When they were nearly out of the woods (both figuratively and literally), the countess herself managed to stumble on a snow covered root. Being fairly well exhausted by this point, she could not maintain her balance and she dropped Clarke into the now shallow snow, tumbling on top of her soon after. With no corsets in the way, Clarke was quite enjoying the feel of the countesses body pressed against hers. Unfortunately, the countess propped herself up on her forearms almost as soon as they landed. "Have I hurt you?"
At a loss for words, Clarke only shook her head. Breathing heavily, the countess gazed down on her and her splayed out golden locks. To her surprise, she ran her fingers through her hair, eyes dark with desire again. For a second it seemed as though she might kiss her, something Clarke was not averse to in that moment.
As if only just then realizing her faux pas, she looked at Clarke in extreme mortification and promptly pushed herself into a standing position.
"You have lovely hair, Miss Griffin," she muttered, not looking at her, and then scooped her up once more. Clarke was too frazzled to laugh.
Her mother also examined her injury as gently as possible, yet she still could not suppress the hiss that escaped her lips. Perhaps the novelty of the circumstance with the countess helped to assuage the greater extent of her pain.
Ice was chipped away from the large block outside the mansion, wrapped in cloth and applied to the swollen appendage. Once the countess was satisfied that she was in good hands, she disappeared for the remainder of the day, only reappearing at dinner time, during which she would not make any eye contact with Clarke whatsoever. Oh she would look in Clarke's direction, but never directly, never into her eyes. Clarke did not fully appreciate just how frequently the countess had been staring at her until after she felt the loss of those piercing green depths. With this exception, there was no change in the countesses charming attitude and no one else was the wiser.
To amuse her in her 'woebegone' state, Roan insisted on playing charades that evening, men versus women.
"You must have another shot at besting us, cousin," he added.
Clarke could see that the countess was uncomfortable with this proposition and very much wanted to disappear again. She wondered when she had become so adept at reading the other woman's slight tells. She was somewhat surprised Roan could not see what she saw considering he was usually so perceptive. She didn't want to presume to speak for the countess though so she held her tongue.
With a barely suppressed grumble, the countess agreed.
"You will regret this challenge, cousin," she smirked.
The tension in the parlour room (or at least, her own mind) seemed to dissipate and Clarke was able to enjoy the ensuing silliness even though Countess Woods still would not look her directly in the eye. Despite the countesses apparent confidence in her abilities, it soon became quite clear that the women would lose once again. Mostly because her mother and the countess were an absolutely abominable pair. Clarke had rarely seen a worse team, and she had seen Mr. Kane (who only had one hand) participate.
The countess kept mimicking something that was clearly supposed to signify ice skating, but her mother invariably guessed everything except that particular sport. If Clarke had to pick a moment the countess was close to losing her temper, it was during the duration of this round. Having people (besides Roan) laugh at her expense was doubtless a new sensation and likely only served to further vex the reluctant player.
Contrarily, the men were quite in sync, like they had been from the beginning of their acquaintance, and with only one exception, managed to guess the word or phrase before the sand in the hourglass expired.
"Time's up!" she announced for the last time.
The countess nearly stomped her foot like a child. "Well, what on earth was it?" muttered the woman with barely restrained ire.
"A cuckoo clock, of course," replied her exasperated mother. "I should have thought it abundantly obvious!"
Clarke would never have guessed such a thing herself.
"Obvious, indeed!" exclaimed the countess, hands clenched.
Everyone was laughing hysterically at their abysmal performance and Clarke was certain the countess was about to storm out of the room, but then the woman simply took a deep breath, turned her back on all of them, and went to stand in front of the window for some minutes to compose herself.
As they were merrily rehashing the highlights of the game, the countess stalked up to them and said, "I should like a rematch."
Roan yawned, waving her off. "Maybe tomorrow, cousin. It's late and I'm exhausted."
"Fine," she huffed petulantly, and this time she did storm off.
"She's such a queer girl sometimes," chuckled Roan. "Such a sore sport when she loses."
Thanks to her throbbing ankle, and her confusing thoughts, she was unable to sleep properly. When she heard a noise in the hallway she lit a candle, grabbed a cane with a golden dragon handle and hobbled out the door. She listened intently, and then it repeated itself from the countesses room. Considering the awkwardness between them now, Clarke hesitated to approach, but eventually did so, almost pressing her ear to the door. She stood there some moments, breathing shallowly, and then fell into the countesses arms when the door was abruptly opened and she lost her footing.
