Perfect Balance

    Clarke had always understood emotions through colors—warm hues for comfort, cool tones for calm, and muted shades for uncertainty. Yellow was warmth, curiosity, and the unfamiliar spark of something new. Blue was steadiness, the quiet assurance of presence, like the peaceful strokes of a paintbrush on canvas. Gray was hesitation, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs, a reminder of past experiences that didn’t quite fit.

     She had never felt the deep reds of passion or the electric thrill of something undeniable—not until now. And as she lay in bed, rereading Lexa’s goodnight text, she couldn’t ignore the way colors flickered at the edges of her thoughts, painting something she wasn’t sure she was ready to name.

    Clarke lay on her bed, phone clutched in one hand, rereading Lexa’s reply for the tenth time. It was simple: "Good night to you both. Sweet dreams.” Yet, the way her chest fluttered at those words felt anything but simple. 

    “Why am I like this?” she muttered, glancing at Juno, her gray kitten curled up in a tiny ball at the foot of her bed. Juno lifted her head lazily, blinking at Clarke with her big amber eyes before letting out a small meow and settling back down.

    “It’s just a text,” Clarke argued, mostly to herself, though Juno’s slow blink made it feel like the kitten was judging her. “People send goodnight texts all the time.”

    Juno let out a soft purr, and Clarke sighed, rolling onto her back. She tried to ignore the fluttering sensation, but her brain wouldn’t let it go. Instead, it began dissecting the feeling, like it always did with anything unfamiliar.

    “Okay, this is wasting time,” she told Juno. “I need to sleep.”

    Her brain, however, had other ideas. The fluttering in her chest reminded her of something—a faint echo from years ago. As her eyelids grew heavier, a memory surfaced, dragging her back to her college years.

 
   Clarke had met Lauren at a small café near campus, the kind of place she usually frequented for its predictability. Lauren had been sitting at the table next to hers, sketching something in a notebook. When she accidentally knocked over her coffee, spilling it onto Clarke’s table, Lauren had apologized profusely.

    “It’s fine,” Clarke had replied bluntly, her usual response when she wasn’t particularly bothered by something.

    Lauren had lingered, chatting awkwardly, and while Clarke didn’t say much, she also didn’t mind Lauren’s presence. Eventually, Clarke had looked up from her sketchpad and said, “You’re okay to stay. I don’t mind.”

    Lauren had smiled brightly at that, and their friendship began.

    Three months later, after a few coffee meetups and what Lauren called "dates"—though Clarke didn’t quite grasp how they differed from hanging out with friends—Lauren had asked her to be her girlfriend.

    Clarke had agreed after asking for time to think about it, and only after consulting her inner circle—her parents, Raven, and Octavia. They helped her understand the feelings she had for Lauren. No, she didn’t feel a burning desire to kiss her or do anything overtly romantic, but she liked being around Lauren and felt somewhat comfortable in her presence. That was enough to say yes.

    The first two months were… fine. Their relationship consisted mostly of hand-holding, something Clarke was okay with, as long as it wasn’t spontaneous. Lauren had initially seemed understanding, agreeing to Clarke’s need for routines and schedules. But they never explicitly talked about boundaries—Lauren didn’t ask, and Clarke didn’t think to explain, it was her first romantic relationship after all, she had no solid clues how to navigate through it.

    On their three-month anniversary, Lauren surprised Clarke by showing up at her off-campus apartment unannounced. It was Saturday—Clarke’s designated “early dinner day" with Raven.

    The disruption grated on Clarke immediately, though she tried to mask her irritation. Raven, ever the peacekeeper, assured her it was okay and that Lauren just wanted to celebrate. Clarke had reluctantly compromised, but the tension was palpable.

    The next day, Lauren insisted on meeting Clarke during her painting time. Clarke’s routine was sacred, but she ignored her discomfort, wanting to accommodate Lauren’s needs.

    When they met, Lauren wasted no time. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice heavy with frustration.

    Clarke blinked, confused. “Can’t do what?”

    “This,” Lauren said, gesturing vaguely between them. “I care about you, Clarke. I might even be falling for you. But I need more than… this. I need quality time, physical affection. I need you to want to be spontaneous sometimes.”

    Clarke frowned. “We do spend quality time together. I like being around you, which is why I made us a routine.”

    “But it’s not enough!” Lauren exclaimed, tears welling in her eyes. “I want to hold you without asking if it’s okay every time. I want to kiss you without feeling like I’m pushing boundaries.”

    Clarke’s confusion deepened. “You said we could go as slow as I needed.”

    “I thought I could handle it,” Lauren admitted, her voice cracking. “But I can’t. You’re so… detached. It feels like you don’t care.”

