Bellamy almost told her how he felt as they sat around the campfire with the others. The darkness carried a chill, forcing people closer than usual; she pressed against him, rubbing her hands to stay warm. It was tempting. She was tempting, the way she glowed in the firelight. Then again, she always glowed - a small, fierce light in this otherwise dark and muddy world.

He almost told her - but did not. Instead he asked about the girl with the broken wrist. The boy with the flu. Her medical supplies. Anything to keep away the visions of what it would be like to hold her face in his hands. To whisper her name softly against her cheek.

To kiss her.

Clarke answered his questions tersely. She worried her voice would betray her. They never really got to share moments like this, quiet and peaceful, and the fire softened everything about him. His eyes called to her. She blinked away a response, asking instead about the expansion of their wall. About ammunition, and food for winter. Anything to stop picturing his rich voice murmuring his need for her. His fingers tracing down her spine.

Or the caress of his imagined kiss.