A/N: Hi, just a quick note, I'm switching tenses in this story. I started writing this when all the fics I did were in past tense, but I've since found it much easier to work in present tense, so the rest of the story will be written that way. Hopefully it's not too confusing. Thank you so much to everyone who left comments, they keep me motivated and loving this story. You also might have noticed that I've set the number of chapters this story will have, because I've finally gotten organized and outlined the rest of this fic. 3 A/N.

To say Clarke was caught off guard is an understatement. She rocks backward on her heels when Bellamy leans into her, grabbing onto him for balance. Her hands fist in his shirt, one arm thrown around his shoulder.

She shouldn't be doing this. She thinks it, and she knows it, and she's mad at him. But god, he tastes good, tongue swiping along her lip, and he feels good with his body pressed up against hers like this. His fingers tangle in her hair, and she can't breathe, really, but who needs oxygen when you have this. But then he says her name, and it's like a bucket of cold water being dumped over her head.

"What are you doing?" She gasps, jerking away, releasing her hold on his chest and staggering away. He looks wrecked, shirt still bunched where she was clinging to it. He looks like she feels.

"I…' He opens his mouth, and her eyes are drawn to it like magnets. Now that she knows what it can do, she's not sure she'll ever be able to think about anything else. "I'm sorry."

She's spent the last two days wanting him to be sorry. But this is not the apology she's been after. She doesn't even know what he's apologizing for. So she asks.

"Why?"

He closes his mouth, finally, although that doesn't make it any less distracting, and shifts uncomfortably.

"For…taking it out on you." His voice is low, rough, but not with sleep. She scrubs a hand across her face, making an exasperated noise.

"For taking what out on me?"

And there it is. The last chance, the last time she'll offer an olive branch. Clarke may be kind, but she isn't masochistic, and she's beginning to regret not having a stronger sense of self-preservation to begin with. She waits, arms crossed.

He's thinking about it, she can tell, and for one horrible moment she thinks he's just going to turn on his heel and walk out.

"My editor's giving me shit." He says, and it comes out all in one breath, like he wasn't even sure he was going to tell her until the words came tumbling out. She stays quiet, watching him. "Before I left we were talking about the possibility of me writing a period series, like those documentary ones on the History channel."

Clarke's eyebrows shoot up.

"Writing for television? Like a screenplay?" She can't help herself. He scratches the back of his neck.

"Sort of. But yeah, for television. It was really unlikely, because I don't have any experience in that kind of writing, so when I came out here to work on this Collins piece I didn't think twice about it. And this was only supposed to be a few days' worth of research anyways."

And yet here they are six weeks later. But she lets him continue.

"Apparently a studio exec got a hold of the pilot I'd written, and he wants to talk to me about it."

This time, it's Clarke's mouth that drops open.

"You're kidding." She mutters. He just shrugs. "Okay, and why is that a bad thing?"

The hesitation is back, his eyes drifting through the room, refusing to land on her.

"I would have to go back. This week. She's already set up the meetings and if I don't go, I'm basically giving up the opportunity. They'll find someone else."

Clarke frowns.

"I mean…you would have had to go back eventually. You live there." She points out. "And it's just a couple of meetings, right? So you could come back here…" She trails off as he shakes his head.

"No. You don't get it. We would start production immediately. And that's like 8 months worth of work, and if the show goes over well that's another season, and-" He breaks off, looking frustrated. Clarke gets the picture.

"So you would be leaving for good, then." She realizes, crossing her arms over her chest. That raw feeling is back, the one that Bellamy seems to elicit from her so easily. He nods, slowly, eyes on her.

"Back to visiting a couple times a year." He says tiredly. "Never seeing Octavia, or…" his eyes flicker over her face briefly, "anyone else."

He doesn't mean her, she tells herself. She isn't sure she believes it.

"Is that what you want?" She wonders. There are deep lines on his forehead that give him away, but assuming she knows him is what got her into this mess in the first place. He just stares through her.