    The words stung, though Clarke couldn’t quite pinpoint why. “I do care about you, and about this relationship. That’s why I tried to accommodate you, us.”

    Lauren shook her head, frustration boiling over. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re so… weird about everything. It’s like you’re a control freak, and I can’t take it anymore.”

    The silence that followed was deafening. Clarke crossed her arms over her chest, instinctively guarding herself.

    “I’m not weird,” she said flatly, her tone colder than she intended.

    Lauren’s face crumpled in regret, but the damage was done. “I didn’t mean—”

    “Yes, you did,” Clarke interrupted. She turned, grabbing her planner from the desk, and ripped out the pages labeled “girlfriend’s routines.” The sound of tearing paper made Lauren flinch.

    “I’m done,” Clarke said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

    “I clearly can’t be what you need, and you obviously can’t handle my fine, control—freak, ass.” She said bluntly, her defenses were higher than ever.

    Lauren opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She left, looking like Clarke had punched her in the gut.

    In the days that followed, Clarke wasn’t heartbroken—she was confused. She analyzed every detail of their relationship, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. She realized Lauren had never asked about her habits or tried to understand her routines. And Clarke had never thought to explain them, assuming Lauren was okay with the way things were.

    It wasn’t until weeks later, after talking to her parents and Raven, that Clarke understood Lauren’s perspective. But by then, it was too late. Her first girlfriend—now ex— already broke the fragile trust she had in romance department, it was harder than she thought and took too much from her.

    Clarke’s eyes fluttered open, the memory fading as Juno stretched out beside her.

    “It didn't feel like this back then,” she whispered to herself, thinking of how she felt when she was with her first girlfriend, her fingers grazing the edge of her phone. “Why does it feel different now? Lexa is not even my girlfriend," she muttered to herself.

    Juno let out a soft purr, curling closer to Clarke’s side.

    Lexa’s goodnight text wasn’t just a text. It was thoughtful, intentional, and warm. And as much as Clarke tried to deny it, the fluttering in her chest told her it meant more than she was ready to admit.

    She sighed, finally giving in to sleep, Lexa’s name lingering on her mind.
---

    Clarke woke to the soft rays of sunlight filtering through her curtains and the gentle purring of Juno, her gray kitten, sprawled across her chest. She let out a small sigh, giving Juno a few strokes before shifting out of bed to begin her morning.

    Her morning routine was methodical, comforting in its predictability. 

    Breakfast was a quiet affair—plain toast, coffee, and Juno playfully pawing at her feet after the kitten was done eating. She decided to bring Juno with her to her gallery, her studio was already cat proofed by now, and Juno would be safe as she explored the space now. 

     She set up her easel in her studio corner, and let Juno out of her carrier, sniffing at the new bedding Clare provided for her, before exploring the space. Clarke chuckled seeing the kitten played with her toys, its soft growls and tiny meows now became a calming presence for Clarke. 
 
   As she worked on a new canvas, Clarke noticed her mind felt unusually scattered. Normally, painting was her sanctuary, a space where her thoughts aligned with the strokes of her brush. But today, her focus wavered.

    She glanced at her phone, sitting on the edge of her desk. It wasn’t time yet, but the clock in her head told her it was close. At 10 a.m. sharp, she picked it up, her fingers flying over the screen.

Clarke: Good morning. How’s your leg today? Did you sleep okay?

Clarke: Don’t overdo it. Rest is important. You’re not allowed to push yourself—Doctor’s orders.
 
   Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to add something else. The thought felt impulsive, but she typed it out anyway.

Clarke: Also, I really like your long legs. So take care of them.

    The message sent, and a second later, doubt crept in. "That’s… not weird, right?" Clarke mumbled to herself, her cheeks warming.

    A reply buzzed in almost instantly.

Lexa: Morning, Clarke. My leg’s better, thanks to your reminders. I’ll try to behave today☺️

    A moment passed, and then another message:

Lexa: And thank you for the compliment. I didn’t realize my legs had a fan club.😏

    Clarke frowned at the screen, her brain catching on the phrase “fan club.” “That’s not what I meant,” she muttered, flustered.

Clarke: It’s just an observation. I notice things.

Lexa: Well, I’ll take it as a compliment. And for the record, I like your attention to detail.

    Clarke stared at the screen, her stomach doing something odd and untraceable. The conversation wasn’t anything grand. But the way Lexa responded made something settle in Clarke’s chest.

    She put her phone down and turned back to her painting. But the colors on her canvas weren’t quite the same as yesterday.
---

    Clarke spent the next few hours trying to channel her energy into her work. The painting—a vibrant abstract piece—reflected her current state of mind: streaks of warm yellows and blues swirled with hesitant grays.

