Hello. I don't know if FF is really a thing anymore, or at least like what it used to be. But for the past four years, I've had what I don't even know can even be called writers block; it feels like so much more than that at this point. I've tried writing, but when I can produce something, it's not the quality I'd feel comfortable having anyone else read. (Yes, I know I've uploaded some true dumpster fires on here, but I've been on this platform since I was thirteen. Give me a little grace.) My life has flipped on its head twice since I last uploaded on here, and that could be part of my issue. I've tried to write original works, and those are no good either. So I figure what's best is this: go back to my roots, and to my most popular story, and just push something through. Even if no one sees it or cares, at least I've published something. I need to write; I feel like I've been missing this huge part of me, and it makes me really, really sad. So if no one reads this, it's okay. But if you do, and you take the time to let me know what you think? It would mean more than you could ever imagine. Truly.

Okay, author's novel over. Thank you for being here; it really is everything to me. Enjoy the story.
With love,

Megan (Mermaid12108)

CLARY

The next morning, Clary woke with thoughts of chocolate chip pancakes and unruly blonde curls.

That was, until her brain and body violently switched to the narrative of I'MGOINGTOVOMIT. After feeling like she'd expelled her entire stomach lining into the porcelain bowl in front of her, she shakily cleaned her mouth and splashed cold water over her clammy skin.

You signed up for this. She tersely reminded her miserable-looking reflection. You made a decision to see this through, and now you have to deal with the consequences.

Clary just hoped that the sickness ebbed off soon; she didn't know how much more of it she could take.

{*}

The coffee maker gurgled and hissed as the smell of the grounds filled the kitchen. The dribble of liquid hitting the carafe was one sound of many as outside their flat, the city started to wake up. The creak of a floorboard drew Clary's attention to the doorway of the kitchen as Simon walked in. His hair was disheveled, his glasses askew as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. She studied his flannel pajama pants with one leg somehow rolled up, and the other perfectly straight. Simon had always been a rough sleeper; even when they'd been children, he'd wake up with his clothes in all different directions and limbs tied in the sheets.

"Morning," She greeted, her voice husky from sleep and what she'd spent the first twenty minutes of her day doing.
Simon's shirt had ridden up as he'd stretched his arm above his head, and as he pulled it down she studied the script on the front of it.

PERMANENT TOURIST

The words were printed in bold, white, letters against the brown fabric. His shirts rarely made sense to her, and this was no an exception. But he loved the quirky, confusing sayings, and there would be no changing his mind on it.

"What are you doing up?" He asked by way of greeting.

"I could ask the same of you." She returned.

"Fair." He said, reaching out and taking the orange mug from her fingers.
"Hey!" Clary protested as Simon took a sip of her coffee.

He made a face as he handed it back to her. "Ugh, black. Gross."

"Yeah, because it's my coffee, you ass. I could have some brain eating disease for all you know."

"You don't." He denied as he poured himself a cup from the now full carafe and dressed it up how he liked it.

"But I could." She admonished, feeling a bit like a petulant child as she'd said it.

"Then we shall die together, and can haunt Isabelle in our afterlife until she has enough of us and sages this place."

"Deal." She chuckled.

"So, I was thinking," Clary began after they'd each had at least one full cup of caffeinated goodness. "That it's time to look for a place of my own. Which would of course mean a job, but I'd have to work that around classes, and my commisions…"

She knew she was babbling, but she'd been up half the night with these thoughts spinning around her head, and the anxiety around them hadn't yet faded.

"You know you don't have to do that," Simon told her, his brown eyes already full of sadness and understanding.

"I do." She argued softly. There was a painful ball in her throat that was hard to speak around. "My life is about to change, like in one of the biggest ways, really soon, and I...I have to make the mature decision here."

"I know," He sighed. "Look, Clary, you know that you and...and the baby are welcome here forever -"

He leveled a look at her as she tried to interrupt. "Let me finish. But even saying that, I know you need to do this for you. I get it, I really do. But just...please don't feel like just because you need to be independent, that we aren't still here for you. You have Iz and I, no matter what."

Hot tears slid down Clary's cheeks, and she couldn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded.

"Did you decide to break the news to me first because I'm an easier target?" He asked her.

"Maybe," She admitted with a sniffle.

He gave her a tender smile, looking so much like the brother he had always been to her that it made her heart ache. Before Isabelle came along in high school, Clary and Simon had grown up together. She'd had a brother already, but she and Jonathan had never been as close as she was with Simon. Simon had shown up to their shared second grade class in a bundle of gangly nerves and cartoon t-shirts and stitched himself into her life forever.

