Perfect Balance

    Three weeks had passed since Clarke had fully settled into her new routine. Lexa’s leg had healed enough that she no longer needed the brace, though Clarke still insisted on keeping an eye on her. The shift in their relationship was subtle but undeniable—Clarke was more comfortable initiating small touches, fingers brushing against Lexa’s wrist, a fleeting press of a palm against her shoulder. Each time, Lexa’s heart responded before her mind could catch up.

    Clarke, pragmatic as ever, saw physical contact as a means to an end—conveying reassurance, emphasizing a point, testing her own curiosity about sensory input. But for Lexa, it was something else entirely. Every accidental or intentional brush of Clarke’s fingers sent warmth curling beneath her skin, something soft and intoxicating, something Lexa had no real defense against.

    It was Monday evening when Clarke barged into Lexa’s office without knocking, balancing two paper cups in one hand and their dinner in the other. Her eyebrow arched in silent accusation.

    They had agreed to have dinner together at Lexa's office since Lexa was pulling overtime to catch up on work that had piled up while she was recuperating. 

    While she had worked from home, Anya had been the one to decide which tasks were important enough to prioritize, meaning some things had remained untouched.

    Lexa, who had just gotten up to stretch, winced slightly at the stiffness in her healing muscles and froze under the weight of Clarke’s scrutinizing gaze.

    “You’re abusing your feet,” Clarke announced, stepping further inside like she owned the place.
    
    Lexa smirked, leaning casually against her desk, feigning nonchalance. “I thought you’d be happy I’m healing.”

    “Oh, I am,” Clarke said, setting down their drinks before leveling her with a flat look. “Doesn’t mean I trust you to act sensibly.”

    Lexa chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m fine, Clarke.”

    “Sure.” Clarke made a slow, deliberate show of narrowing her eyes, gaze flicking down to Lexa’s leg like she didn’t quite believe her.

    Without thinking, Lexa reached out and flicked Clarke’s wrist, the touch barely there. Clarke blinked down at it, then back up at her, expression unreadable for half a beat before a smirk curled at the edges of her lips.

    “I’ll allow that,” Clarke muttered before moving to the sofa, setting their dinner down and spreading out the containers.

    Lexa, who had been about to sit down, eyed the sheer amount of food on the table and huffed out a quiet laugh.

    "Are you planning to feed the whole building?" Lexa asked, raising an eyebrow.

    Clarke frowned, glancing at the containers, then back at Lexa. "Did you make the whole building work overtime like you?" she asked, like she was genuinely unsure.

    Lexa just shook her head fondly, taking her seat. “Of course not, Clarke. It's just a joke.”

    Clarke tilted her head as if analyzing the statement before deciding to move on. “Okay,” she said simply before opening one of the containers.

    They ate, their conversation flowing naturally, touching on everything from work to random anecdotes about Raven’s latest project. The easy banter between them was something Lexa had grown to enjoy—Clarke’s sharp wit, the way she got animated when talking about something she loved, the comfortable silences that never felt awkward.

    Lexa wiped her mouth with a napkin after finishing her meal and glanced at Clarke, who was mid-bite, her eyes locked onto Lexa’s now-empty plate.

    “You’re fast,” Clarke observed, staring at the spot where food had been just moments ago. It wasn’t a complaint, just an analysis—like she was filing away the information for later.

    Lexa shrugged unapologetically. “I was hungry, the food was good, and the company is even better.”

    She winked, grinning when she noticed the faint pink hue dusting Clarke’s cheeks.

    Clarke rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she narrowed her eyes playfully. “You will not have my chicken by praising me, Lex.”

    Lexa laughed, lifting her hands in surrender. “Chill, Griff. I wouldn’t dare steal your chicken.”

    Clarke nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said before finishing the rest of her food.

    When they were done, Lexa helped clean up, gathering the empty takeout boxes while Clarke stacked the coffee cups neatly.

    The clock on the wall read 7 PM, and Clarke sighed, stretching her arms above her head. “Alright, I should head home. I still need to do my night routine and sleep like a responsible adult.”

    Lexa chuckled. “For once, I actually believe you.”

    Clarke huffed, shooting her a mock glare before grabbing her coat. As she moved past Lexa, she let her fingers brush against the back of Lexa’s hand in a way that was both fleeting and deliberate.

    Lexa’s breath caught, her entire body stilling for a fraction of a second too long. She watched Clarke’s retreating form, her heart betraying her with its uneven rhythm.

    God help me, she thought, exhaling slowly.

---
    It was Wednesday, and it was Lexa's day again, a scheduled lunch with Clarke. They usually had their lunch at Clarke's usual cafè near her gallery, but Clarke had asked if they could have their lunch in the studio instead, and Clarke would have their take outs delivered from Clarke's favorite chinese restaurant. Lexa had asked if it's okay, and Clarke had told her it would be fine.