    Her thoughts drifted back to Lexa often. The way Lexa had quietly become part of her routine felt both strange and comforting. Clarke wasn’t someone who adapted easily to change, yet she found herself looking forward to Lexa’s texts and their conversations.
 
   At one point, Juno hopped onto her desk, knocking over a small jar of brushes. Clarke let out a soft laugh, scooping the kitten into her arms. “You’re not helping, Juno,” she said, pressing a kiss to the top of the kitten’s head.

    The day passed in fragmented focus. Clarke worked on her painting, but she found herself stepping back too often, lost in thought.

    By 3PM, she decided to take a walk before going back to her apartment. The air was crisp, the scent of damp earth lingering from last night’s rain. As she walked, her mind replayed Lexa’s words, her tone, the way she made space for Clarke’s nuances without trying to change them.

    People had always overwhelmed Clarke in one way or another. Too loud, too unpredictable, too exhausting. But Lexa… Lexa was different. She was quiet presence, warmth without intrusion.

    That realization made Clarke pause mid-step.

    Was that why this felt different?

    Her thoughts inevitably circled back to Lexa. She replayed snippets of their conversations, her brain picking apart the nuances of Lexa’s tone and words. A warmth spread through her at the memory of Lexa’s patience during her meltdown.
---

    That night, she did her routines; dinner was simple, fed Juno, then she took a shower and played for a bit with Juno.

    At 9 PM, Clarke settled into her bed, Juno curled up beside her. The quiet hum of her playlist filled the room, but her mind was far from still. She thought back to the moment she’d hugged Lexa after her meltdown.
 
   It wasn’t something Clarke did often. Physical contact wasn’t always comfort for her, it was often overwhelming if it was with new people outside of her closest circle. But in that moment, hugging Lexa had felt natural. Lexa had asked softly if she should hug back, but Clarke had shaken her head, unsure of how much contact she could handle.

    Now, lying in the dim light of her room, Clarke found herself wondering: what would it have felt like to let Lexa hug her back? The question surprised her. She didn’t crave physical connection often—certainly not outside her parents or closest friends. Yet, she couldn’t shake the thought of Lexa’s warmth around her.

    “That’s new,” she murmured to herself, her fingers lightly tracing Juno’s fur.

    Clarke closed her eyes, letting the familiar visualization take over. Emotions had always made more sense to her in colors rather than words.

    Tonight, yellow filled her mind first—warm and fluttering, a hue of curiosity and comfort. Lexa.

    Then, blue—a deeper shade, steady and grounding. Lexa’s presence during her meltdown, her voice calm, her patience unwavering.

    And then, gray—hesitation, caution, the fear of disruption in her carefully constructed life. Lexa unsettled her, not in a bad way, but in a way that made Clarke pause and take stock of the shifts in her routine, in her thoughts.

    The colors swirled together in her mind, forming something new—a blend that was unfamiliar but beautiful. Clarke realized she wanted to know more about Lexa. Not just the big things, but the little details, too. What was her favorite dessert? Her favorite color? Did she prefer mornings or evenings?

    These questions weren’t just idle curiosity—they were pieces of a growing connection Clarke was beginning to understand.

    As she drifted off to sleep, Clarke acknowledged that her feelings for Lexa hadn’t appeared overnight. They had grown gradually, like layers of paint building on a canvas. For someone like Clarke, whose neurodivergence made emotional clarity a challenge, this realization felt both overwhelming and thrilling.

    Tonight, she didn’t fight the thoughts. She let them settle.

    Lexa was becoming part of her life, in ways Clarke hadn’t quite prepared for. But instead of disrupting her, Lexa had started fitting into the spaces Clarke hadn’t realized were empty.

    And Clarke wasn’t sure if she was ready for what that meant. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid to find out and let the colors settle and see where they would lead.

---
    On Wednesday, Clarke woke up with Juno blissfully curled in the crook of her neck. Clarke had identified the feeling she got when Juno was around—Blue.
 
   Clarke had always processed emotions through colors. It wasn’t something she consciously controlled; it was just how the world made sense to her. People weren’t just people—they were shifting hues, brushstrokes of emotion bleeding into the spaces they occupied. Some were overwhelming, neon flashes that pressed against her senses, too loud, too much. Others were muted, blending seamlessly into the background, easy to overlook.

    Lexa, however, was different.

    She had slipped into Clarke’s routine with an ease that felt almost unnatural. Mornings filled with predictable golden light and the warmth of coffee were no longer hers alone. There was a new presence threaded into the quiet moments—a text waiting on her phone, a lingering thought in the back of her mind. It should have been disruptive, a new color jarring against the familiar palette of her days. And yet, it wasn’t.

    Lexa didn’t unsettle her.