He reached out those long arms now, and pulled her into a hug. "Isabelle will be fine," He assured. "Just maybe let her help you decorate or something, to soften the blow."

"Oh, god," She huffed out a laugh against his chest. "I'm afraid."

"Necessary sacrifices must be made, Fray."

And wasn't that what this whole decision was about?

{*}

With it being Sunday, and so early in the morning, Regents Park was mostly deserted. The normal park go-ers were likely out stocking gifts for the upcoming holiday, or attending one of the many churches in the city. The bells from one of those buildings had tolled about fifteen minutes ago, announcing the arrival of 8:00 AM. Clary leaned against a sculpture filled with branches, it's foliage long dead in the winter chill. The sculpture itself was a round mass of concrete, with several griffons encircling it, roaring into the open air.

In spring time, the skeletal branches would bloom with bright flowers in shades of pink and purple. She would normally spend hours drawing and painting the colors, but today the inspiration just wasn't there. The blank paper of her sketchbook stared back at her, loud and glaring in it's empty state. Resisting the urge to chuck her pencil into a nearby bush, Clary sighed and stretched out her legs on the grass. Her brain was a tornado of thoughts, anxieties, and what-ifs.

It was more than her current disaster of a life. Today was December eighteenth, which meant that her family had been dead for four years. Simon and Isabelle were more than just her friends, they were absolutely her family, but it just wasn't the same.

She craved her stepfather's wisdom, her brother's honesty, and most of all...her mother. She missed so much of her mother it was a physical ache in her chest. There had been so many times over these last four years that she'd wanted her mother to stroke her hair, or help her figure out a tricky light direction in her latest sketch, or even to poke fun of her in the joyful way only Jocelyn Garoway could. But more than anything, she just wished she could talk to her. Ask her all the questions she'd never even known she was supposed to ask.

What did it feel like, when you were here? Clary wanted to ask. Were you as scared as I am now?

Tears dripped onto her scarf, and she cursed herself for crying a second time in a matter of hours. She tried to breathe in, past the burn, and push the pressure down, but the tears fought her and continued to cascade down her cheeks. They fell onto her sketchbook, darkening the paper with dots of moisture. She knocked the book off her lap and into the grass, not caring too much at the moment where it landed or if the paper got soiled. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face into the dark denim of her jeans. And she allowed herself this moment, this one small time, to cry and to deeply miss her family and internally scream at how unfair it could all be.

Sometime later, after the sun had risen higher into the sky and her tears had dried to stiff tracks on her cheeks, her phone chirped with a notification. Clary unfurled herself from her stiff position and grabbed the device, the screen lighting at her fingertips.

'Hot Stuff' had texted her. God, she really needed to change his name in her phone.

Hot Stuff: What are you doing?

Clary: Robbing a bank.

The three dots appeared and disappeared a few times, and Clary smiled as she imagined Jace trying to think of the perfect sarcastic reply. Instead of another message coming through, her phone started to ring. She cleared her throat, hoping her voice wasn't clogged with the remnants of her pity party, and answered.

"Hello?"

"Answering the phone while on a bank heist? Rookie move." His voice was deep, words laced with the romantic quality of his accent.
"Maybe I've already made my getaway, and am calling you from the sunny beaches of Turks Cacos."

"Oh, I have no doubt. You are a criminal mastermind."
She shook her head, trying not to laugh. "Why are you calling me?"

"I have a proposal for you." He told her.

"Sorry," She informed him. "If you want to marry me, you gotta at least take me to dinner first."

"That's actually what I was suggesting."

"Marriage?" She squeaked, her voice coming out in a panic before her brain could use it's critical thinking skills. His laugh echoed down the line, husky and gorgeous, and her stomach did a stupid little flip.

"How do you feel about Italian?"

{*}

The nights hadn't yet warmed in London, the chilly breeze of the evening chasing away the warmth that the sun lent. Clary pulled the sides of her peacoat closer around her, shivering on the steps of Simon & Izzy's brownstone. The mailbox was labeled 'The Lewis's', but Clary could never think of her friends that way. To her, the title would always belong in Simon's childhood home, with Simon, his mom, and his sister Rebecca. And, there so often that they'd joked that her name should also be on the mailbox, Clary.