    And now, Lexa was driving slowly and carefully from the office, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as she maneuvered through Arkadia’s familiar streets, her fingers drumming against the leather. It was just lunch. A completely normal, casual, platonic meal with Clarke. They had eaten together before—at her place, at cafés, at Clarke’s studio, once even at a small, family-run restaurant Clarke had insisted she try.

    It’s not a date, she reminded herself, inhaling deeply. You’re just sharing a meal. Like before.

    But Anya, being the absolute menace she was, had ruined that logic for her that morning.

    "Going to see Clarke again, huh?"

    Lexa had barely grabbed her keys when Anya’s voice floated in from the kitchen, full of amusement. Lexa didn’t need to look to know her cousin had that insufferable smirk on her face.

    "We’re having our lunch routine," Lexa’s voice had been even, controlled. Casual.

    Anya hummed, far too entertained. "Lunch, huh? Just the two of you? Midweek? In her studio?" A pause. Then, a grin. "Sounds a lot like a date."

    "It’s not a date," Lexa had shot back immediately, too quickly, which only made Anya’s smirk widen.

    "Mhm." Anya had leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "If you say so."
—

    Lexa groaned at the memory, running a hand through her hair as she pulled up to a red light. Damn Anya. Now she couldn’t shake the thought, and everything about this lunch suddenly felt… heightened. More significant.

    She was overthinking.

    You’ve seen Clarke plenty of times. This is no different.

    And yet, her fingers curled against her thigh as she exhaled slowly. No matter how much she tried to rationalize it, something in her chest buzzed—anticipation, awareness, a nervous excitement she wasn’t sure how to name.

    Lexa was seeing Clarke again. And she couldn’t wait.

---

    Clarke stared at the clock. It was still moving too slowly.

    She exhaled through her nose, pacing the length of her studio, trying to shake the feeling pressing against her ribs. Not physical, no—it wasn’t a real weight, but a sensation. A presence. Something restless.

    She hated not being able to name emotions properly—not without effort. Feelings were like colors to her, shades that blended together, sometimes too indistinct to separate. And right now, she wasn’t sure if the color in her chest was a deep amber or a soft, golden hue—anticipation, hope.

    After another glance at the clock (seriously, time should be moving faster), she pulled out her phone and pressed the familiar contact.

    "Clarke?" Abby’s voice was warm as she answered.

    "Hey, Mom." Clarke exhaled. "I—wanted to ask you something."

    "Of course." A pause. "What is it?"

    Clarke frowned slightly, sitting on the edge of her desk, rolling a paintbrush between her fingers. "You know that feeling? When there’s something in your chest, but not really? Like—like it’s not heavy, but it’s… there. And you don’t know if you want to hold onto it or if you want it to disappear faster."

    There was silence on the other end. Then, a knowing hum.

    "What color is it?" Abby asked gently.

    Clarke considered. "Golden. No—softer than that. Maybe pale yellow, but with—" She frowned. "—streaks of blue. But not sad blue. Just… blue."

    "And this is about Lexa?"

    Clarke stiffened slightly. "…Yes."

    "Are you nervous?"

    "No," Clarke answered immediately. "We’ve had meals together before. It’s not like it’s the first time." She hesitated, running her fingers over the desk. "I just… I want the time to move faster."

    Abby chuckled, soft and affectionate. "Sounds like you miss her."

    Clarke opened her mouth, then closed it.
  
    Miss?

    That word settled over her, and something shifted—the uneasy lump in her chest melting into something warmer, more tangible. She hadn’t realized that was the word for it, but now that it had been named, it felt… right.

    "Maybe," she admitted quietly.

    Abby hummed again, the kind of sound that said she already knew. "Well, lucky for you, lunchtime is almost here."

    Clarke smiled, glancing at the clock again.

    "Yeah," she murmured. "It is."

---

    By the time Lexa arrived, Clarke was seated on the studio floor, setting out the takeout boxes on a low table in an orderly arrangement. The scent of food mixed with the faint smell of paint and coffee, the studio’s usual quiet interrupted only by the occasional clink of chopsticks or the rustle of paper.

    Lexa had settled across from her, legs crossed, bottle of water in hand. The anticipation that had buzzed between them earlier had softened now—settling into something steadier, comfortable.

    At first, there had been an awareness. A keen sense of the other’s presence, of the way their shoulders nearly brushed when they reached for something, of the way Clarke occasionally glanced at Lexa between bites, curious and intent.

    But the initial tension eased into easy conversation—small insights into their personal lives, moments of shared laughter.

    Clarke, in her blunt honesty, had no hesitation in asking Lexa about the small details most people ignored.

    "Do you always eat your noodles like that?" she had asked at one point, head tilted.

    Lexa blinked, glancing down at the perfectly rolled noodles around her chopstick. "Yes?"

    Clarke nodded, as if filing that away. "You like orders."

    Lexa huffed a quiet laugh. "I’m an architect. Of course, I do."

    Clarke considered. "That makes sense. But it’s not just in work, is it?"