How many times would she unexpectedly end up in this same predicament? She had scarcely touched Roan as many times as she had this mysterious woman, and Clarke would be telling a falsehood if she claimed not to take any enjoyment out of the countesses embrace. The countess was surprisingly warm, and yet, Clarke experienced a shiver up her spine, the hairs on her neck standing on end. The women perhaps stayed in contact longer than they should have before the countess helped her to a cushioned chair and then distanced herself, striding across the room and over to her desk.
The countess was dressed in the same clothing she had been wearing that evening minus the shawl. Her voluminous hair was down, cascading over one shoulder, and Clarke was finding it difficult not to stare. It was fairly chilly in here, no doubt in large part due to the feebly spurting fire. It was a wonder the countess was as warm as she was. Some individuals blood simply ran hot.
When Clarke steadied her heartbeat, she saw that this was not in fact the countesses bedroom, but rather her study, complete with telescope pointed up at the night sky. There was also a black bear skin rug on the floor, and she wondered if the countess had shot and killed it herself. The most singular aspect of the study's design were the hordes of candles, far more than was necessary to illuminate the room. Some even hung down from the ceiling in little metal cages. It was almost as if she were attempting to keep the darkness at bay, eternally.
"Is there something I can help you with, Miss Griffin?" the countess asked, scribbling away at the piece of paper before her with a black fountain pen. She wondered if it was the same one that had written the caring note about the ball, where she had inexplicably signed with her Christian name.
"I heard a noise, and came to investigate," she said meekly.
"I sometimes pace while composing my thoughts. I'm sorry if I awoke you."
"No, not at all. I was already awake." Unconsciously she rubbed at her shin, the skin of which was exposed from her nightgown.
The scribbling halted momentarily and then continued on. "I can have the servants fetch you more ice if you so desire."
As much as Clarke didn't want to bother them at this ungodly hour, she knew she would never get back to sleep unless she received some relief, both for her ankle and her mind. The remainder of her stay here would be unbearable if the countess never deigned to look in her eyes again. "If it wouldn't be too much tro-"
The countess reached behind her and tugged on a tasseled rope. "Someone will be here presently."
As usual, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. "Is that your novel?" she said, desperate to break it, but too cowardly to address the real issue.
"My journal," murmured the countess, absentmindedly.
Being somewhat shallow, Clarke wondered if the countess had ever written anything about her, if she was currently writing something about her. There was only one way to find out but Clarke was not about to invade the sacred privacy of a woman's journal, especially not while this unbearable tension existed between them.
"I'm not very good at keeping one myself. I suppose it's because I lead a rather dull life."
No response.
"Do you ever sleep?" she wondered aloud.
"I do not sleep much these days, no. Not since..." The countess cleared her throat and continued writing. Clarke always seemed to put her foot in her mouth around this woman and that was not about to change with her next utterance.
"I lost someone close to me too. His name was Wells. We were-"
The countess put down her pen and stared at her. There was no tenderness this time and Clarke instantly regretted ever desiring her gaze again. "Just because you have thoughts does not mean you should voice them."
The rudeness of the remark caught her off guard and Clarke simply glared back. A short while later she decided that she did not need that ice after all and pulled herself up with the aid of the cane, Roan had previously offered her. She began to hobble towards the door. A moment later there was a deep sigh and the countess by her side. She didn't attempt to touch Clarke though.
"Forgive me, Miss Griffin, I did not mean to be cross or insensitive. There are simply a great many things on my mind. Please, allow me to escort you back to your room."
Side by side they walked in silence until they reached Clarke's door.
"It's all right, countess. You need not feel discomforted around me. What happened in the forest..." She hesitated before placing a hand to her forearm. The countesses neck snapped upwards. "We shall keep this our little secret, yes?"
The countess nodded once curtly, relief seeping into the tense lines of her jaw and shoulders. "Thank you, Miss Griffin. And I apologize most profusely if I have at all made you ill at ease during your stay here. That was never my intent. If you-"
Clarke cut off her babbling by sticking her own fingers in the woman's hair. The experience was not unpleasant. Judging by its silky texture, she clearly bathed regularly. The countess froze and stared at her wide eyed. "You have lovely hair, countess."
