It got serious when they weren't paying attention.

One day, a little less than a year since they'd met, Clarke realized that half the laundry in her basket belonged to the leggy brunette who was always drinking the last of her milk and never replacing it. That except on rare occasions, the first and last person she talked to every day was Lexa. That she'd started to think of her bed in terms of "her side" and "my side."

It didn't just scare her.

It terrified her.

It was more than just having fun anymore. It was more than enjoying each other's bodies and minds, drinking and fucking and arguing over which reality show was the absolute worst.

She missed Lexa when the other woman was away. Missed having Lexa in her bed, missed rolling over and into the other woman in the middle of the night when the officer was on night shifts.

And she thought about her. Often. More than she'd ever thought about any of the other people she'd fucked, or had a mutually pleasurable friends-with-benefits arrangement with, or even anyone she'd ever dated.

Clarke found herself thinking about Lexa as she worked, as she mixed the perfect shade of green on her palatte, just the color of those cool green eyes. Or as she shopped for groceries, wondering whether the brunette would prefer stir-fry or steak when she inevitably knocked at Clarke's studio door. Or seeing a handsome chest of drawers abandoned in the alley behind her gallery, and thought of the growing pile of Lexa's belongings in her apartment.

Somehow, she told Raven in a panic as she swiped to send Lexa's call to voicemail, in the months between seeing if the hot cop with the long, long legs was up for a drink a few days after their hook-up behind the bar, and waking up to the woman straddling her hips on the morning of her birthday, naked and holding out a cupcake with "Clarke" written on it in green frosting, that tall wall around her heart had cracked open.

And Lexa, deft and dark, sexy and surprisingly sweet, had slipped in.

Raven, ever tactful, did her best to look comforting and sympathetic.

It really didn't help.

Clarke avoided Lexa for a week, claiming-not entirely falsely-that she had work to do on some of her larger pieces and had fallen behind. And the cop, no stranger to duty, understood.

And the fact that she felt terrible about it made the whole situation even worse.

But every time Clarke had ever given her heart to someone else, it'd been broken. Or betrayed.

She wasn't sure she had enough in her to go another round. Wasn't sure she had it in her to start over again.

The week stretched.

Eight days.

Nine.

Ten.

And every day Clarke resisted the urge to call off her self-imposed isolation. Instead she tried to bury herself in work.

She turned music on, loud enough to drown out her thoughts, and attacked her blank canvases, front line to a war she was fighting within herself. She painted from sun-up to long after sun-down, stopping only when she was too exhausted to continue, til sleep could replace the pounding music in her ears, keep her from thinking the thoughts she didn't want to have.

Finally, on the twelfth day, she stopped.

She gave in.

Looking around at the drying canvases-crap, most of them, she thought, fears made real; but a few stood out, the surprisingly hopeful darkness of a familiar alley, the soft mystique of a cityscape blurred by rain against a window pane, a pair of hands, soft and scarred-Clarke realized something.

That war she was fighting, that battle?

She'd already lost.

It was late, or maybe it was early, but Clarke paid no mind as she banged a third time on Lexa's door.

She had a key, yes, but Lexa had a gun and had been very clear about the key only being used for emergencies. This, she was pretty sure, didn't count.

Especially after she'd avoided the other woman for almost two weeks, sending her calls directly to voicemail, ignoring all but one or two of Lexa's texts.

{You okay? You alive?} Lexa had asked.

{So far.}

It had been the only answer Clarke felt sure enough to give.

She counted seconds in her head, waiting a full minute before raising her fist to pound again. But the door opened instead, and she ended up pounding at Lexa's shoulder.

"I'm a police officer, Clarke," Lexa said with half a snarl, "I could have you arrested for disturbing the peace. Hell, I could do it myself." Her tone was angry and tired and annoyed, and something else, maybe. But still, she stepped back and let the blonde stomp past her.

Inside the apartment, the blonde paused, and turned, and looked back at the other woman closing the door.

"You're wearing my shirt," she said, her voice soft and curious.

Lexa didn't answer, just leaned back against the door and stared back at Clarke.

It was her father's shirt, actually. A big, warm flannel button-up in wide green and thin blue plaid, made soft from years of washings. Sometimes, when she wore it, Clarke could swear it still smelled of him, sandalwood and spice, and she never felt safer than when she was wrapped up in its familiar fabric.

Maybe it was silly, but it was one of the most precious things she owned. And seeing it on Lexa, seeing it against Lexa's darker skin, just a thin cami underneath and a pair of short running trunks to cover her legs, filled something in Clarke that she hadn't even known was empty.

"It was my dad's shirt," she said, quieter, and the brunette lowered her eyes, looked away.

"I know," Lexa answered, a whispered confession, and all of the hard parts inside Clarke went soft, all of the walls her anxiety and fear and angst had pumped up deflated.