    Lexa opened her mouth, then closed it, caught off guard by the directness.

    Clarke smirked, pleased with herself.

    Lexa exhaled, shaking her head. "You like making me flustered, don’t you?"

    Clarke took a sip of her drink, completely unapologetic. "Maybe."

    Lexa felt warmth creep up her neck.

    Clarke definitely noticed, but she didn’t comment—just stored that information away for later.

    She liked knowing which words could make Lexa blush.
---

    The scent of paint and fresh linen mixed with the remnants of their meal, creating a quiet bubble of warmth in Clarke’s studio. The space itself felt lived in, personal—a reflection of Clarke’s mind in both its controlled chaos and deliberate structure. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a soft glow over the wooden floors, highlighting the dusting of color Clarke had yet to clean from the edges of her workstation.

    Clarke sat on one side of the low table, methodically gathering the empty takeout boxes into a neat stack. Across from her, Lexa occupied the other end, one elbow resting on the low table, sipping from a bottle of water. It had taken a few minutes for their initial nerves to settle, for the anticipatory edge in the air to soften into something familiar, something easy.

    Still, there was a charge beneath it. A heightened awareness of the other’s presence. The way Lexa’s foot occasionally nudged one of Clarke’s foot, not quite accidental. The way Clarke’s gaze lingered, taking in small details—the way Lexa held her chopsticks, the way she subtly rearranged things around her, an instinct for order.

    Neither rushed to fill the silence, content in the understanding that it wasn’t empty, just present.

    Then, Clarke, never one to dance around things unnecessarily, turned slightly and said, without preamble—

    “You should know that I’m autistic.”

    Lexa stilled for half a second, setting her bottle down with careful precision before meeting Clarke’s gaze. She didn’t look surprised, only attentive, thoughtful.

    “I know,” she said simply. “I’ve been doing my own research.”

    That made Clarke pause. She tilted her head, intrigued. “Good,” she said after a moment, before adding bluntly, “but don’t fall for fiction’s nonsense. They either make us out to be supercomputers or emotionless weirdos. I can’t be ‘cured.’ I won’t magically stop struggling just because something is good for me.”

    Lexa nodded, waiting. She had quickly learned that Clarke was methodical when she explained things—laying out facts, measuring responses. Lexa had never minded, if anything, she appreciated the clarity.

    “Big, important changes don’t just happen.” Clarke’s fingers traced the rim of her water bottle as she spoke, almost absently. Then, her eyes flicked up to meet Lexa’s. “I need to categorize them, put them into new routines, figure out how to live with them instead of around them.”

    Lexa absorbed that, turning it over in her mind. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t quite this—Clarke, so open, so certain in the way she shared this part of herself.

    And then—because she couldn’t help herself—Lexa smirked slightly. “So, I’m important enough to be categorized?”

    Clarke blinked, face unreadable for a second, before she tilted her head in consideration. Lexa had been half-joking, but Clarke didn’t dismiss it. Instead, she leaned in slightly, gaze direct, and said—

    “Yes, Lexa. You are important.”

    Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact, but there was something about it—the quiet certainty, the honesty—that made Lexa’s stomach twist in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

    “Your presence are significant that I need to learn how to make room for you,” Clarke continued, voice low, thoughtful. “I have to adjust to the way your presence changes things for me.”

    Lexa swallowed, heart hammering. Clarke had no idea what she was doing to her.

    Clarke pulled back slightly, observing her reaction, and Lexa, still reeling, could only manage a slightly uneven, “That’s good to know.”

    Clarke smirked, as if pleased with herself.

    Lexa took a steadying breath, willing her heart to calm down.

    Falling for Clarke Griffin is so incredibly easy, she thought, and she was in so much trouble.

    It was Thursday, and Clarke spent yet another day filled with familiar routine.

    Clarke had been working on the portrait for a while now. Every brushstroke was intentional, every color blended with care, but something was missing. Or rather, something wasn’t quite right. She could see it—an almost-there version of Lexa staring back at her from the canvas—but the texture of her hair, the way the light caught the strands, eluded her.

    She had used references, of course. Pictures from her phone, mental snapshots from their time together. But Clarke’s mind thrived on precision, and right now, she couldn’t feel the texture of Lexa’s hair through the paint. And that was unacceptable.

    Her fingers hovered over her phone, debating. Texting would be easier. A simple question: What’s the texture of your hair? But words wouldn’t be enough. Clarke needed to see. But Clarke hesitated, she didn't want to bother Lexa's working time.

    By the time lunchtime approached, Lexa’s name lit up her screen.

Lexa: Hey. How’s your day going?

Clarke: Productive. You?

Lexa: Same. Meetings all morning. You working on something new?

    Without overthinking further, Clarke hit the video call button.
---

    Lexa had just finished reviewing a set of designs and sent her reply to Clarke's message when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, surprised to see Clarke’s name, video calling her.