Clarke raised an eyebrow and smirked and the countess glanced away blushing. She hoped by making a joke of it, she would feel less embarrassed about her own blunder. Clarke retracted her hand and then they simply stared at one another until the servant finally arrived. It took him two attempts to grab their attention and then the countess told him what was needed, and swept away in the opposite direction of her study, leaving them both staring after her.
With her ankle still out of sorts the next day, Roan carried her down the stairs and into the dining room. Despite her best efforts, she could not help but to compare the two sensations from either cousin. She enjoyed being in both of their arms and could not say which she enjoyed more. Or at least, that is what she told herself...
He deposited her on the ground a moment before her parents noticed what had been going on, and then she held his hand and limped over to the nearest available seat. Unusually, the countess was the last to arrive for breakfast, and none dared eat without her, especially not after last night's fiasco.
They buttered bread in silence and then Roan said, "The ice looks to be particularly fine this morning, cousin, would you like to go for a skate?"
Clarke groaned internally. The countess clenched her butter knife tightly and then placed it aside. She looked to her and Clarke was thankful they were back to their usual ways in public. "How is your ankle faring, Miss Griffin?"
"A little better, thank you."
"I am glad to hear it." She took a sip of water. "Now, I had planned on cross country skiing for the day, but considering your state, I think it only fair if we all remain here."
"Oh, that really won't be necessary, countess," she interjected. "It is appreciated, but not necessary. Please don't feel the need to cater to me."
The countess appeared to hold back an eyeroll. "You are my guest, Miss Griffin, I believe that is precisely what I am supposed to be doing."
"In that case, cousin," said Roan, "what do you say to a little friendly competition?" He grinned. "There's nothing like the clash of cold steel in the morning."
"You will regret this challenge, cousin," she said, repeating the words from last night.
"So you keep saying," he smirked. "So far this gentleman challenger has been left far from upset."
Clarke and her parents sat just off to the side of the designated fight area. The countess and Roan were fully adorned in their fencing suits, save for their masks, which they held under their armpits. Titus stood even closer, as he would be acting as the referee. He did not seem particularly pleased to be here, and not because he was afraid of having an eye poked out (though indeed that seemed a possible occurrence). Likely he deemed such a duty beneath him, though Clarke did not quite understand what his purpose really was.
Roan looked over in her direction, the countesses eyes soon following, and called, "Miss Griffin, wish me luck!"
"Good luck!" she returned, glancing between them. The countess lowered her gaze ever so slightly at the inclusion, the faintest of smirks apparent.
Clarke was suddenly apprehensive about the outcome of this match. If she were being completely truthful with herself, she was not sure who she wanted to be the victor. The fact that she had begun to be aware of her conflicting feelings for the countess only muddied the waters further and caused her a great deal of guilt.
The cousins adjusted their masks over their faces, becoming expressionless steel, and took somewhat ridiculous fencing poses, Épée's at the ready. The countess being of slimmer, leaner stature, looked more suited to such a pose, whereas Roan seemed somewhat ungainly and out of place. And indeed, as soon as the match began, the countess lunged forward so quickly that Roan had little chance to attempt a defense, and easily scored the first point.
"Well done, countess!" congratulated her father, thoroughly impressed with her lightning fast reflexes. Indeed, Clarke had also received a thrill at the sheer speed with which she had moved. Roan turned his head to look at her father, likely feeling somewhat betrayed.
Again they took their poses. This time however, the countess did not attempt the same lunging strategy, and simply waited for Roan to make a move, which he obliged a couple of seconds later. The countess gracefully deflected his blow and redirected her own point to hit him in the shoulder.
"I must say, you're in fine form today, cousin," he chuckled a little ruefully, rolling his recently abused shoulder. "Perhaps a little too fine. I will have to step up my game earlier than anticipated."
"Yes, please do," came the more serious tones of the countess, "I find myself growing bored."
The third point was less easily won by the countess, but won all the same. After several blows of their Épée's, she managed to hit him in the side. Clarke winced in reciprocation. The countess was hitting him quite hard, so that even through the protective barrier of the fencing suit, it was stinging. Roan was clearly getting agitated but rather than complain he just took up the pose once more and waited for Titus to give the go ahead for the next round.