    That realization had struck Clarke somewhere between waking up to Lexa’s habitual Good morning, Clarke text and watching her own hands move over the canvas later that morning. She had already accepted that Lexa had become part of her world. The only thing left was figuring out what color she associated with her the most. What emotion did Lexa bring?

    By late morning, Clarke was in her studio, lost in the fluid motion of her brush. Cool blues stretched across the canvas, grounding and steady. Blues were the colors of calm, of stability, of things that made sense. But as her brush moved, yellow bled into the composition—soft but insistent. Yellow wasn’t just warmth. It was curiosity, the quiet hum of something waiting to be understood.

    She stepped back, studying the unfinished piece.

    Her emotions around Lexa weren’t singular, weren’t easy to define. There was something calming about her presence, but there was also something else—something that flickered at the edges, shifting between familiarity and the unknown.

    And then there was green.

    Green was trickier. It was the color of possibilities, of things growing, of something unspoken but undeniably there. It wasn’t overwhelming like red, nor was it fleeting like purple. It was steady, present. Clarke frowned slightly, gripping the brush tighter.

    Was that what Lexa was to her?

    She didn’t have time to dwell on it. Noon crept closer, and with it, her plans with Lexa.

---
    Lexa’s apartment was understated, much like the woman herself. Everything had a place, carefully curated yet not impersonal. The kind of space that felt lived in but never chaotic.

    Lunch was simple—sandwiches, fruit, and Lexa’s ridiculous tea collection. Clarke made a note to tease her about it later, but for now, her mind was elsewhere.

    She had noticed something today. Something she had likely always been aware of but never consciously processed.

    Lexa didn’t broadcast her emotions.

    Most people did. They were neon signs, flashing their feelings in ways they couldn’t control—shifts in tone, microexpressions, body language bleeding into their words. For Clarke, it was often overstimulating, too many colors colliding at once, demanding to be acknowledged.

    But Lexa?

    Lexa was controlled, contained. Not absent of emotion, but measured in the way she carried it. It wasn’t emptiness, but rather restraint—a wall, not a void. Clarke had assumed it was just Lexa’s nature, but now, watching the way her shoulders remained carefully composed, the way she responded to conversation without letting too much of herself slip through, Clarke knew it wasn’t just that.

    Lexa was hiding.

    It wasn’t for herself.

    It was for others.

    And Clarke hated that.

    She set her sandwich down. “Dont' do that.”

    Lexa glanced up, mid-sip of her tea, brow arching. “Do what?”

    Clarke held her gaze. “Hide.”

    A flicker of something—too quick to name—crossed Lexa’s face. “I’m not hiding.”

    Clarke raised her left eyebrow, unconvinced. “You do.”

    There was no accusation in her tone. Just quiet understanding.

    Lexa blinked. And then, like clockwork, she deflected with ease, smirk on her lips. “Maybe I just have excellent self-control.”

    Clarke didn’t smile. “That’s not what I mean.”

    Lexa set down her fork, exhaling. “Then what do you mean?”

    Clarke tilted her head, “You keep everything controlled, like you’re afraid of taking up too much space.”

    Lexa set her cup down carefully. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Clarke didn’t push, didn’t demand. She simply waited.

     For a moment, Lexa looked away, exhaling slowly. “It’s just… easier this way,” she admitted finally, voice softer than before. “I don't want people to feel uncomfortable around me, so...” she shrugged

    Clarke hummed. “That sounds like an excuse.”

    Lexa’s lips quirked up slightly. “Maybe it is.”

    Clarke leaned back, eyes unwavering. “You don’t have to do it with me. I can handle emotions, though in different way than most people do. I'm neurodivergent and autistic, Lexa, not stupid,” she said bluntly, just as she always did.

    Lexa hesitated. And then, the wall didn’t crumble—but it shifted. Just enough for Clarke to catch the hint of something raw beneath it.

    “…I know,” Lexa said finally.

    Clarke nodded. She didn’t push for more. She didn’t need to.

    Instead, she picked up her sandwich again, taking a bite as if the moment hadn’t just shifted into something heavier. Lexa exhaled, then shook her head, amusement flickering in her expression. “You really don’t let anything go, do you?”

    Clarke smirked. “I notice everything, Lexa.”

    Lexa met her gaze, something lingering there—something vulnerable, something understood.

    “Yeah,” Lexa murmured. “I’m starting to realize that.”

    And just like that, green settled into place.

    Lexa woke before her alarm, as usual. The early morning silence stretched through the house, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. She shifted, adjusting the brace on her leg before reaching for her phone on the nightstand. The action had become second nature.

    Lexa: Good morning, Clarke.

    She sent the message before overthinking it. It had become part of her routine, something stable amidst the forced stillness of recovery.

    Clarke’s reply came minutes later.