    They didn’t do video calls. Their communication had a rhythm—scheduled check-ins, steady messages throughout the day—but this was new. Unexpected.

    A flicker of concern passed through her. Clarke didn’t like deviations from routine unless she initiated them for a reason. Lexa immediately swiped to accept.

    Clarke’s face filled the screen, backlit by the soft lighting of her studio. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, smudges of paint streaking across her forearm. She looked focused, but not distressed
    
    “Clarke?” Lexa greeted, adjusting the phone in its holder on the table.

    Clarke’s gaze flitted over the screen before she nodded, almost to herself. “Hey. I need to see your hair.”

    Lexa blinked. “My hair?”

    “Yes.” Clarke’s voice was as direct as ever. “The texture. I need to get it right for the portrait.”

    Lexa’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected Clarke to paint her, let alone be so dedicated to making it perfect.

    “A portrait?” she echoed.

    “For your birthday.” Clarke paused. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I don’t like big surprises, so I won’t do them for other people either. I always tell them what I’m giving them.”

    Lexa smiled, warmth seeping through her. “That’s—” She swallowed. “That’s really thoughtful, Clarke.”

    Clarke tilted her head slightly, as if cataloging Lexa’s reaction. “You like the idea?”

    “I love the idea,” Lexa admitted, something in her chest tightening. Clarke cared in ways that were deliberate and meaningful. She didn’t do things on impulse—every choice was a conscious decision. The fact that she had chosen this for Lexa felt… significant.

    “Good,” Clarke said, satisfied. “Now, your hair.”

    Lexa huffed a soft laugh, running a hand through her hair for the camera. “What exactly do you need to see?”

    “The way it falls. The way light catches it.” Clarke was already studying her intently. “Move a little.”

    Lexa obeyed, angling her head side to side, watching as Clarke’s eyes tracked every motion.

    “Slower,” Clarke murmured, as if she were speaking more to herself than Lexa. “And—wait, tilt your head a bit down. Yes, like that.”

    Lexa had never felt so thoroughly examined before, and yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Clarke’s attention wasn’t invasive—it was reverent. Careful.

    “You have lighter strands near the front,” Clarke noted absentmindedly. “I didn’t notice that before.”

    Lexa chuckled. “Neither did I.”

    Clarke hummed. Then, as if just realizing how long they’d been on the call, she blinked and sat back. 

    "Did it help?" Lexa asked, watching Clarke's slightly furrowed eyebrows,

    Clarke studied her a bit longer through the screen. 

    Lexa watched as Clarke’s gaze flickered across her face, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. Lexa had seen Clarke like this before—completely immersed in her process, focused. But being the subject of that focus was something else entirely.

    After a minute, Clarke hummed, adjusting her phone slightly. “That helped, but it’s not enough.”

    Lexa raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

    Clarke frowned at her screen. “Video isn’t the same. I need to see your hair under my studio light. And I need to touch it.”

    Lexa’s breath caught.

    There was no hesitation in Clarke’s tone, no awareness of how her words might affect Lexa. She was simply stating a fact—her fact, her logic. But that didn’t stop the way Lexa’s stomach clenched, heat creeping up her neck.

    Lexa swallowed, pushing past the sudden flutter in her chest. “Would it help if I came by?”

    Clarke nodded, serious. “Yes.”

    Lexa exhaled, grounding herself. “Okay. I’ll head over after work. Does that work for you?”

    Clarke’s lips quirked up slightly, satisfied. “Yes. I’ll prepare the studio light. Thank you, Lexa.”

    Lexa huffed out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Anytime, Clarke. Do I get to see the painting?”

    Clarke exhaled through her nose—her version of a laugh. “No.”

    Lexa grinned. “But you don’t like surprises.”

    “I don’t,” Clarke agreed, smirking. “But you might.”

    Lexa bit the inside of her cheek, heart fluttering. She was in so much trouble.

    “Alright,” she conceded, letting the moment linger a beat longer before nodding. “Thank you for telling me.”

    Clarke nodded back. “Of course. I don’t keep things like this to myself.”

    Lexa liked that about her. That she didn’t play games. That she spoke her mind with certainty and care.

    Clarke shifted in her seat. "See you later?”

    Lexa softened. “Yeah. Later, Clarke.”

    As the call ended, Lexa sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

    She was in so much trouble.

---

    By the time the clock neared 4 p.m., Clarke was already standing near the door to her studio, fingers tapping against her thigh in a steady rhythm. It wasn’t anxiety—not exactly. It was the small deviation from her usual Thursday routine that unsettled her, the shift in a day usually reserved for uninterrupted painting.

    Her brows furrowed slightly. She had planned for this. She had invited Lexa, she had reorganized her schedule accordingly. So why did she feel this strange tightness in her chest?

    Then, through the glass door, she saw a familiar figure approaching.

    Lexa, with her confident stride, her crisp white button-up rolled at the sleeves, her messenger bag slung over her shoulder. And just like that—Clarke’s nerves settled.