A clash of furious steel and twists of bodies, and finally Roan managed to score a point squarely in the countesses chest. After that, the duel became increasingly less friendly, if not outrightly hostile, and a couple of times it looked as though both parties were close to striking the other with fists or feet. Clarke knew first hand what Roan could do to an opponent if he so chose, and the thought of him kicking the countess or otherwise brutalizing her was not a pleasant one. Thankfully Titus never had to intervene in this regard and simply called the points as they were rapidly accumulated.
Clarke was not the only one uncomfortable by the end of the match, in which, unsurprisingly, the countess won.
"Well, that was quite something," muttered her frowning mother. She disapproved of most of the countesses unladylike behaviour and activities but was not foolish enough to say something within her hearing.
Roan ripped off his mask and tersely said, "What was that about? Have I done something to offend you?"
She peeled off her own mask and stared at him smugly. "I don't have the pleasure of understanding you, cousin. We dueled as you requested. You lost." She moved closer and patted him on his sore shoulder condescendingly. "I know how fragile gentlemen's egos are, but try not to become too upset."
The countess then sauntered out of the tense room, catching Clarke's eye once before she did so. It seemed to Clarke as though the countess were staking a claim on her affections, unintentionally perhaps (though that was doubtful), but a claim all the same. Clarke was not sure how she should feel about this development. As much as she enjoyed the countesses company, she was all but engaged to Roan, whom she cared about a great deal, and whom, she had thought the countess did as well.
Clarke would have accosted her about this matter, but she was hampered because of her ankle, and the mansion was quite vast, and she could not locate her. Some hours later however, she did catch a glimpse of her, but she was not alone. On an upper balcony, Titus spoke at her as he had done numerous times at the ball. There was too much distance and wind to make out what he was saying and when they spotted her, he ceased speaking altogether. Hands behind her back, the countess impassively watched her slow progress with her father for a few moments more and then moved through a curtain and out of view.
Christmas Eve dinner was an awkward affair - in which the countess drank far more wine than was her wont - and Clarke was glad for its speedy conclusion. Roan was even more out of sorts over the way the countess was behaving, fearing she was slipping back into her old detached ways, as she had done a couple of times since her family's passing. She took it upon herself to console him with softly spoken words and light caresses to his hands. It was during this brief bout of privacy beside the parlour room fire that he finally opened up to her about his own unfortunate past.
The details were as follows: About a decade ago Roan caught a close friend of the family assaulting a woman late one evening. When he intervened on her behalf, the drunken man pulled a knife and attempted to stab him. In the ensuing struggle Roan accidentally killed him. Even though Roan's father believed his story, the father of the deceased man did not, and sent the police after him. Though they searched high and low for the woman in question, she was never found to testify to the veracity of Roan's account. There were no other witnesses to the altercation. The fact that Roan and the deceased man had always had a bit of a rivalry between them did not help his case. Consequently, he was unjustly imprisoned for some years, creating quite the scandal for his family. It was only with the combined influence of The Hawkins and The Woods (and considerable sums of money) that they were finally able combat the influence of the other family and secure his release. However, the damage had been done and Roan could never claim the remaining inheritance, his reputation in tatters. He left New York City and never returned.
Needless to say, Clarke was rather shocked by the depths of this debacle, and the suffering he must have endured.
"I understand that my sordid past might change the way you feel about me," he had said forlornly, "but I felt I must tell you the whole truth before any further...arrangements might be made between us."
She looked at him wide eyed at the implication. Was he planning to propose right now?
Thankfully he did not and simply allowed her to quietly come to terms with this revelation for some moments more. Eventually she found her voice. "How is it that I have never heard of this scandal? Granted I was quite young at the time and it was overseas...but if The Woods themselves were involved..."
Roan shrugged. "They never publicly released the particulars. My father had considerable influence then and kept the foreign papers from printing the story."
"Have you seen your parents since you left?" she asked, gliding her fingertips against his own.
"A few times," he sighed. "I'm afraid our relationship has become even more strained since that fateful night. Alexandria is the only close family I truly possess, and even she seems to be slipping out of my grasp."
Clarke swallowed hard at the mention of the countess, of her growing guilt concerning the woman. Despite her unfriendly behaviour today, Clarke found herself just as mesmerized by her, if not more so. The harder she tried to deny her attraction, the stronger the pull became. She was afraid this seemingly unstoppable force would soon overcome her feelings for Roan and she would be redirected into Alexandria's arms once more, and this time she would choose to be there. If that happened, she would destroy Roan completely, and she couldn't do that to him, not after he had been so lovely to her these past few months. She had to resist temptation and sin, evade the snakes and only climb the ladders henceforth. Maybe for once she could win the game.