    Clarke: Morning.

    Short, efficient, exactly like Clarke. And yet, Lexa had come to anticipate it.

    With a sigh, she sat up and prepared for the day. Even though she was working from home, the pull to be doing something gnawed at her. She should be at the site, overseeing things firsthand. But the ache in her leg and the memory of Clarke’s firm warning—"Don’t overdo it, Lexa"—echoed in her mind.

    She’s already in my head.

    Anya would call her whipped.

    Maybe she wasn’t wrong.

    Lexa tried to focus on work, but distractions crept in. Reports blurred together. The structured lines of blueprints didn’t hold her attention like they usually did.

    Instead, her thoughts kept drifting—to Clarke, to the quiet comfort of their routine, to the strange sense of ease that settled over her when they were together.

    She had expected Clarke’s presence to feel overwhelming at first. Crowds, loud emotions, unpredictability—those things made her tense. But Clarke? Clarke moved through life with a precise sort of control, her mind working in ways Lexa was still learning to understand.

    Lexa had noticed it in the way Clarke adjusted—how she built new routines around spending time with her, how she navigated her overstimulation instead of avoiding it.

    That realization settled in her chest, warm and unfamiliar.

    She shook her head, closing her laptop with a sigh. It was almost noon.

    Time for lunch.

---

    Lexa was setting the plates on the table when Clarke arrived.

    “You’re actually listening to the doctor’s orders,” Clarke remarked, placing her bag down. “I’m impressed.”

    Lexa smirked. “You mean your orders?”

    Clarke didn’t argue, only gave her a pointed look before sitting down.

    They ate in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling. Lexa had always been comfortable with quiet, and Clarke, for all her bluntness, seemed to understand that.

    Then Clarke spoke, and her words struck with the precision of an architect dismantling weak foundations.

    “Don't do that,"

     Lexa glanced up, mid-sip of her tea, brow arching. “Do what?”

    Clarke met her gaze, steady and unyielding. “Hide.”

    Lexa felt her breath catch for a fraction of a second. She sees too much.

    She recovered quickly. “I don’t hide.”

    Clarke tilted her head, unconvinced. “You do.”

    There was no accusation in her tone. Just quiet understanding.

    Lexa swallowed, forcing a smirk. “Maybe I just have excellent self-control.”

    Clarke didn’t let it slide. “That’s not what I mean.”

    Lexa set down her fork, exhaling. “Then what do you mean?”

    “You keep everything controlled, like you’re afraid of taking up too much space.”

    The words were gentle, but they hit harder than they should have.

    Lexa had spent years mastering the art of measured emotions, learning when to speak and when to remain unreadable. Costia had once called her distant, and she had believed it. She had convinced herself that walls meant security, that restraint was protection.

    But Clarke saw through it.

    Lexa set her cup down carefully. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Clarke didn’t push, didn’t demand. She simply waited.
 
    For a moment, Lexa looked away, exhaling slowly. “It’s just… easier this way,” she admitted finally, voice softer than before. “I don't want people to feel uncomfortable around me, so...” she shrugged.

    Clarke hummed. “That sounds like an excuse.”

    Lexa’s lips quirked up slightly. “Maybe it is.”

    Clarke leaned back, eyes unwavering. “You don’t have to do it with me. I can handle emotions, though in different way than most people do. I'm neurodivergent and autistic, Lexa, not stupid,” she said bluntly, just as she always did.

    Lexa hesitated. And then, the wall didn’t crumble—but it shifted. Just enough for Clarke to catch the hint of something raw beneath it.

    “…I know,” Lexa said finally.

    Clarke nodded. She didn’t push for more. She didn’t need to.

    Instead, she picked up her sandwich again, taking a bite as if the moment hadn’t just shifted into something heavier. Lexa exhaled, then shook her head, amusement flickering in her expression. “You really don’t let anything go, do you?”

    Clarke smirked. “I notice everything, Lexa.”

    Lexa met her gaze, something lingering there—something vulnerable, something understood.

    “Yeah,” Lexa murmured. “I’m starting to realize that.”

---
    Once Clarke was gone, Lexa found herself unable to focus.

    She tried returning to work, but Clarke’s words lingered.

    You don’t have to do it with me.

    She wasn’t used to this—to being seen in ways that didn’t feel invasive or uncomfortable.

    She had let her walls down once. Costia had made her believe that was a mistake. And after the divorce, she had sealed every crack, focusing solely on her work. It was easier that way.

    But now Clarke was here, slipping into her life, pressing against her defenses with quiet certainty.

    And Lexa wasn’t sure if that terrified her or made her hopeful.

    By the time Lexa finally stopped overthinking, Anya was already lounging on her couch, flipping through channels.

    “So,” Anya drawled, not looking up, “how was your lunch date?”