    It was always like this with Lexa.

    She opened the door before Lexa could knock. “You’re on time,” she said, stepping aside.

    Lexa smirked slightly, amused by the greeting. “Of course.”

    Clarke nodded, as if reassured by the confirmation, then turned on her heel. “Come in.”

    Lexa followed her inside, immediately taking in the space. The studio smelled of fresh paint, a faint citrus from whatever Clarke was drinking earlier, and something uniquely her. The room was bathed in warm light, canvases propped against the far wall, an organized chaos of tubes and brushes spread across the long work table.

    Clarke gestured to the chair in the brightest corner. “Sit.”

    Lexa obeyed, setting her bag down as she settled in. That’s when she noticed movement in the corner of her eye.

    A small, grey cat stretched lazily on a plush pet bed a few feet away, lifting her head just enough to reveal sharp green eyes.

    Lexa’s brows lifted slightly. “So that’s Juno.”

    Clarke, focused on arranging her brushes, only glanced up briefly. “Yep.”

    Lexa hummed, amused. Clarke talked about Juno often, usually in passing—little updates about the cat’s quirks, her favorite sleeping spots, her habit of stealing Clarke’s paintbrushes—but this was the first time Lexa had actually met her instead of a picture attached in Clarke's messages.

    Juno, however, was not as interested in Lexa as Lexa was in her.

    The cat was staring at her, ears perked, tail flicking once—like she was analyzing a new variable in her carefully structured world.

    Lexa, never one to back down from a challenge, met her gaze.

    Juno narrowed her eyes.

    Lexa did the same.

    Seconds passed.

    Then—Clarke, completely deadpan, said, “She has her own place in my life, you know. Right next to my art. If you want to compete, you better bring something good to the table.”

    Lexa huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Noted, is this good enough?" Lexa said as she gestured to her face smugly, Clarke only quirked an amused smirk at that.

    While Juno blinked—slowly, like some regal ruler granting reluctant approval—before settling back into her bed.

    Lexa exhaled a laugh. “I think I just got judged.”

    Clarke smirked, pleased. “She does that.”

    With that settled, Clarke finally turned her attention back to Lexa, rolling her shoulders as if grounding herself. “Is it okay if I touch your hair now?” she asked, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she had asked to borrow a pen.

    Lexa’s breath hitched, but she nodded. “Yeah.”

    Clarke hummed, stepping closer. Lexa reached up, pulling the tie from her hair, letting the dark strands tumble past her shoulders.

    And Clarke—Clarke stared.

    The way the soft waves framed Lexa’s face, the way the light caught the dark brown strands, adding warmth, depth—she had seen Lexa countless times before, but never quite like this.

    Slowly, with careful intent, Clarke lifted her hand and ran her fingers through Lexa’s hair.

    It was softer than she expected. Silky, with a slight natural wave that curled at the ends. Clarke let her fingers sift through the strands, captivated by the feel, the texture. There was a faint scent—something floral, but not overpowering. Shampoo? Conditioner? Clarke wasn’t sure, but it was Lexa’s scent, and that made something in her settle.

    Lexa, on the other hand, was struggling.

    Clarke’s touch was reverent, deliberate—more like she was studying the feeling rather than just touching it. Lexa’s entire body was hyper-aware, not just of Clarke’s fingers in her hair, but of Clarke. The scent of paint and soft perfume surrounding them, the quiet hum of the studio, the way Clarke was standing so close.

    Lexa swallowed.

    Then Clarke’s eyes met hers.

    Lexa was still sitting, Clarke standing. Their gazes locked—Clarke looking down, Lexa looking up.

    Lexa’s breath caught.

    Clarke exhaled slowly, as if suddenly realizing the shift in atmosphere but unsure of what to do with it.

    Lexa, feeling reckless, whispered, “You know, I really want to kiss you right now, Clarke.”

    Clarke blinked, taken aback for only a moment. Then, slowly, a small, smug smirk curled at her lips. “Did I make your heart race?” Her tone was blunt, sarcastic—but the faint pink dusting her cheeks betrayed her.

    Lexa huffed a soft laugh. “You have no idea.”

    Clarke considered her for a second before stepping back, her hand slipping from Lexa’s hair. “Come on,” she said, motioning toward the sofa in the corner. “We should talk.”

    Lexa followed, still trying to steady her heartbeat.

    They sat, close but not touching. Clarke was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before she finally spoke. “You know I'm autistic. I don’t process things the way most people do,” she said, voice even. “Affection, attraction—they don’t work the same way for me. I like physical contact, most of the time only if I am the one initiating, but after I think about it, categorize it. It doesn’t come naturally.”

    Lexa nodded, listening.

    Clarke exhaled. “But you… you make my stomach flutter. Or maybe it’s my heart. I haven’t figured that out yet.” She frowned slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “For the first time in a long while, I feel something soft. Something pink.”

    Lexa tilted her head. “Pink?”

