The first time she talked to him, he looked worn out.
Not sad, exactly. Just sick and tired of the mess of his life.
He bought her a drink. She accepted gratefully, thinking that a one-night stand would distract her from the mess of her own life. To her surprise, they didn't end up having sex. Instead, he annoyed the hell out of her and she threw a glass at him. Shame. He had been hot.
The second time she talked to him, he was sporting a girl in a tank top and booty shorts on his arm.
She had meant to apologize, but his attitude and condescending smiles irritated her to no end, and they had a screaming match in front of the whole bar.
The third time she talked to him, he was miserable.
His forehead rested on the countertop, one hand cradling his drink. He began telling her his story, his voice breaking every so often. She stayed still and silent, not daring to move for fear he'd realize who he was being so vulnerable with.
He got way too drunk, and she pulled him up and dragged him out the door. He was half-unconscious, leaning on her and mumbling incomprehensibly. Maybe it was the fact that he was almost crying, or maybe it was that he was holding on to her like a lifeline, or maybe she just liked arguing with him, but whatever the reason, she drove him to her own apartment and dumped him on her couch.
The fourth time she talked to him, he was hungover.
He woke up at almost eleven, gave her a smirk, and asked for scrambled eggs and Tylenol.
She walked over to him and handed him a glass of orange juice, two pills, and his car keys. She shoved him out the door. Just as he stepped out the door, though, she stopped him.
He turned. She kissed his cheek. Then she closed the door.
He smiled at the closed door. "Nicely done, Clarke Griffin.