Glancing around the deserted room, she slipped her hand fully into Roan's and said, "I don't feel any differently about you now, Roan." She smiled at him sideways where they sat in front of the fire. "In fact, I think it was quite brave to tell me what you did. I only wish I had a comparable experience to share with you."
"I would never wish such hardships upon you, Clarke," he whispered, placing his free hand against her cheek.
He kissed the corner of her temple and then pulled her into a tight, albeit, awkward embrace. "I thank God everyday for bringing you into my life."
Clarke smiled against his shoulder. When they parted he studied her closely by the flickering firelight and then did what she had been equally anticipating and dreading. He bent the knee. Roan took her hand and gazed up at her adoringly and Clarke's heart fluttered in kind. She was feeling faint and rather unsure of what would next come out of her mouth.
It was during this precise moment she became aware of the figure frozen in a threshold hung with mistletoe. Every part of the countess was rigid and unmoving, except her eyes. Green found blue. Clarke waited with baited breath for the horrible scene to unfold, for the countess to literally stab Roan in the back. Instead, she simply gave her a jerky nod and silently disappeared from sight, leaving the two lovers to do as they might.
On Christmas morning they assembled around the tree they had painstakingly acquired and began handing out the presents nestled beneath. There were not a great many of them and most were wrapped in plain brown paper tied up with strings, but none of them cared overly much about the presentation. It was what was inside that counted.
Clarke sipped at her absolutely delicious hot cocoa sprinkled with cinnamon while she watched Roan open his present. He pulled off the string and folded the brown paper back to reveal a little bag full of...
"Mustaches?" wondered Roan aloud as he held one up between his fingertips. He blinked in confusion, then looked over at her.
She grinned and said, "To commemorate our meeting."
As predicted, Roan burst out into raucous laughter, and she grinned wider, pleased with her gag gift. Her parents just glanced between them looking puzzled, but neither asked them to explain themselves.
He held a particularly ridiculous one under his nose and said, "Do I look dashing, Miss Griffin?"
"You look like a walrus," she responded, which set him (and her father) off all over again.
When he was finally done with his merriment, he leaned back in his chair and waited for her to open her present. She put aside her hot cocoa, and with all eyes on her, pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. She was a little nervous of what to expect. She had not accepted his proposal, but she had also not rejected it. Clarke simply told him she needed more time to think on such an important decision. Of course he had been disappointed, but he had understood, as he always did, and told her to take all the time she needed. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. As such, no one knew of his proposal...besides the countess. Dishearteningly, even when she saw the lack of engagement ring on her finger, Alexandria did not chipper up.
Clarke removed the item and stared at it for some moments. It was a blue beret of exquisite quality. Once again, it matched her eye colour precisely. She looked over at Roan and smiled. "Roan, it's lovely."
Her mother gave her a look for using his Christian name. They had known each other for months, it should not have been cause for a stink. However, Clarke then tempted fate by putting the beret on and kissing Roan on the cheek.
"They are popular with artists in Paris. I thought you should have one for yourself."
When Clarke sat down again, she noticed her father holding her mothers hand, as if keeping the woman from making a scene. Her father simply seemed amused and above all glad. He had always taken a shine to Roan. There was more than one person who would be heartbroken if she didn't accept his proposal. Clarke couldn't even bring herself to look at Alexandria. She already knew what she would find.
Coincidentally, it was now the countesses turn to open a present. A present Clarke had given her. A present Roan had suggested Clarke give her. Clarke forced herself to glance in her direction and say, "I hope you like them. I made them myself."
The countess held a red candle in her hand and stared at it without expression. Clarke's stomach dropped unpleasantly at the apparent lack of interest. "I stamped the bottoms too," she added feebly.
The countess turned it over to stare at the dragon, The Woods family crest, and then looked at Clarke. It was now clear to Clarke that the countess was struggling to maintain her composure.
"They're beautiful, Miss Griffin, thank you. I almost do not want to use them."
She had considered giving her a few choice selections of her sketches during her stay here, but eventually decided against it. Their situation was peculiar enough as it was, and some of those sketches were rather a little more than simply flattering. After the incident in the woods, Clarke was doubly thankful for the exclusion now.