When she'd moved in with her friends, they'd offered to re-do the plate, to edit it to read 'Lewis & Fray', but she'd declined. She wondered if, even then, she'd known that she didn't belong here forever. They'd moved here not long after getting married, and she had stayed in New York. Isabelle had gotten a job offer working for a fashion magazine, prompting them to relocate to an entirely new country. Simon had also gotten a job with a music production company that needed a warm body at their London office, so it made the most sense for them as a couple. The long distance friendship had been difficult at first, but after the accident, it was unbearable.

So, Clary had moved to London. Her whole life had already turned on it's head, so why not turn it around some more? Her two best friends were amazing as always, and without them her grief may have swallowed her whole. But, she knew she was intruding on them, even if they would never say it. They deserved a home of their own, to fill with their kids some day if they decided they wanted it. It seemed apt that when her life had once again turned upside down, she relocated just to shake it up so more. She'd begun browsing the rental website this afternoon, the numbers making her sick to her stomach. She knew that tomorrow would begin the job search.

But, Clary was avoiding Isabelle. Because with Isabelle came having to tell her about her plans. And she wasn't ready for that again. One tough friend talk a day, please.

And so, she'd gotten dressed in a pretty dress and sat outside far before 6:00, and waited for that ridiculously shiny black car to come and pick her up for her...what? Date? Was this a date? It had to be, right? Or maybe just a dinner between budding friends, to continue to learn more about each other? God, she so shouldn't have gone for the mascara and lipgloss.

Just as she was debating risking a run-in with Izzy to go and scrub the makeup off, that exact car pulled up to the curb. Her breath exhaled into one giant cloud in front of her as the back door opened, and Jace stepped out. And oh, did her memory not do this man justice. He could fill out a tux. The tailored jacket stretched against his broad shoulders as he reached forward to button the jacket, at the same time walking towards her. She stood on blessedly steady legs and met him halfway.

The streetlight beside them outlined his golden curls in a soft glow, making him look almost angelic. And she had the fleeting thought that it was so unfair for someone to be that tan, when it was so cold outside, before he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hat kept her head warm, but her ears were freezing, and she fought a shiver as his warm fingers brushed the tip of her right ear before pulling away.

"You know, they make these things to cover your ears in the cold." He said by way of greeting, reaching out to flick the bobble at the top of her head.

If there was room for sarcasm, Jace took it, full force. This was one of the many things she was beginning to learn about him.

Fighting a flush, determined to not let him see how much he effected her, Clary tilted her head. "Huh, wonder where I can find one."

He rolled his eyes, extending a hand to her. She noticed as she took his hand, something she wasn't sure had been there before; a signet ring. It was too quick of a glimpse for her to really see it, but it almost looked like there was an ornate 'H' stamped in the middle. Herondale.

Jace pulled her to the vehicle with him, and she slid into the warm cabin of the back seat, pulling the door shut on the way. The deja vu was almost instant, reminding her of sitting in this exact seat a month ago, with this exact hat held in the hands of the man next to her. Of his round, golden eyes, mouth slack with shock as he requested a change of direction from the driver. This time, they settled back as the driver pulled onto the road, towards a predetermined location.

Oh, how so much could change in such little time.

{*}

They were lead through a side entrance, so as not to encounter any prying eyes. Clary took in as much as she could of the restaurant as they were led to their table. The dining area couldn't be described as anything other than alive. Soft jazz played in the background, but the dining room was filled with sounds of muttered conversations, clinking glass and silverware, and the hustle and bustle of the kitchen as they circulated out meal after meal. The walls were filled with ornate bottles, backlit by a soft amber light. But most beautiful, and something she no doubt would paint later, was the layers of wisteria and greenery that hung over the tables. The bright arrangement was broken up by threads of twinkly lights woven throughout the foliage, lighting what the wall of bottles couldn't.

They looked almost like threads of starlight, glowing above the heads of dozens of patrons. She was dragged from her ogling when they reached a table tucked into a corner. It was quieter back here, the sounds of the dining room a dull murmuring, completely opposite of what they'd just passed. There were a few other tables in this room, all occupied. It was a far more intimate setting, the music more audible & the conversations more hushed. Clary accepted the chair pulled out for her, her nerves returning with a vengeance. When their drinks arrived (she'd ordered a shirley temple, like an adult), she resisted the urge to tear her straw wrapper into tiny pieces. It was a nervous habit of hers, and one that drove everyone close to her absolutely crazy.

She decided to put on her trusty big girl pants yet again, and break the silence.

"What made you decide you wanted to do this tonight?" She asked.