Clarke looked around the apartment, seeing the tangle of blankets on the couch, the warm light of the lamp in the corner casting a glare on the snowy TV.

"What are we doing, Lex?" she asked.

And for the first time, the first time since they'd met, Lexa didn't have an answer.

"What are we doing, Lex," Clarke repeated as she sat down on the couch, toying with one of the blankets that still held Lexa's warmth, "what is this we've gotten ourselves into?"

Lexa stood over her for a moment, debating. And fuck if the blonde didn't know exactly what was going through her head, and fuck if Lexa didn't know it.

Sit in the chair across from Clarke and let the other woman know she was intimated, that she couldn't trust herself to be close.

Sit on the couch next to her and have to struggle against Clarke's familiar warmth, the urge to sneak closer and closer.

With a huff, Lexa sat, almost primly, on the low table in front of the couch.

It wasn't a win, but it wasn't a loss either.

"I thought we were having fun together," Lexa answered, and there was a hint of defeat in her voice, "at least until you went all incommunicado on me. Now I think we're breaking up, Clarke."

She was the strongest person that Clarke had ever met, Lexa was, the bravest, the most honest and pure. And now, sitting in front of her, there was the slightest hint of tears in Lexa's eyes, the tiniest tremble in her hands.

Clarke had spent years being brave, letting herself let others go. But this, Lexa, she didn't want to.

She couldn't.

So she took a deep breath and gathered up every bit of courage she had, conjured the memory of her father, the mental picture she carried with her in her heart, the soft love in his eyes whenever he looked at her, at her mother.

She could be like him, she could have faith.

She could let herself love.

"Breaking up is for relationships, Lex, is that what we were doing?" She had to ask, because honestly, she wasn't sure. They'd never talked about it. They'd slipped easily from one thing to the next, but never taken the time to say the things that meant anything.

But Lexa just looked at her. There was pain there, buried in the other woman's many hard and complicated layers, and loss and betrayal too. But there was more, there was a softness and a tenderness, a naked wanting, an aching to be treasured and to be loved.

"I feel," Clarke started, taking a chance, leaping, "I feel things for you, Lexa. And that scares me. It terrifies me."

She turned toward the brunette, tugging at the ends of her father's flannel shirt, letting their knees knock together.

"I know that we didn't want this, but it's been good, we've been good. And I don't want to lose it."

Lexa opened her mouth to speak, but Clarke shook her head, not quite finished.

"I spent a week-I spent twelve days trying to figure out what I wanted, Lex. And I figured out three things. I'm tired of being afraid. I don't want this to end. I want," she swallowed, "I want more, Lexa. I want to try for more."

It wasn't everything she could have said.

It wasn't everything she felt or thought or knew.

But it was a start.

It was a chance.

And she was so, so grateful when Lexa took it.

"You left your shirt here," the brunette said, "and it smells like you."

Lexa looked almost surprised to hear herself speak, and then shocked to hear herself continue.

"It smells like you and my pillows smell like you and I can't sleep because I've gotten used to the sound of someone's heavy breathing all through the night. I can't sleep and it's messing with my life-I'm a cop, Clarke, I carry a gun and I'm tired, so tired. You stopped talking to me and I can't sleep and I have a badge and a gun and I'm afraid of what might happen if-"

The blonde nodded, understanding what Lexa was trying to say, the words she couldn't quite get out.

And then, after a moment, the she went further, further than even she thought was possible.

"I don't want to lose you either, Clarke," Lexa said finally, unable to meet the other woman's eyes.

But it was okay.

It was all going to be okay.

Clarke stood, blanket around her shoulders like a cape, and reached for Lexa's hands. They were cool-they were almost always cool-even in the warmth of the early morning July.

They were silent. Clarke determined and Lexa confused.

But they walked, slowly, together, down the hall toward Lexa's bedroom.

Clarke noted the messy covers, the sheets strewn across the mattress, as she toed off her shoes and let her shorts fall to the ground, as she reached under her shirt and wriggled out of her bra.

"Lay down," she said, softer than a whisper, gentler than a plea, and then turned off the light.

She slipped in bed next to Lexa, whose eyes were already drifting closed.

"Clarke," she whispered as they lay face to face.

But Clarke just looked at her, "You should sleep, Lex," she said, "we'll talk more in the morning. I'm not going anywhere, not anymore."

And Lexa slipped under, breathing slowing, evening out, until she was fast asleep.

But Clarke? Clarke didn't sleep. Not a wink. Instead she watched. Watched as the silver light of the moon played over Lexa's relaxed face, as the warm rays of dawn broke through the curtains, how they caught and danced along the tiny scar at the bridge of Lexa's nose, along her shoulder, the sheet that draped over her hip.

For the first time in days, in over two weeks, she felt like maybe this wasn't going to end in tragedy. Like maybe falling love meant more than just another long countdown to goodbye.