Once the rest of the presents were exchanged, Roan hopped on the piano and began very poorly playing a rousing rendition of Deck the Halls, to which her father joined in singing just as terribly.
Christmas Dinner was a much more grand affair than anything they had thus far done. A number of noblemen and women had been invited, twelve all told, and Clarke was currently sandwiched between a beautiful, yet dour woman and a rather effeminate man who clearly put more effort into his hair and garb than she herself had. A not unpleasant hint of lavender could be smelled on his person. The woman's name was Lady Indra, and the man's was Duke Jackson of Arkadia, a place she had never heard of before. When she said as much, the duke proceeded to give her a lengthy history lesson, by the end of which the first, second and third course had been served and she was still none the wiser as to its location.
She could see how amused Roan was by the way he was smirking and avoiding her eye. Clarke glared at him subtly, wondering if he had known all along just how much the duke liked to wax poetic. A throaty laugh caught her attention, and she glanced over at the countess and another rather attractive brown haired woman who was leaning towards her, elbows on the table, forgoing proper eating decorum. They had been talking in this conspiratorial manner the entire evening and though she pretended not to care, she most certainly did. Clarke glared in their direction instead, picking up her second glass of wine and draining the rest of the contents. Without even gesturing, a servant came and refilled her glass, which she began sipping at directly even though she felt light headed. By now Roan was accustomed to her habits and knew she did not partake of alcohol all that often, so it was unsurprising to her when she noticed him frowning at her.
Clarke began slurping at her soup, ignoring the dirty look of the haughty woman beside her. Clarke despised these sorts of dinner parties. She despised making small talk with people she would never see again, and who probably viewed her in thinly veiled contempt for nothing more than the 'misfortune' of being low born. She despised the feigned niceties and the neverending courses of bizarre dishes. But most of all, she despised the way Alexandria was looking at that other woman, Princess Luna of the Netherlands. It was idiotic of Clarke to think the countess was truly interested in her. She was no one of consequence. She had accomplished nothing of value. The countess only need ask, and any one of these nobles would gladly do her biding, no matter how shocking.
She finished her third glass of wine but this time the servant did not refill her glass, and a glance over at a still frowning Roan, told her who was to blame. Clarke wordlessly excused herself from the table, accidentally bumping into Lady Indra, who gave her an ice cold look, and then limped off towards the outdoors, hoping for some fresh air.
Roan followed soon after. "Clarke, what is the matter?"
"It's not important," she slurred, surprised by her own voice. She pawed at his face. "I've come to a decision, Roan. Let us marry."
Clarke was vaguely confused as to why he was not beaming at her in absolute love and adoration. She looked at him accusingly. "You're not happy."
"You're drunk, my dear," he replied somewhat tersely.
"So?"
"So, I would hope that you would be able to come to this very important decision while sober."
"Oh, I should hardly think the how of it were all that important." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him but he turned his face away and removed her arms.
"Come along then, Clarke," he said with a sigh, "you're in need of rest. Perhaps in the morning we can discuss this matter again under more agreeable circumstances."
"I'm not tired in the least!" she said indignantly, yawning. Roan simply stared at her until she grumbled, "Oh very well. Take me to bed, Roan." She flushed even more than she currently was at the phrasing of her request, though Roan seemed unperturbed and held her to his side in an effort to keep her upright. He was quite fit and handsome and she couldn't help but wonder how many women he had been with. Surely he had been with some. Surely.
"What's it like to be with a woman?" she blurted before she even realized her lips were moving. This time they both flushed at the comment.
A moment later her mother approached them, looking quite put out. It was hard to say whether or not she had heard that last question. Perhaps she only appeared to be vexed because their bodies were so close to one another. Roan eagerly transferred the precious cargo, and once he was certain Mrs. Griffin could handle the troublesome charge, he headed back to the dinner, wondering just what on earth had gotten into Clarke Griffin.
Smooth Lexa, smooooth. Smooth, Clarke, smooooth.
Such restraint. Much wow.
Lexa probably had a wet dream about Clarke making candles with her hair blowing in the wind. I know I did. Lol.
I'm curious, is it totally obvious I tacked on the tumbling part at the beginning? It's totally accidental every time they end up touching each other. Totally.