Jace remained quiet for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together as if he had a million answers, and was debating which one he wanted to let through. Finally, it looked as if he'd made his decision.

"After that first day, after the coffeehouse, I researched you." He began.

Researched her? Well, of course he had—after all, she was just some one night stand from an alcohol clouded night, dropping a bomb on his life. And he was a prominent figure in society; it was clear which of them had more to loose.

"I remembered you talking about your family, and…" He went quiet again. It was an odd sight, so unlike the person she'd begun to know. "I wanted today to be about more than just what happened. I wanted you to have some better memories to remember on this day."

She'd thought that she'd exhausted all her tears earlier, but the burning behind her eyes argued otherwise. Clary was at a loss for words for a few tense moments; nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed like enough. "I…" Her voice was raspy. "Thank you." Because what else was there to say, that was more important than that? They barely knew each other, even now, and he'd still remembered what today meant for her, and decided to change that. Some people may be mad, say that it took away from their grieving, but for her...it was everything.

The waiter broke the tension between them with an extended arm, laying a steaming basket of bread sticks on the table. She gratefully took one, pulling little pieces off of it and chewing as she thought about what she wanted to say next. "My mom was an artist," She settled on. She'd already told him his part, but he listened anyways. "I think...even though she's gone, art is something that will always connect us. And my stepfather was a bookseller; Simon and I would always sneak up to the tallest floor and look at the books that were for adult eyes only."

She laughed at his raised brow. "They were really just books with more mature themes that were too delicate for our seven year old eyes. Jonathan, my brother, would catch us and threaten to tattle if I didn't do his chores for the next week."

"That was an asshole move."

She shrugged. "That was having a sibling. Did you ever wish you had a brother or sister?"

"Sometimes," He admitted. "I wanted someone to play with when I was younger, but then Alec came along. And that was enough for me."

And there was the connection that had led them to where they were today. Jace's best friend, and Isabelle's older brother, Alec Lightwood. He'd gone to a boarding school in London as a teenager, part of his father's efforts to shape Alec into his perfect image of a son. It was there that he met Jace, as well as Magnus, his now-husband. Isabelle had refused to go to boarding school, and their mother hadn't pushed the issue, too involved in her own work at the time to fight Izzy.

Years later, when Isabelle moved to London, she and Alec rekindled their sibling relationship and became as close as they had been before. Their younger brother, Max, was currently in high school at St. Xaviers in New York, and visited on occasion. Clary wouldn't be surprised if the whole Lightwood family relocated here after he graduated.

She thought of how, if she hadn't given into Isabelle's begging to attend the gala sponsored by the company that she and Magnus both worked for, that her life would be completely different right now. Or rather, it would've remained the exact same. And for the first time, she realized what a shame that would've been.

"What would you be doing right now, if you weren't who you are? Or if you didn't have your title, I guess I should say." Clary asked Jace.

She wasn't sure where the question came from. Maybe it was an effort to ease some of the awkward tension that hung over the table like a wet blanket. But more than that, she found that she was hungry for more info on him. Not his royal highness, but him. She wanted to know more about who Jace Herondale was. She could easily blame it on their situation, could say that she just wanted to know who she was having a child with. But even though that was of course true, it was almost more selfish than that. She liked talking to him, and still felt that there was so much more beneath the surface that she hadn't uncovered about him, and she wanted nothing more than to dig it up.

He shrugged, stating simply: "It doesn't matter. I am who I am, and I can't ever change it."

She tried to stamp down the sadness his words brought forth.

"So?" She shrugged as well, as she prompted him, "Humor me. In another life, who are you? What does your life look like?"

He was silent for so long she feared he wouldn't answer her. His tawny eyes studied her as he fiddled with a fork on his side of the table. He probably only waited no more than thirty seconds before speaking, but it felt like ages, and she was starting to deeply regret the question when he leaned towards her. She followed his lead, as if drawn to him like a magnet to it's opposite poll. She rested her elbows on the table, placing her chin onto her fist and listened intently.

"Honestly?" He said, "I have no idea. It's not something I'd ever given much thought to. There was never any future in which I wasn't a member of the royal family, so wondering what could have been felt pointless."

His voice was quiet, so that only the two of them could hear. Part of her wondered if it was so that no one overheard and noticed who was sitting at the table. Another part of her thought that maybe these were thoughts that he wanted to keep quiet, for fear of giving the vulnerable feelings life. There was another stretch of silence, but she didn't fill it. She felt that he wasn't done speaking, but rather was taking the time to actually think of the answer to a question he'd never allowed himself to ponder.

