at you, how she listens when you speak. She’s not going to run because of one rough night. If anything, I think she’ll understand you better now.”

    Clarke blinked, caught off guard by her mother’s insight. “You really think so?”

    Abby smiled. “I do. Lexa’s been through a lot herself—recovering from an injury, adjusting to a new chapter in her life. She knows what it’s like to feel vulnerable. And from what I’ve seen, she’s someone who values honesty and connection. Trust her.”

    Jake added, “Your mom’s right. You’ve told us how patient and kind Lexa is. I think you’re in better hands than you realize.”

    Clarke exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest loosening just a bit. “I hope you’re both right.”

    As the conversation wound down, Jake suggested, “How about we go for our usual Sunday walk in the park? It’s a nice day out.”

    Clarke shook her head gently, her expression apologetic. “Thanks, but I’m too drained to be around people today. Crowds feel like too much.”

    Abby nodded without hesitation. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll stay home. You need rest more than anything else.”

    Clarke felt a small twinge of guilt at breaking their routine, but she knew it was the right choice. The idea of navigating the bustling park was overwhelming, even with her parents by her side.

    The rest of the day unfolded in a peaceful rhythm. Jake cracked silly jokes, his playful antics coaxing soft chuckles from Clarke. Abby kept herself busy in the kitchen but made sure to check in on Clarke frequently with small gestures of care—a fresh cup of tea, a light squeeze of her shoulder.

    Juno, ever the grounding presence, curled up on Clarke’s lap, her soft purring a soothing balm to Clarke’s frazzled nerves.

    By mid-afternoon, Clarke found herself smiling more freely. The heaviness in her chest had lightened, replaced by a quiet sense of calm.

    Dinner was a comforting spread of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and sautéed vegetables, the kind of hearty meal that Abby knew Clarke needed after such an emotionally taxing weekend.

    Clarke ate slowly, savoring each bite. She didn’t say it aloud, but the meal was exactly what she needed to replenish her energy.

    As the evening settled in, Clarke packed up Juno and prepared to leave. She hugged Abby and Jake tighter than she usually did, murmuring, “Thank you”

    They held her close after Clarke gave her consent, their silent and warm support speaking louder than any words.

    The drive back to her apartment was peaceful, the quiet hum of the car soothing her thoughts. Once home, she set Juno down and reached for her phone, typing a message to Lexa,

  Clarke: Visiting you for dinner tomorrow. Rest your leg and don’t go anywhere.

    After a moment, she added,

Clarke: I mean it.

    She smiled faintly, imagining Lexa’s reaction. Settling into bed, the thought of seeing Lexa again brought a quiet sense of purpose, a reassurance that tomorrow would be brighter.

---

    The soft glow of the lamp in her kitchen illuminated the space as Lexa was staring at the untouched cup of herbal tea in her hands. The events of that evening played on a loop in her mind—Clarke’s tear-streaked face, the tremor of her body as she’d struggled to breathe, the way she had clung to Lexa’s pinky finger like it was the only anchor she had left. Lexa inhaled deeply, a mix of emotions settling in her chest.

    She hadn’t expected the calm she’d felt in the moment. Helping Clarke navigate her meltdown hadn’t felt overwhelming or intrusive—it had felt right. The surprising ease with which Clarke had trusted her, leaned on her, filled Lexa with a quiet sense of fulfillment she hadn’t experienced before. She’d never been someone who got close to others easily, but with Clarke, the walls didn’t seem necessary.

    But there was something else—a stirring protectiveness she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the desire to be there for Clarke but to safeguard her, to ensure she wouldn’t have to face the weight of her struggles alone.

    Still, Lexa reminded herself to tread carefully. Clarke was a fiercely independent woman; she knew this from their every interaction. The last thing Clarke would want was to feel like she was being pitied or coddled. Lexa decided she would follow Clarke’s lead. Whatever this was between them—friendship, something more—Clarke would set the pace.

    The tea had gone cold by the time Lexa left felt the need to sleep, her resolve to be the steady presence Clarke needed burned brightly.

    The dull ache in Lexa’s leg was a constant reminder of her lingering injury, but she ignored it, pushing through the discomfort as she climbed the stairs to her room. She had made it halfway when Anya’s sharp voice echoed from the living room below.