    Lexa sighed, removing her brace. “It wasn’t a date.”

    Anya smirked. “Right. Just lunch with the woman you text first thing in the morning and spend all your free time with. Totally not a date.”

    Lexa ignored her, instead focusing on the slight swelling in her foot.

    Anya noticed. “You’re spiraling.”

    Lexa hesitated, then quietly asked, “What if I let Clarke see me for who I really am, and it’s too much? Or too little?”

    Anya’s teasing softened. “Clarke doesn’t run from things like that.”

    Lexa frowned. “You don’t know that.”

    Anya gave her a knowing look. “I do know that. Look at how she handled the overstimulation your presence caused—she built new routines just for spending time with you, Lex. She didn’t run. She faced it. And she came out stronger.”

    Lexa swallowed.

    Anya placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’s not Costia, Lex. And you’re not the same person you were back then.”

    Lexa let the words settle. Maybe Anya was right. Maybe it was okay to want this.

    As she went to bed that night, she didn’t text Clarke a long message. She didn’t have to.

Lexa: Goodnight, Clarke. And… thank you.

    She knew Clarke would understand.

---

    Clarke had already finished her nightly routine and was settling into bed when her phone vibrated.

    Lexa: Goodnight, Clarke. And… thank you.

    Clarke didn’t need to ask why. She already knew.

    She stared at the message for a moment before typing back, her reply blunt but not unkind.

    Clarke: Goodnight, Lexa. Thanks for lunch

    And then, after a brief hesitation, she added a single 😊 at the end before hitting send.

    She wasn’t the type to use emojis. They were too vague, too open to misinterpretation. But for some reason, tonight, it didn’t feel weird.

    Tonight, it felt right.

--

   On Thursday, Clarke’s art studio was a sanctuary of controlled chaos. Stretched canvases leaned against the walls, tubes of paint cluttered her workspace, and the faint scent of turpentine lingered in the air. The morning light filtered through the skylight, casting soft, shifting patterns across the room as Clarke stood in front of her easel, brush in hand, a fresh canvas waiting.

    She had started this piece with a clear vision—a forest, deep and endless, the kind that felt alive, breathing. But something was wrong.

    The green.

    No matter how many times she mixed the paint, the color didn’t sit right.

    Her first attempt was too cool, too blue-toned, like pine needles in winter. The second was too bright, almost artificial. The third was muddied, dull, lifeless. She tried again, frustration mounting with each failed blend. Her fingers smudged with various shades of green as she worked, palette knife scraping, brush bristles bending under her growing impatience.

    By the sixth attempt, Clarke exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. The color in her mind was right there, at the edge of understanding, but she couldn't quite reach it. It wasn’t just any green. It was something deeper, something familiar.

    Then, as she adjusted the ratio of yellow to blue and a hint of something warmer, she saw it.

    The exact shade she had been chasing.

    And in that moment, she realized—

    It was Lexa’s green.

    The deep, shifting green of Lexa’s eyes, the color that held quiet intensity, unreadable depths. The green that softened in the right light, warmed when Lexa let her guard down, flickered with emotion when she thought no one was watching.

    Clarke stared at the newly mixed paint, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

    Oh.

    Something settled in her chest. A quiet truth that had been there for weeks, lingering, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

    Her fingers tightened around the brush as she turned back to the canvas, and this time, the strokes came effortlessly. The forest unfolded beneath her hands, layered with depth and movement, each tree carved with the color she now recognized so clearly. The frustration that had clouded her mind all morning dissipated as she lost herself in the process.

    By the time she stepped back, her muscles ached from standing too long, her fingertips smeared with paint. But she barely noticed.

    The tension was gone.

    And in its place was clarity.

    Lexa.

    Her feelings for Lexa weren’t just fleeting curiosity or admiration. They were wrapped in this—the way she noticed everything about her, the way Lexa’s presence had become something steady, something safe.

    Something Clarke wasn’t sure she had the right words for yet.

    She pressed her lips together, staring at the completed painting, heart still racing from the realization.

    Maybe it was time to talk to Raven and Octavia.

    They were more experienced in these things. Maybe they could help her untangle this.

    But deep down, Clarke already knew.

    She just wasn’t sure if she was ready to say it yet.

    ---

    The afternoon sunlight slanted through the curtains of Lexa’s home office, casting golden streaks across her desk. She exhaled, rubbing her temple as she skimmed through the latest reports Anya had dropped off. Working from home wasn’t terrible, but she still felt the weight of being sidelined.

    Her leg, still healing from surgery, throbbed dully under the desk. She resisted the urge to shift too much, knowing Clarke would definitely scold her if she overdid it.

    Anya, standing by the desk, smirked. “You look miserable.”