Finally, he told her, "I guess, if given the opportunity, I'd be doing something with music. I've played the piano as long as I can remember, and I don't think this alternate reality would be any different. Or maybe something with self-defense? I've always felt at home in the classes I've taken, something about the heat of a fight, the adrenaline of it all."

She studied him. "Maybe you'd be an instructor of some kind? Either a piano teacher, or some kind of fighting instructor."

His mouth quirked in the flash of a barely there smile before he nodded. "Maybe."

The waiter returned to serve their food after that, prompting another lull in conversation. Clary stabbed a piece of penne pasta with her fork, looking down at her plate instead of across the table. It wasn't like she hadn't dated before; there had even been a brief moment, pre-Isabelle, where she and Simon had tried. (They had come to the natural conclusion that they were very much just friends.) But tonight, nerves were a live thing in her stomach, buzzing around inside her like an angry bee hive. And she was having a hard time shaking them.

{*}

JACE

Jace studied the woman across from him, ignoring the steaming plate the server had just placed

in front of him. Her head was bent, her tumble of red hair hiding most of her face. But through the gap, he could see her pale skin, the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, and the blush that fought it's way through them.

There was something almost etherial about her, the way she was so small but not at all too delicate. Everything about her was vibrant, from her bright green eyes to how animated she got when speaking on something she was passionate about. Even her smile was something else; the way it brightened up her entire face. That smile was like a drug, and he was an addict who would do anything he could to make it happen again.

"What's next?" He asked her, after watching her push her food around her plate for far too long.

Her head lifted, hair parting to show her startled face, as if she'd gotten lost in her own head, and not even realized it. "What?"

"What's next?" He repeated. "After you graduate."

"Oh," She set down her fork and tucked her hair behind her ears, shaking her head at him. "Is it awful to say that I have no idea?" She laughed, and even something as simple as that was intoxicating. He immediately wanted her to do it again. Christ, what was wrong with him? There had been plenty of women before, but for some reason, this one turned Jace into a blushing pre-teen again.

"I am looking for my own place," She told him. "And of course a job to go with it. I'd still keep up with my art, maybe sell a few pieces to local galleries, or do commissioned pieces. But it's kind of still...up in the air, I guess."

They continued to talk about surface level things, and he learned her birthday was in August, information he filed away for later. After their plates were cleared, and he'd settled the tab (something she thankfully didn't fight him on), he walked over to her side of the table and extended a hand. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his for a moment, before she wrapped her pale hand around his tanner one and let him pull her to her feet. He led her out of the restaurant and into the chilly city streets.

It was later, and the night crowd had thinned, but club-goers and tourists still walked past them. Jace pulled Clary with him as they passed the curved, glass windows of a building not far from the restaurant. She hadn't pulled her hand from his yet, and he was reluctant to let it go.

"Where are we going?" She finally asked him after they passed a few more buildings. She looked up at the star lights strung between buildings as she asked, looking at the intense glow they gave against the night sky.

"I want to show you something every person should see in this city, at least once." He told her as they crossed onto Oxford Street, and walked towards the Tottenham Court Road Station. He had a driver, of course, and that was probably the safer option, but he took any opportunity he could to feel more like a normal person. He also knew all the pomp and circumstance of his life made her uncomfortable, so he took this small opportunity of normalcy and ran with it.

{*}

They rode the lift up to the top floor, the hum of the machine filling the silence between them. That is, until she broke it by telling him, "No offense, but I feel like The Shard is the definition of a tourist attraction. I've seen it before."

He smirked at her, shaking his head. "Just trust me."

And, thankfully, she did. They continued the journey upwards until the lift let out a soft ding and opened onto the top floor of the building. It closed in half an hour, so they didn't have much time, but he hadn't been ready for the night to end. So he'd racked his brain for somewhere else to take her, and this just felt right.

"Wow," She breathed as they neared the windows. "Okay, I take it back. I've never seen this before."

From this height, London was an expanse of bright, twinkling lights broken up by historical buildings and shimmering modern structures. Cars sped across the Tower Bridge, ants on the wide structure from their view. Lights reflected off of the River Thames below the bridge, making the water appear to shimmer as the wind pushed soft waves across the surface.

"This is one of my favorite views of the city," He told her. "You can see it all from up here. And down there, are thousands of people just living their lives in every part of the city."