    “Lexa!” Anya’s footsteps were quick, purposeful, and full of the exasperation only an older cousin could master. “What do you think you’re doing?”

    Lexa paused, leaning heavily against the railing. “I’m fine, Anya. I don’t need—”

    “Oh, save it,” Anya interrupted, reaching her side and sliding an arm under Lexa’s for support. “You were on your feet all night, Your leg’s probably swollen.”

    “It’s just a little sore,” Lexa muttered, wincing as Anya helped her ascend the remaining steps.

    By the time they reached her room, Anya was full-on scolding. “You’re impossible. You know that? You’re lucky Clarke doesn’t see how stubborn you are—she’d march you right back to the hospital.”

    Lexa bit back a smile, settling onto the edge of her bed. “She wouldn’t,” she replied softly, though she wasn’t entirely sure if that was true.

    Anya shot her a pointed look, kneeling to unfasten the brace on Lexa’s leg. “Don’t test her. I like Clarke. She’d actually keep you in line.”

    Lexa rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the warmth that crept into her chest at the mention of Clarke. She watched as Anya carefully inspected her leg, her touch uncharacteristically gentle.

    “This thing’s all wrong,” Anya muttered, adjusting the straps and refitting the brace with an efficiency and patience that came from years of looking out for Lexa. “There. Better?”

    Lexa flexed her foot slightly, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

    Anya stood, hands on her hips, and gave Lexa a mock glare. “Now stay off it. And don’t make me babysit you again tomorrow.”

    “I’ll be fine,” Lexa assured her, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed the gratitude she felt.

    “Uh-huh.” Anya smirked, ruffling Lexa’s hair as she left the room. “Stubborn architect.”

    Lexa lay back, staring at the ceiling. The ache in her leg had dulled, but the thoughts of Clarke lingered, filling the quiet space with something she couldn’t quite name.

    Lexa drifted to sleep with a small, contented smile, knowing she’d see Clarke again.

---
    The Sunday morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of Lexa’s bedroom as she woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Before she could even swing her legs off the bed, Anya’s voice called from downstairs.

    “Don’t even think about coming down here!”

    Lexa groaned softly, leaning back against the headboard. She was used to taking care of herself—even with her leg in its current state—but Anya had taken over the role of caretaker with an almost militant precision.

    A few minutes later, Anya appeared at the door with a tray, balancing a steaming cup of coffee, a neatly arranged plate of toast, and a small bowl of fruit. “Breakfast in bed,” she announced, placing the tray on Lexa’s lap.

    Lexa raised an eyebrow. “You know I can manage, right?”

    “You could, but you won’t,” Anya countered, hands on her hips. “Doctor’s orders: stay off the leg. And my orders: stay upstairs.” She softened slightly, brushing imaginary lint off Lexa’s blanket. “I’ve got a meeting at the office, but I’ll be back by dinner. Everything you need is within reach, and if it’s not, too bad.”

    Lexa smirked. “You’re very nurturing.”

    “Don’t push it,” Anya said, rolling her eyes before heading out.

    After breakfast, Lexa settled into her home office, the large desk scattered with blueprints and her laptop glowing with unread emails. She dove into work, reviewing reports and tweaking designs, but her focus wavered. Her gaze drifted to her phone on the corner of the desk, fingers itching to pick it up.

    She’d thought about texting Clarke all morning but held back. Clarke had mentioned her parents during their texting this week, and Lexa didn’t want to interrupt her day. Still, the memory of Clarke’s quiet vulnerability lingered, and Lexa found herself wondering how she was doing.

    Unable to shake her curiosity, she turned to research instead. She typed a few keywords into her browser: sensitivity to touch, aversion to loud noises, routines. The search results suggested neurodivergence—autism, sensory processing differences, and other variations Lexa wasn’t familiar with.

    As she read, a deeper appreciation for Clarke blossomed within her. These traits, which some might see as limitations, were part of what made Clarke so uniquely herself. They shaped her art, her perspective, and the way she interacted with the world.

    When her phone buzzed early in the evening, Lexa’s heart skipped a beat.

    The text was short and straightforward:

Clarke: “Visiting you for dinner tomorrow. Rest your leg and don’t go anywhere.”

    A moment later, another message appeared:

Clarke: “I mean it.”