    Lexa arched an eyebrow. “Insightful.”

    Anya shrugged, tossing a file onto the desk. “You’re itching to get back, aren’t you?”

    Lexa sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Of course I am.”

    Anya crossed her arms. “You know Clarke’s gonna kill you if you rush this recovery, right?”

    Lexa chuckled. “She does seem very committed to keeping me in one piece.”

    Anya smirked. “Sounds dangerously like concern.”

    Lexa just hummed, shaking her head as she flipped open another report.

    By the time Anya left, Lexa had settled into work, letting the familiar rhythm of reviewing plans and drafting proposals keep her occupied.

    But sometime between reviewing blueprints and making notes, she must have dozed off.

    Because at 3 PM, her phone vibrated against the desk, startling her awake.

    Lexa blinked blearily, momentarily disoriented. Her head had been resting on her folded arms, and there were faint lines pressed into her skin from her sleeve.

    She squinted at her phone screen.

Clarke: Rest your leg and don’t fall asleep while working.

    Lexa stared at the message, still half-dazed.

    She blinked again. Looked around, as if Clarke might somehow be standing in the room, watching her. But of course, she wasn’t. Clarke wasn’t the type to just show up unannounced.

    Lexa chuckled, shaking her head.

    Lexa: Your instincts are almost terrifying.

    She leaned back, stretching carefully, still amused. Clarke had clearly been thinking about her, enough to somehow know exactly what had happened.

    And Lexa found she didn’t mind that at all.

    Later that afternoon, Lexa was sitting on her couch, scrolling through documents on her tablet, when her phone finally buzzed again.

    Clarke: I observe people to understand their behavior.

    Lexa frowned slightly but smiled as she read the next message.

    Clarke: And I’ve already solved parts of your puzzle.

    Lexa’s curiosity piqued.

Lexa: Oh?

    A moment later, Clarke replied.

Clarke: You push yourself too hard. You don’t like being idle, and you hate asking for help. But you appreciate it when it’s offered without expectation.

    Lexa exhaled slowly, something warm curling in her chest.

    She didn’t know whether to be impressed or unnerved. Clarke’s insight was… sharp. But more than that, it was accurate.

    She typed back.

Lexa: I think I should be concerned by how well you read me.

Clarke: Nah. You’re not that complicated.

    Lexa chuckled, shaking her head.

    She was beginning to suspect that Clarke Griffin was going to surprise her constantly.

    And for once, Lexa didn’t mind being a puzzle for someone to figure out.
---

     Ater finishing her painting, Clarke sat in her studio, staring at the canvas.

    The deep, rich green of the forest she had painted felt right. The color had eluded her before, but now? Now she understood why.

    It was the green of Lexa’s eyes.

    The thought settled in her chest—calm, but certain.

    Lexa had a presence that wasn’t overwhelming or demanding. She was steady, and Clarke hadn’t realized how much she had needed that.

    For weeks, Clarke had been afraid of losing herself. But now, for the first time in a long while, she felt like she was finding something instead.

    And the idea of seeing Lexa again? It didn’t just feel like part of her new routine.

    It felt like something she was looking forward to.

    Clarke exhaled, leaning back.

    She didn’t want Lexa to hold back for her sake. She wanted to see her—not just the parts she let people see, but the whole picture.

    And that thought was both terrifying and thrilling.

    Clarke smiled to herself.

    For once, she wasn’t afraid of what came next.

    The rest of her week, and the next two weeks after that went as it was supposed to according to her new routines— Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturday nights were now 'Lexa's days'. Tuesdays, Thurdays were her private time, which were just her being cooped up in her studio, painting, as usual, only now Juno was a steady presence around her.

    Fridays were now alloted for routines with Octavia on lunch break, Saturdays with Raven now early than usual, from lunch to dinner, then she and Raven went to O's bar, Lexa and Anya would be there, as usual, after their routines were established.

    Sundays remained unchanged, and she loved it. It was the time for her to rewind and regroup, spending time with her beloved parents.

    Fridays with Octavia had become a staple in Clarke’s schedule—a necessary one, even if Clarke wouldn't admit it out loud.

    She arrived at their usual café just as Octavia was already halfway through her drink, boots kicked up on the chair beside her.

    “You’re late,” Octavia teased, smirking over the rim of her cup.

    Clarke slid into the seat across from her, setting her bag down. “I’m literally three minutes early.”

    Octavia shrugged. “Not early enough.”

    Clarke rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she flagged down the waiter, ordered her usual, and leaned back in her seat.

    “How’s the settling going?” Octavia asked, stretching.

    Clarke frowned. “Settling?”

    Octavia smirked. “Don’t play dumb, Griffin. You’ve got new routines now. And considering you’ve spent years fighting against those, it’s very interesting.”