"It's a really good opportunity. I could afford to go back to school once everything died down."

Clarke forgets, sometimes, the sacrifices he made to let Octavia live her life. She sighs.

"That's not what I asked you."

He glares at her, but she's starting to get used to it.

"I don't know." He finally grinds out. "I don't know what I want. But I have two days to make a decision and pack up and go home."

She hears it in his voice, the pain that comes with choosing between family and your career. The guilt is too familiar, as is the panic. He wants her to tell him what to do, she can see it in his eyes. But she can't.

"You want…to be near your sister." She says, thinking out loud. "And I think you like it here, you complain about Toronto a lot. And I know you like the freedom of working on your own schedule, being able to go off on some three day nerd bender where you do nothing but read the guestbook from a nineteenth century bed and breakfast."

His lips twitch.

"But?" He prompts, because he knows her a little bit, too.

"But if this is your dream…"She thinks about the paintings currently sitting in a gallery a couple miles away, and the feeling of cashing a cheque that was earned through what was entirely a labor of love. "Then Octavia will understand."

He bristles.

"It's selfish-" He starts, and she cuts him off, exhausted by everything about him in the moment.

"Yes, it is. And that's normal. God, Bellamy, she's not fifteen anymore. She's an adult, with a job, and soon she'll be done those online classes and she'll have a degree. She's living her life, and I know she loves having you around, but you're supposed to do things for yourself."

And then, suddenly, he's kissing her again.

She sighs into his mouth, a mixture of pleasure and exasperation.

"Bellamy." She murmurs against his lips. But that only encourages him. And maybe she sinks into it a little, but it feels like she's been fighting this forever, so now, just for the moment, she gives in.

One of his arms winds around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She makes a noise of surprise, or maybe approval, and curls her fingers into his hair. He smells like he always does, earthy and a little spicy, and vaguely of books. When he flexes his bicep against her back she melts into him, biting down gently on his bottom lip. Growling, he just grips her hip a little harder.

Clarke feels the heat building between them, and maybe she's spent too much time imagining what this would be like, but the real thing is like burning from the inside out in the best way. It's ridiculous that his touch can make her feel so much more alive, like a shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins. But then his hand skims up the length of her arm and she can't think.

She wraps her arms around his neck, and feels his fingers brush the hem of her shirt. Seconds later, he's tugging it up, over her head. He'd knocked on her door at four in the morning, getting her out of bed, and they both seem to realize at the same time that she's not wearing a bra. His eyes travel south, lingering on her chest, and she can almost feel the heat of his gaze as he looks at her.

"I-" She opens her mouth to speak, although there aren't really any coherent thoughts in her head, but he crushes his mouth against hers again, so it doesn't matter. They both stumble back toward the bed, falling onto it when the back of her knees hit it and fold. He crushes her a little when they fall, but she doesn't care. She says his name again, because it's the only word she can think of.

Somehow, he relieves her of her shorts, and his boxers get lost in the mix as well, and then he's propped up above her, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. Clarke can feel his weight, though she knows he's resting most of it on his forearms, and she reaches up to brush a stray curl away from his face.

"Octavia is going to kill me." She says. He makes a face.

"Can we not-"

"Sorry." She says. Because of course he doesn't want to talk about Octavia. She tugs sharply on that same curl, the one that refuses to stay tucked behind his ear.

"You talk too much." He tells her, which is rich, coming from him, but she just smiles.

"So shut me up already."

.

Clarkes wakes up wondering vaguely if she fell asleep on the sun. The nape of her neck is drenched with sweat, the sheets sticking to her in every place they touch. The source of the heat, she discovers, is the well-muscled arm curled possessively around her waist. And also the matching thigh hiked over hers in some sort of subconscious attempt at either climbing over or suffocating her in her sleep. The attached torso and head, complete with an unruly mop of curly black hair, are also probably contributing to the sensation that she is being roasted like a rotisserie chicken.