    Clarke’s lips pressed together as she considered. “Attraction,” she explained. “But not the physical kind that leads to lust. It’s… softer.”

    Lexa’s heart clenched in a good way.

    Clarke looked at her then, gaze unwavering. “Also, I’ve been wondering,” she admitted, “what it would feel like to be in your arms. What kind of warmth it would be.”

    Lexa’s breath hitched.

    For a moment, neither of them spoke.

    Then—Lexa, voice softer than before, murmured, “You can find out, if you want.”

    Clarke studied her, considering. Then, slowly, she nodded.

    And when Lexa opened her arms, Clarke—deliberate, certain—moved into them.

---

    Clarke leaned in, resting against Lexa, waiting for that warmth she had imagined—the one she had been searching for. But it didn’t come.

    Her brain registered the absence immediately, neurons firing questions at lightning speed. Why wasn’t she feeling it? Was it her? Was it Lexa?

    Then she noticed.

    Lexa wasn’t hugging her back.

    Clarke could feel it now—the careful stillness of Lexa’s arms, the way her body remained present but hesitant, as if holding back, waiting, afraid to overwhelm.

    Clarke’s nerves twitched restlessly, seeking something more. Her body wasn’t rejecting the touch—her muscles weren’t stiff, her chest wasn’t tightening, there was no claustrophobic urge to pull away. No, this was different. Her heartbeat was racing, yes, but it wasn’t the erratic, panicked rhythm of discomfort. It was something good.

    Something new.

    And Clarke wanted more of it.

    Her breath came a little shakier than intended, but she didn’t care. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, letting the tip of her nose brush the side of Lexa’s neck, and whispered, voice rasped from anticipation,

    "You can hug me back, Lex."

    For a second, nothing happened.

    Then—Lexa exhaled softly, something shifting in her posture, and suddenly—Clarke felt it.

    The warmth.

    Lexa’s arms wrapped around her, firm and grounding, pulling her close with a kind of certainty that settled something deep inside Clarke’s restless mind. It was as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, an answer to a question she didn’t even realize she had been asking.

    Clarke’s nerves, once searching, finally quieted.

    She became hyper-aware of everything.

    The way Lexa’s arms held her—not too tight, not too loose, just right. The subtle strength in them, the toned muscles beneath Clarke’s fingertips as she unconsciously traced patterns along Lexa’s back.

    Lexa shuddered.

    Clarke didn’t notice at first—too absorbed in cataloging every sensation—but Lexa felt it.

    Felt Clarke’s fingertips moving in soft, unintentional strokes against her back. Felt the heat pooling in her chest. Felt everything.

    Her breath hitched.

    God, Clarke had no idea what she was doing to me.

    Lexa, who prided herself on control, on composure, was struggling. Every little unconscious touch from Clarke sent a spark through her system, each one making it harder to regulate her breathing.

    Still, she held steady.

    The hug lasted for three full minutes.

    Yes, they were both counting.

    Clarke should’ve felt overstimulated by now. Overwhelmed. That’s how it usually worked, right? But she didn’t. There was no discomfort, no creeping anxiety, no urge to retreat.

    Just warmth. Steady. Sure.

    Lexa, meanwhile, was surprised for an entirely different reason.

    She wasn’t a player—god, no. She didn’t just crave physical touch for the sake of it. But when she was interested in someone, when she felt something real—she loved it.

    And she didn’t deny it—her attraction to Clarke.

    It was balanced, layered—all-encompassing. Clarke’s mind, her sharp wit, her relentless determination, the way she was both thoughtful and bold. And, of course, Clarke was beautiful—Lexa wasn’t blind. That golden hair, those piercing blue eyes, the way she looked at the world like she was trying to capture its essence in every stroke of paint.

    Lexa had it bad.

    And so, without thinking, she blurted out,

    "Clarke, I might die of a heart attack, but I'd die happily in your arms."

    Clarke blinked.

    Then she pulled back just slightly, just enough to study Lexa’s face.

    Lexa, whose cheeks were flushed, whose lips carried the soft curve of a dreamy grin.

    Clarke examined her, the little details—Lexa’s dilated pupils, the way her breathing was just a little uneven. She was thinking, trying to process what had caused that reaction.

    Lexa, recognizing the familiar frown of deep concentration, chuckled.

    And then, because Clarke sometimes needed things spelled out, Lexa did just that.

    She told Clarke everything.

    How Clarke made her feel. How her attraction to her wasn’t just one thing—it wasn’t just physical, it wasn’t just intellectual, it wasn’t just emotional. It was all of it. Balanced.

    "What color would that be?" Lexa mused aloud, tilting her head slightly. "The color of passion?"

    Clarke’s breath hitched.

    She knew the answer before Lexa even said it.

    "Red," Lexa murmured, voice warm, teasing. "The kind that represents love, lust, passion."

    Clarke’s cheeks darkened, the heat crawling up her neck.

    "You’re a tease," she grumbled, blunt as always, trying to play it off.