    Lexa chuckled softly, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile. Clarke’s bluntness was refreshing—a quiet but undeniable way of showing she cared.

    Anya returned home later than planned, walking into the office with a tired sigh. She stopped mid-step when she saw Lexa’s expression.

    “Well, well,” Anya teased, leaning against the doorframe. “I leave for a few hours, and suddenly, you’re grinning like you’ve won the lottery. Who’s the lucky person?”

    Lexa, still staring at her phone, glanced up briefly. “Just Clarke. She texted.”

    “Ah, the artist,” Anya said with a knowing smirk. “Taming the mighty architect, one text at a time. Should I start drafting my speech for the wedding?”

    Lexa rolled her eyes, setting her phone down. “Anya…”

    “What? I need time to practice saying, ‘I told you so,’” Anya quipped before walking away with a triumphant laugh.

---

    Monday morning came with a slower rhythm than Lexa was used to. Anya had decided to work from Lexa’s home office, commandeering the space with a stack of reports and a cup of strong coffee.

    Lexa sat across from her, helping where she could, though she found herself distracted by the comfortable silence between them.

    “You’re oddly compliant today,” Anya remarked without looking up from her laptop. “No ‘I need to check on the project site,’ no ‘I can manage the stairs just fine.’ What’s gotten into you?”

    Lexa smirked, reaching for her phone. She opened her messages and slid it across the desk to Anya.

    Anya picked it up, reading the text from Clarke: “Visiting you for dinner tomorrow. Rest your leg and don’t go anywhere. I mean it.”

    Anya let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over her heart. “Clarke Griffin, miracle worker. I’m taking notes. You’re actually listening to someone for once.”

    “Her arguments are compelling,” Lexa said, her tone neutral, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her.

    Anya raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Compelling, huh? You’re a goner.”

    Lexa didn’t deny it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, a quiet smile playing on her lips as she glanced at her phone, waiting for Clarke’s arrival that evening.

--

    By now, texting Clarke had become a comforting part of Lexa’s day. Over time, she had subtly established a pattern: 10 AM, 12:30 PM, and 3 PM. She’d noticed Clarke responded well to predictability and routine, and Lexa didn’t mind adjusting her schedule to accommodate it.

    Each exchange was brief but meaningful. At 10 AM, Lexa sent a simple “Good morning. How’s your day so far?”

    Clarke replied with her usual dry humor. “Barely started, but coffee helps. You?”

    At 12:30 PM, Lexa checked in again, texting, “Lunch break. Don’t forget to eat.”

    Clarke’s reply came quickly. “Already done. I’m not an amateur.”

    The 3 PM message was Lexa’s way of wrapping up the day. “Last stretch. You’ve got this.”

    Clarke’s response was softer this time. “Thanks. You too.”

    The rhythm of their messages wasn’t just functional; it was grounding. For Lexa, it offered a steady connection to Clarke amidst her busy workdays. For Clarke, it was a quiet reassurance, a presence she didn’t have to ask for but deeply appreciated.

---

    At 6 PM sharp, Clarke knocked on Lexa’s front door. Anya answered, leaning against the frame with a deadpan expression.

    “Miss Woods followed instructions impeccably,” she announced in an exaggerated accent, gesturing dramatically toward the house. “She is ready for inspection.”

    Clarke’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Good. I’ll be thorough.”

    Anya let her in, stepping aside as Clarke carried two large takeout bags. “I brought enough dinner for all of us,” Clarke said, her tone casual but her gaze darting briefly toward the stairs, as if already assessing Lexa’s condition.

    They ate together in the dining room, the conversation light. Clarke remained a little guarded, but Lexa noticed she seemed more at ease than she had been on Saturday. Anya kept the mood buoyant with her teasing, occasionally directing pointed remarks at Lexa that made Clarke chuckle.

    After dinner, Lexa suggested giving Clarke a quick tour of the house. She showed her the living room, the cozy library nook, and finally the home office upstairs.

    When they reached the office, Lexa winced slightly as she stepped inside. Clarke noticed immediately, her brows furrowing.

    “Stop walking around,” she said bluntly, folding her arms.

    Lexa blinked, momentarily taken aback. “I’m fine, Clarke—”

    “No, you’re not,” Clarke interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. “Sit down.”