Bellamy, it turns out, likes to cuddle. He is also a human furnace.

"Jesus Christ." She exhales, throwing off what's left of the sheets draping over her legs and noting the pleasant soreness in her muscles. Beside her, Bellamy stirs.

"What are you doing?" He wonders, lips moving against her shoulder blade. He's hard, and they're both naked, but the thought of doing anything as strenuous as sex when she's already overheating has her shoving him away in annoyance.

"You're hot." She complains. He uses the hand still hooked around her waist to close the distance she's put between them.

"You're not so bad yourself." He says, sounding more awake. She lets out a long-suffering sigh, and crawls across the bed, away from him. It's not that she's not up for round two, actually, round 4 if she's remembering the events of the former night correctly, but she's too hot to be bothered. Or too warm to be hot. Or something like that.

When she pushes herself up and out of the bed, he sits up.

His eyes are on her, dark and suddenly alert. She can see the question in them, the caution that flickered the moment she left the mattress.

"No." She mutters, pushing a couple sweat-soaked strands of hair out of her face. "I mean you're radiating heat. It's excessive."

His eyebrows go up as he takes in the light sheen all over her body, and for the first time, she realizes she's standing in front of him, in broad daylight, completely naked. If she were a shy person, Clarke might reach for the robe hanging off the back of the door. She doesn't.

"Ah." He says, with the air of a man who has heard that particular complaint before.

"I'm dehydrated." She announces. "And I think a shower might be urgently necessary."

That wall goes back up behind his eyes, so she leans down, setting one knee back on the bed, and kisses him gently. When she pulls away, the wall has faded into softness.

He doesn't follow her into the shower, although she wouldn't have been opposed to that, but she suspects he's giving her space. When she emerges, clad only in a towel, she finds him sitting at the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal.

"Bellamy." She says, because he's naked on her barstool.

"There's coffee-" He begins to tell her, then he looks up and sees her, wet hair and towel and all, and seems to lose his train of thought. She's cooled down a bit, partially due to the cold shower she just took, and the way his eyes darken as they trail across her chest and down her legs has her chewing on her lip.

"Coffee sounds good." She manages, walking over to the cupboard and pouring herself a glass. They probably drink too much coffee. They've gone through a couple pounds of it in the short time he's been here. And that's not even including the lattes he brings home whenever he meets Finn for work in the morning. She suspects the lattes are the product of guilt, an "I'm-sorry-I-keep-hanging-out-with-your-adulterous-ex-fiancé" peace offering. But she isn't complaining. When she turns back around, he's caging her against the counter, an arm on either side of her.

"Good morning." He says. She licks her lips, setting the mug down beside her.

"Good morning." She replies.

The coffee gets cold.

.

By the next day, Clarke and Bellamy are both actively avoiding the fact that they're actively avoiding the decision he needs to make. And the conversation that goes with it. And anything, in fact, remotely to do with the reality of their situation. Which is that he's leaving tomorrow, or he's not.

So they stay in bed, and they order Chinese food when they can't be bothered to get dressed long enough to go out, and Bellamy makes a comment about Clarke not having the nerve to answer the door in her underwear. Which, naturally, she then does.

She digs into a carton of vegetarian chow fun, and looks up from the spread of white cardboard and noodles that they've arranged on the living room floor.

"Bellamy." She says. She's noticed that she says his name differently now, and she hates that. Because this is temporary, all of it.

He simply raises an eyebrow in response, shoving another dumpling into his mouth.

"If you're going," She begins slowly, and she only says if so it doesn't sound like she's pushing him out the door. But he's going. He has to. She knows this. "-then you need to pack."

He stops chewing and stares at her.

"Do you want me to go?" He asks, sounding surprised. That isn't fair, and he knows it.

"I want you to do what you want." She says, and it's a cop out, but she hopes he'll allow it. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's Bellamy, after all.

"Ask me to stay." He says suddenly. Clarke chokes on her food.