"It's beautiful," She acknowladged.

"Yeah," He agreed, but he wasn't looking at the city.

She was enamored by the view, pressing close to the glass but careful not to smudge the glossy service. Her hair fell into her face again, and before he'd even realized what he was doing, he'd tucked it behind her ear. And then, he just left it there. His hand didn't drop from her face like it should have. Instead, he palmed her cheek, the skin chilled from outside, and ran a thumb across the freckles on her cheekbone. What was he doing?

{*}

CLARY

She couldn't breathe. The air seemed to get stuck in her throat, unable to make it's way to her lungs. Jace's hand was warm against her cheek, his golden eyes locked on hers. His brow was creased, as if he was thinking hard. The city continued to bustle around below them, but it may as well have disappeared for how much attention she awarded it. The tips of her boots met his as her body, of it's own volition, had drifted closer to him.

Her brain was screaming at her that this was a bad idea, but she pushed it down. The tension between them in this moment wasn't anything of the awkward feelings from earlier. Now, a heat bloomed in her chest and crawled up her neck. Just being in his orbit left her head spinning, but being this close to him, with their bodies sharing the same heat, was so much more. She couldn't even blame alcohol this time. She briefly wondered if the bubbles from her soda had all floated to her brain, and pushed out all her judgment. Because in this moment, there was no idea that seemed better than sealing his lips with hers.

"We…" She began, her voice no more than a whisper.
"Shouldn't," He finished for her. "I know."

But now his other hand was on her face, tilting her chin up and brushing his calloused thumb across her bottom lip. Her body leaned even closer to his, and she knew she should stop this, that he should stop this, that it was all such a bad idea. But then his lips were on hers, and those thoughts circled away like water down the drain.

Her memory truly didn't do him justice, and that was a crime. She briefly wondered how she could've gone her whole life without knowing what he felt like, but he ran his tongue against the seam of her closed lips and even those thoughts ceased to exist. She granted him entrance to her mouth, and the taste of him against her tongue was a rush to her system. His fingers tangled in the curls at the base of her neck, and she slipped her hand into his jacket, curving her hand around his side and pulling her body closer against his. Kissing him was heated, and weightless, and something she knew she would be thinking about for hours as she tried to sleep tonight.
An announcement sounded above them, announcing the closing of the building in fifteen minutes.

She broke away from him, but didn't move to put distance between them. He pressed his forehead against hers, and they were both breathing hard. "We should…" He started, to which she agreed, but then he turned them and pressed her back against a nearby pillar. She couldn't fight it as her body arched closer to him, seeking out his connection. He pressed his lips across the length of her jaw, and then on each corner of her mouth. And then, just as she was ready to beg him to just kiss her again already, her lips. Any lingering cold was chased away, and her body tingled everywhere they made contact.

The announcement chimed again, letting them know the building would now be closing in ten minutes. She broke away and rested her forehead against his chest. "We really have to go," He said mournfully.

"I know." She sighed. But they were on each other again as soon as the elevator doors closed, his lips behind her ear and her fingers knotted in his collar. They really had a bad track record with elevators.

{*}

JACE

He took her home after that, despite wanting to keep her with him until the sun lit up the city and another day began. The car idled on the street as they walked to her door. She turned to him as they reached her front door, relaxing against the stained cherry wood. "Thank you," She told him, flashing him the tamed version of one of her mega-watt smiles. "I had a nice time tonight."

"Me too," He agreed. He dipped his head to press a quick, chaste kiss against her lips. He pulled back, despite his body screaming that he do the opposite. "Get some sleep."

Her cheeks were nearly the color of her hair, and she pressed her swollen lips together as she nodded.

"Good night, Jace."

"Good night, Clary."

And then she was wrestling the door open and giving him another timid smile as she closed it behind her. Jace walked back to the car, forcing himself not to look back at her flat like a lovesick puppy. He'd often gone over his memories of the night they'd met, picking out what he could from the buzzed haze. But none of his memories compared at all to what she'd felt like tonight.

She tasted of strawberries, her vanilla perfume making him dizzy. And the small sound of contentment she'd made as he'd pulled her closer, her fingers tightening against his side as she gripped on to him just as strong, became new circulations in his mind.

Her hair tickling his skin, the way she lifted on her tiptoes in an effort to deepen the kiss. He'd just said good night to her moments ago, but Jace already knew he needed to see her again, as soon as possible.

She truly was a drug, and he was a hopeless addict with no chance of salvation.

{*}