    But Lexa only grinned, slow and knowing.

    Because she knew.

    She had gotten to Clarke.

    And god, she loved it.

    Clarke exhaled slowly, grounding herself in the sensation of Lexa’s arms around her.

    Her body had expected to react negatively—to stiffen, to retreat, to search for an escape route like it always had when prolonged physical contact became too much.

    But she wasn’t overwhelmed.

    She wasn’t overstimulated.

    She wasn’t looking for an exit.

    Instead, there was a steady hum under her skin—not the sharp, anxious buzz of discomfort, but something gentler, something softer. It was warmth curling inside her chest, slow and unfurling, like the first rays of sunlight stretching over a quiet morning.

    And she wanted more.

    That realization hit her with quiet certainty.

    Her fingers curled slightly against Lexa’s back, feeling the firm muscles beneath the fabric of her shirt. She wasn’t just tolerating this—she was seeking it out.

    She needed to say something, to make sense of it.

    Clarke cleared her throat, tilting her head slightly. "This is... new," she admitted.

    Lexa didn’t say anything, only watching her, waiting.

    Clarke took a breath. "I don’t do this. Not like this." She swallowed, willing herself to keep going. "I hug people, but never for this long. And I never want to."

    Her brows furrowed slightly, her fingers tapping absentmindedly against Lexa’s shoulder as she pieced her thoughts together.

    "But with you... I don’t mind. No, that’s not the right word." She let out a small, frustrated breath. "I want to. I want to be close to you. And I don’t really know why, but I do."

    Lexa’s grip on her tightened just slightly, just enough for Clarke to feel it, but she didn’t interrupt.

    Clarke searched for the right words, tried to explain what was happening inside her.

    "My brain—usually, it’s like a tangled mess of wires, especially with things like this. But right now, it's… not." She tapped her temple lightly with her free hand. "It’s quiet. It’s calm."

    Lexa's eyes softened, her expression unreadable but intense.

    Clarke continued, more to herself than anything. "My nerves are buzzing, but not in the way that makes my skin crawl. And my heart is racing, but not in a way that makes me feel trapped or like I need to pull away."

    Her fingers twitched slightly where they rested on Lexa’s back, gripping the fabric of her shirt.

    "It’s like my body knows I should be scared. That I should be shutting down or stepping away. But I’m not. I don’t want to." She met Lexa’s gaze, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I want to stay."

    Lexa sucked in a breath, and Clarke could see the way her jaw tensed, the way her fingers twitched against Clarke’s waist like she wanted to hold her tighter but was restraining herself.

    Clarke’s throat felt tight, but not in a bad way. She licked her lips.

    "I’ve never felt this before." She swallowed, forcing herself to keep going. "No one has ever made me feel like this before."

    Lexa's expression shifted—something intense flickering in her green eyes, something that made Clarke's stomach flip in a way that was entirely new to her.

    And then she felt it—Lexa’s arms tightening around her just slightly, anchoring her.

    Clarke let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

    She had expected herself to panic at the added pressure, at the sensation of being held so completely.

    But she didn’t.

    Instead, she relaxed further into Lexa’s embrace, her fingers were back to tracing slow, unconscious patterns against her back.

    Lexa's breathing hitched.

    Clarke, unaware of the absolute effect she was having, kept speaking.

    "I think I like it," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "You. I think I like—being around you. This." She shook her head slightly, struggling to articulate it.

    "It’s not just physical. It’s not just the way you look or the way you feel. It’s... you. Everything about you. And I think..." She hesitated, then exhaled. "I think I want to keep learning what that means."

    Lexa made a noise—a small, wrecked sound in the back of her throat—and Clarke suddenly found herself being studied, like she was something rare and impossible, something Lexa was trying desperately to commit to memory.

    Lexa swallowed thickly.

    And then—somehow—Clarke found herself closer.

    She didn’t realize that every word, every casual admittance of how much she wanted Lexa, was slowly sending Lexa into a complete meltdown.

    Lexa’s brain short-circuited.

    Her thoughts scrambled like static, everything inside her screaming oh. Oh. OH.

    And then—somehow—Clarke ended up in her lap.

    She didn’t even know how it happened, but suddenly Clarke was straddling her thighs, arms draped over Lexa’s shoulders, their faces close enough that Lexa could count the different shades of blue in Clarke’s eyes.

    Lexa’s hands tightened instinctively against Clarke’s waist, warm and grounding, but not pulling—just there, present, steady.

    Clarke barely registered it, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the rapid beat of her heart that wasn’t from panic but from something entirely different. Second guessing if it was okay sitting like this, but soon realized her muscles didn't tense up, and her mind was not screaming from overstimulation.

  This was okay

    Her arms looped around Lexa’s shoulders, her fingers toying with the ends of Lexa’s hair. She was hyper-aware of the way Lexa was looking at her now—eyes dark and searching, lips slightly parted like she was waiting for something.

    Lexa shut her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying—failing—to get a grip on herself.