    Clarke huffed, sipping her drink when it arrived. “New routines aren’t bad, O.”

    “No,” Octavia agreed. “But change is hard for you, and you chose this one.”

    Clarke didn’t answer right away. Because Octavia wasn’t wrong. Clarke had established this new schedule for Octavia  three weeks ago, clinging to structure to regain control after establishing her new routines with Lexa. Her bestfriends' presence, and spending quality time with them was always important for Clarke and gave her the sense of normality. But now? Now it didn’t feel like something she was clinging to—it just was.

    And part of her knew that Lexa had something to do with that.

    “So?” Octavia pressed, grinning. “Are you gonna admit that you’ve got a favorite part of this new routine?”

    Clarke smirked. “Obviously not spending time with you.”

    Octavia gasped, clutching her chest. “You traitor!”

    Clarke just laughed, the kind of easy, genuine laugh that Octavia hadn’t seen often.

    Raven hadn't expected Clarke to show up early the first time, surprising her by appearing at the shop before lunch instead of later in the afternoon. It had thrown her off at first, but now? Now it was just their thing.

    When Clarke arrived this time, Raven was already elbow-deep in an engine, grease smudged across her cheek.

    “Ah, my favorite useless assistant has arrived,” Raven greeted without looking up.

    Clarke scoffed, setting her bag down. “Excuse you. I’m a fantastic assistant.”

    Raven popped up, raising an eyebrow. “Are you, though?”

    Clarke crossed her arms. “I pass you tools.”

    “After asking me which one is which every single time.”

    Clarke huffed, but there was no real bite to it. Instead, she grabbed a rag from the workbench, tossing it at Raven’s face. “Shut up and work.”

    Raven caught it easily, laughing.

    The hours passed in the usual way—Raven working, Clarke making sarcastic comments, lunch bleeding into more conversations about everything and nothing.

    But the biggest surprise came when Clarke didn’t leave after lunch.

    “You’re staying 'till dinner right?” Raven asked as they sat outside, post-lunch.

    Clarke frowned. “Yeah? That a problem?”

    Raven shrugged, “No, but…” She tilted her head, a playful smirk on her face . “I thought this early Saturday dates with me were just  a fluke. What’s the deal?”

“I just—” She exhaled. “Being with you is good. It helps.”

    Raven didn’t tease this time. She just nodded, nudging Clarke’s foot with hers. “Good.”

    And just like that, they settled into their routine again.

    By the time Clarke and Raven arrived at O’Bar after their usual dinner, the night was already in full swing.

    Lexa was sitting at their usual booth with Anya, both nursing drinks, while Octavia was laughing with Lincoln at the bar. Raven, predictably, was already starting to completely wrecking some poor guy at pool as soon as Clarke got distracted by Lexa's unmistakable charm. Clarke slid into the booth beside Lexa, their shoulders brushing.

    Lexa turned to her immediately, eyes scanning her face. “Long day?”

    Clarke nodded dramatically. “Raven forced me into manual labor.”

    Lexa’s lips twitched. “Handing her tools is hardly labor.”

    “She mocked me, Lexa.”

    Lexa let out a small chuckle, shaking her head.

    Anya smirked, sipping her drink. “Sounds traumatic.”

    Clarke pointed at her. “Thank you.”

    The night carried on in easy conversation, drinks flowing, banter sparking between them all.

    And Clarke—Clarke found herself relaxed.

    She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Lexa’s presence beside her was steady, something she no longer felt the need to brace against.

    And that realization sent unidentified warmth into her heart.

---
    On Sunday, Clarke had barely sat down at the breakfast table before Jake was already smirking at her.

    “You’re late,” he teased.

    Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I am not late.”

    Jake shrugged. “Maybe not literally, but you’ve been distracted lately.”

    Abby, sipping her coffee, smiled. “You seem… settled, Clarke.”

    Clarke frowned. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

    Jake grinned. “Because you are.” He leaned forward. “So? Who is responsible for this?”

    Clarke sighed, stabbing at her food. “I hate you.”

    Jake gasped, mock-offended. “Is this how you treat your father?”

    Abby laughed, shaking her head.

    Jake wasn’t deterred, though. “Come on, admit it. This Lexa you keep talking about—”

    Clarke didn’t even hesitate. “She’s worth talking about.”

    Jake blinked. “You—” He turned to Abby. “Did she just admit that?”

    Abby, laughing, nodded.

    Jake looked back at Clarke, horrified. “Who are you?”

    Clarke smirked, sipping her coffee. “Your favorite child.”

    Jake huffed. “By default.”

    Abby just laughed harder.

    And Clarke? Clarke just shook her head, hiding a small smile behind her coffee.