"I can't-you know I can't do that." She didn't mean for it come out quite so panicked. His face, which has been more peaceful today than she's ever seen it, turns guarded. She can feel it all coming undone, everything that's happened in the last 24 hours. No, she thinks. But maybe it's for the best.

"Right." He nods his head sharply. "You're right, I'm sorry."

Of course she wants him to stay. But she can't ask him to give up everything he's worked for so they can play house a little longer. They've known each other for barely a month. Clarke might consider herself a romantic, she is an artist after all, but she's also a pragmatist. And she cares for Bellamy too much to let him make that sacrifice. Or maybe she's just doing what she always has since Finn, protecting herself.

She wants to fix it, the quiet that settles in between them as they eat, loaded in a way it wasn't before. But maybe it will be easier this way, when he leaves. So she embraces it, the tension.

They finish dinner, and clean up, and he still hasn't said a word.

"Do you want help?" She asks, when he turns for his room. They're both still mostly naked, and for the first time that day, she feels tiny and exposed. He stares at her for a moment, and she holds her breath.

Eventually he shrugs, and she follows him, and they start to sort his things. He'd arrived with one small suitcase, but his roommate back in Toronto had sent him clothes and books when it became apparent he'd be staying longer than a weekend. He grumbles about it a little, as things begin to spill out of the suitcase.

"How did I accumulate so much crap?" He wonders, tossing clothes onto the bed and raising an eyebrow when he unearths a black thong from under his pillow. Clarke holds her hand out for it.

"Maybe you're a hoarder." She suggests, unhelpfully. He glares, and things start to feel a little more like before. It takes a few hours to decide what he can take back on the plane ("THE PLANE!" he shouts, upon being reminded that he actually has to buy a ticket for a flight leaving in less than 14 hours), and what Clarke will have to ship to him once he's home. And soon everything is packed away, in bags or boxes, and they're looking at a room Clarke barely recognizes without the piles of books and moleskins stacked in every corner. A wave of loneliness washes over her, and he's not even gone yet.

As though he can read her mind, Bellamy slips an arm around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head. And they shouldn't, but she leads him back to her room, and they fall into the bed together. They just lay there, his hand on her hip, staring at the ceiling.

"I promised Octavia I wouldn't sleep with you." She says, after a while. He snorts. "What?" She asks, rolling over to frown at him.

"Yeah, she made me promise that, too." He admits, without a trace of remorse. Clarke sighs.

"Well." She mumbles. And there's really nothing else to say.

.

Bellamy's flight is at noon. He spends the morning with Octavia, explaining himself and saying goodbye. Clarke insists on driving him to the airport, because it's last minute and Octavia is working, he has too much luggage to take the new Canada Line train, and besides, YVR is only a forty minute drive from her place. And maybe she also wants to see him off. So sue her. She parks in the domestic departures lot, even though Bellamy insists she could just drop him off. She's not sure why she's making this so hard on herself, except maybe that she is a masochist after all.

And that's how they end up at security, Bellamy holding what's left of his luggage hesitantly.

"I'll call you." He says. "When I land."

What she wants to say, is this sucks. What comes out is-

"Have a safe flight."

She almost doesn't kiss him goodbye, but, masochism, so she pulls him into a long enough kiss that he sets his bag down and wraps his arms firmly around her. When he lets go, she doesn't feel like crying, like the other couples saying their farewells in the terminal. She just feels empty.

"I-" He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone.

"Go get famous." She tells him, only half forcing a smile. His answering one is genuine, but heavy. Clarke watches him wheel away his suitcase with something that feels like heartburn. Once he's through security, she heads back to her car.

It's quiet on the way back, without him rambling on about the Romans, or the Mesopotamians, or how much it rains here. She suddenly misses him so acutely she almost pulls over to the side of the road. But she pulls it together. It was only a few weeks, she tells herself. It's time to get back to real life.

So she does. And it goes alright, until it doesn't.