    Clarke blinked, her brain processing all the information she had gathered. To Clarke, it looked like she was waiting for a kiss. Then—she laughed.

    It was soft, barely there, but it made Lexa open her eyes, blinking up at her in dazed confusion.

    And before Lexa could react, Clarke leaned in and pressed a feather-light kiss to the tip of her nose.

    Lexa froze.

    Her nose scrunched, her cheeks darkened even more, and Clarke couldn’t help but grin.

    "Cute," she murmured, voice tinged with amusement, tilting her head as she watched the way Lexa struggled to reboot.

    Lexa barely had time to recover before Clarke, smirking now but still blushing, added, "But that kiss? Yeah, that’ll have to wait. Wine and dine me first, Woods."

    Lexa let out a soft, incredulous breath, staring at Clarke like she had just rewritten the entire structure of Lexa’s reality. Dazed, completely wrecked by Clarke’s existence, she exhaled a laugh, low and utterly wrecked, and muttered, "I’m so in trouble."

---

    The time was now a little past 5 PM, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the studio windows, casting long, soft shadows across the space. Lexa had finally regained her composure—her breathing steady, her heart rate somewhat back to normal—but Clarke, ever the observer, was still analyzing.

    She sat back on the sofa giving Lexa small reprieve by not sitting on her lap, but still close enough for their bodies to touch. Clarke tilted her head as she studied Lexa’s face, her blue eyes sharp with curiosity. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the seam of her jeans as she thought aloud.

    “You looked like you were dying a minute ago,” Clarke mused, her tone more intrigued than teasing. “Why?”

    Lexa exhaled a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Dying is a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

    Clarke didn’t waver. “You looked like it,” she stated bluntly. “Your breathing changed, your face was red, and you kept blinking like you were trying to reset your brain. You were completely fine before I ended up on your lap, so… what happened?”

    Lexa swallowed, forcing herself to meet Clarke’s inquisitive gaze. There was no escaping it—Clarke wasn’t just asking to tease her. She genuinely wanted to understand.

    So Lexa told her.

    “You are so beautiful,” she said, as if it were a fact rather than a compliment. “Perched on my lap like that, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes, and then—” Lexa exhaled sharply, shaking her head with a small, almost disbelieving smile. “You kissed my nose and told me to wine and dine you before I get to kiss you, that was so unfair.”

    Her lips curled into a smirk, an eyebrow lifting in challenge as she leaned just slightly closer, her voice dropping into something softer, something more intimate, teasing. “But now I'm curious, do you also want to know how a real kiss feels like?”

    Clarke didn't respond, she stared at Lexa, long and hard. She was processing—taking in Lexa’s words, the intent behind them, the weight they carried. Her mind ran through the information like pieces of a puzzle she was trying to fit together.

    Then, finally, she spoke.

    “Was it really important to kiss?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “You will not get more air. Why are you looking like you’re dying?”

    Lexa chuckled, shaking her head fondly. “No, you don’t get more air from kissing,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “But sometimes, Clarke, it feels like you do. Like you’re breathing in something more than oxygen—something that makes your whole body feel alive.”

    Clarke blinked, absorbing Lexa’s words. She wasn’t dismissing the concept, just… analyzing it. The way Lexa spoke, so sure, so certain, made her wonder. Was it really that important? Would it change something? Would it make her feel something new?

    She tilted her head slightly. “And you think kissing me would do that?”

    Lexa didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

    The confidence in Lexa’s voice sent something warm unfurling in Clarke’s chest. It wasn’t overwhelming, wasn’t too much—it was just there, settling into place like a piece of a puzzle she hadn’t realized was missing.

    Clarke exhaled slowly, eyes flickering over Lexa’s face, the way her green eyes held steady, the way her lips curled ever so slightly upward. She wasn’t pressuring her. She wasn’t pushing. She was just… waiting.

    Clarke liked that about Lexa.

    A small smile tugged at Clarke’s lips as she finally responded, her voice thoughtful. “Maybe I do want to know how it feels.”

    Lexa’s breath hitched just slightly, but she kept herself composed. “Then when you’re ready,” she said, voice laced with promise, “you’ll tell me.”

    Clarke nodded, a quiet agreement between them settling into the air. She wasn’t ready yet. But she would be.

    And the realization didn’t scare her.

    Instead, it made her curious.

    She stood up from the sofa with ease, standing up and stretching before offering Lexa a hand. “Come on, Woods. I’m hungry.”

    Lexa smirked, taking Clarke’s hand as she stood. “Oh? Does this count as me wining and dining you?”

    Clarke rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of Lexa’s hand. “It’s a start.”

    Lexa squeezed Clarke’s fingers gently before letting go, letting the moment settle between them. The shift in their dynamic had been subtle but undeniable—something new had begun.

    And as they left the studio together, Juno contently sleeping in her pet carrier which held by Lexa, the unspoken promise lingered in the air, waiting for its time.