    Lexa opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it when Clarke gave her a pointed look. She sank into the chair by her desk, watching as Clarke disappeared downstairs.

    A few minutes later, Clarke returned with an ice pack in hand. She handed it to Lexa without a word, then crossed the room to examine the bookshelves, giving Lexa a moment to process the no-nonsense care she had just received.

    As Clarke wandered the room, her gaze fell on the large desk, cluttered with papers and designs. One particular blueprint caught her eye. She leaned over it, studying the intricate lines and angles.

    “This doesn’t seem right,” she said suddenly, tapping the edge of the page.

    Lexa looked up from her chair, curious. “What do you mean?”

    Clarke pointed to a section of the blueprint. “The asymmetry here. It stands out in a bad way. The rest of the layout is balanced, but this throws it off.”

    Lexa stood, despite Clarke’s earlier admonition, and moved beside her. “Show me,” she said, leaning in to see where Clarke was pointing.

    What started as a simple observation turned into an in-depth discussion. Clarke’s sharp eye for detail surprised Lexa, and the conversation grew animated as they went through more designs. Clarke’s insights were intuitive yet precise, and Lexa found herself thoroughly impressed.

    “You’re good at this,” Lexa said, her voice warm with admiration.

    Clarke shrugged, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. “It’s just a different way of seeing things. Art and architecture aren’t that far apart.”

    As the discussion continued, Anya walked in, stopping short at the sight of the two of them huddled over the desk, heads close together, engrossed in conversation.

    “Well, well,” Anya drawled, smirking. “Should I leave you two lovebirds to your blue period?”

    Lexa shot her a warning look, but Clarke just laughed softly, shaking her head.

    Anya raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, I’ll leave you geniuses to it. Just don’t start sketching wedding plans on those blueprints.”

    Lexa groaned, but Clarke’s quiet laughter lingered in the air, a sound that felt like home.

    At 9 PM, Clarke stood by the door, her coat slung over her arm and a small, teasing smirk playing on her lips. Lexa, seated obediently on the couch with her leg elevated, looked up as Clarke spoke.

    “Stay off your feet,” Clarke said firmly, “or I’ll tell your doctor—my mom—to admit you back to the hospital for being stubborn.”

    Lexa chuckled, the sound warm and low. “You wouldn’t.”

    Clarke’s smirk shifted into a straight face, her piercing gaze locking onto Lexa’s. “Try me,” she replied, her tone so deadpan that Lexa hesitated, genuinely unsure if she was joking or serious.

    From the corner of the room, Anya snorted. “Don’t test her, Lexa. Clarke’s a Griffin. They don’t bluff.”

    Clarke glanced over at Anya and raised an eyebrow in mock agreement. “Exactly.”

    Lexa rolled her eyes but smiled. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

    “Good,” Clarke said, her smirk returning. She turned to Anya and added, “You’re in charge of keeping her in line. I expect regular updates.”

    Anya saluted playfully. “Consider it done.”

    Satisfied, Clarke stepped out into the chilly evening, offering Lexa a brief wave before disappearing down the front steps. The door clicked shut, and Lexa exhaled, already missing her presence.

    The house felt quieter after Clarke left, and Lexa noticed the absence more acutely than she expected. Clarke had a way of filling the space—not just with her voice but with her energy, her quiet yet undeniable presence.

    Lexa remained on the couch, her thoughts drifting back to the moments they’d shared that evening: Clarke’s sharp insights about the blueprints, her firm yet caring insistence on rest, and the way her laughter had warmed the room.

    Later, as Lexa prepared for bed, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it, expecting a simple goodnight text, but instead found a photo.

    It was a picture of Clarke and Juno. Clarke was crouched on the floor, her goofy grin on full display as she and Juno both tugged at a colorful feather toy with their teeth. The caption read:

    “Juno says good night.”

    Lexa laughed softly, the sound breaking the stillness of the room. She could almost hear Clarke’s voice in the playful image.

    Her reply was simple but sincere: “Good night to you both. Sweet dreams.”

    She placed her phone back on the nightstand and lay down, her mind lingering on Clarke’s playful grin and the lightness she brought into Lexa’s life.

    As she drifted off to sleep, Lexa realized she was smiling—a quiet, contented smile that lingered even in her dreams.