Okay, Guys. This is a thirty page chapter for you all. I could've split it into two parts, but I didn't want to. I hope you like it.

I would admit, perhaps a bit begrudgingly, that my wise choices weren't as prevalent as they once had been. I wondered what past, level-headed Clarke would say to this Clarke, who currently stood in front of Bellamy's door, knuckles raised to its surface. The number 15 winked back at me.

She would, undoubtedly, compose a list of cons this decision would ultimately reap. And if that failed to dissuade me, there was always physically beating me with a textbook to get the message across.

I felt like a stalker. A pathetic stalker who was out of places to crash, that she had resorted to texting a fourteen-year-old to ask for her brother's home address. In a non-creepy way, of course.

Octavia had inquired, with multiple question marks, as to why his address was necessary. And I'd lied, telling her it was because he'd forgotten something at school. I nearly said my car, but stopped myself just in time, knowing that would only prompt more questions.

So not only did that make me a stalker, it also made me a lying stalker.

It seemed my self-respect was seeing new peaks today.

I blew out a long breath, glancing between the door to the hall. A very childish thought came to me, one that involved the method of ding-dong-ditch to see if he was even home.

I quickly shook that thought from my mind. I was here. And as long as I was, I might as well try. All he could do was say no. In multiple volumes.

I forced my knuckles to make contact with the door. Once. It was barely audible and I tried again, a little louder.

A few seconds passed and again, I thought about running. But I stood my ground, even when footsteps sounded and the door was pulled open.

Bellamy appeared before me, plain shirt and jeans that looked like he'd owned for a very long time. Grey socks, that I saw, with an ember of envy, matched. I didn't know why men were more prone to match their socks than women. Or, maybe that was just me.

Behind him, I could smell the vague traces of some kind of pasta emanating from the kitchen. I wondered if he was as particular with food as he was with his coffee.

"Clarke?" he asked, face scrunched together like he was looking at a particularly difficult math question.

For some reason, it had felt less surreal up until this point. Now it was like I was watching this happen to someone else.

"Hey," I said, a little sheepishly.

Bellamy's dark eyes bored into mine, wide and questioning. His eyebrows furrowed and he blinked. "What . . . what are you doing here? How'd you even-?"

"Octavia," I said.

His eyes went a little wider. "Why would you-? Wait, did something happen with Octavia?" Alarm crowded his eyes.

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. My hands around my phone tightened so hard, the plastic bit into my skin. "No, nothing happened. I uh, asked her for it. For . . . me."

That was a lame explanation, but I had no energy for eloquence. I didn't even have enough energy to look sufficiently embarrassed.

Now that Bellamy was reassured his sister was fine, the confusion returned to his features, filling up every inch of it. "So then why are you here?" There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

I pursed my lips and glanced down the hall. That park bench idea was starting to look more and more appealing.

I forced my eyes back to his. "I um, sort of need a place to stay. For tonight." Then I would face my mom. I'd face it all.

Bellamy tilted his head slightly to the side, right brow hitching higher and higher up his forehead. "What's wrong with your place? Last I checked, it was well-equipped to house two."

Mom and Kane together. Eating dinner together. Laughing together. I could still smell the spice. It clung to my skin like cheap lotion.

"I can't go home," I said brusquely, and then shook my head again. "I mean, I won't. I know this is inconvenient, but if I could just borrow your couch for a night, I'd really appreciate it." I'll pay you, I nearly added.

Bellamy leaned against the door, hand still around the knob. He appraised me, from my jacket-less arms to the plea in my eyes. Or maybe it was a challenge, because if he said no, I would take that park bench over my warm bed.

Something burned in those onyx eyes, like he wanted to ask more. The questions were still there. But he didn'task them; he just let go of the knob and pushed the door open. "Come in."

Momentarily stunned, it took me a second to get my feet to move and I followed him in. The warm, woolen smell of his apartment helped chase away the spice that had lingered from my home.

"Close the door," he said.

I did.

When I turned back, I surveyed the apartment. The last time I'd been here, I was either drunk or recovering from being drunk, but it was familiar enough. The old couch still looked comfortable. Jon Bon Jovie stared back at me from his various places on the walls. It was, however, cozier than I remembered it being in my hungover state.

Bellamy returned to the kitchen, stirring something in a small pot. It smelled like Ramen noodles, but one cup must not be enough for him, and two servings couldn't fit in one cup.

I bit the inside of my cheek and rolled on my heels, the awkwardness clinging to us like the heat off the stove.

"Thank you," I said after a while.

Bellamy didn't turn away from the pot, but he did cast me a glance from the corner of his eye. "Want to talk about it?"

I shut my eyes for a moment and shook my head, trying my best to block out the images. How was it a man could make my mother laugh, but her own daughter couldn't?

I opened my eyes. "I really just . . . want to not think of it right now."

Bellamy paused in his stirring. "There's no pond down here, if that's what you mean."

Against my will, I smirked. "No, that's . . . that was a special case."

"Felt real special," I heard him mumble under his breath.

To temper the awkwardness, I wandered into the living room, barely two yards away. No knick-knacks. The TV was still resting on its sad little stand. A picture of him and Octavia sat on a pile of magazines. Magazines, I saw, not regarding cars or girls, but music. I glimpsed the image of a treble cleft peeking out from under the frame.

I glanced from the stack to the Bon Jovi posters to Bellamy. I arched a brow at him, relieved at the shift in focus. "Do you play an instrument?"

He didn't turn around, just continued to stir and check on the rest of whatever he was making. "Did I give you permission to snoop through my things?"

"Do you?" I pressed.

Finally he looked over at me, lips pursed in exasperation. He shrugged and glanced away, almost shyly. "Not really."

I wasn't buying it.

"What is it?" I asked, my curiosity gnawing on me. My gaze dropped from his eyes to his hands, as if they would tell me whether they stroked strings or keys.

Bellamy returned to his pot. "It's nothing. I haven't played in months."

"Guitar?" I wonder aloud, still watching his hands.

"No."

I chewed on my bottom lip and crossed my arms, scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. "Violin?"

He shook his head.

"Clarinet?"

"Oh please."

"Trombone?"

From over his shoulder, Bellamy cast me an incredulous look. It was appropriate, since the image of him playing such a large instrument was almost enough to push me over the edge and into hysterics.

I thrummed my fingers against my arm. "Piano?"

Bellamy shrugged again, which I took as a yes. This didn't surprise me; his fingers were long. Ideal for piano, or so I'd been told.

"How long have you been playing for?"

"What's with the twenty questions?" He asked. "I already said yes to the couch."

"That long, huh?"

Bellamy let out a small scoff and glanced at me again, that ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His smiles were about as rare as my mom's laugh.

"A while," he finally said. "I picked it up when I was younger and practiced whenever I could."

I didn't bother looking around the small space for confirmation before I said, "There's no piano here."

He switched stirring hands. "I'm aware."

"Not even a keyboard."

"Not even a kid's xylophone," he said with a nod.

I stared at his back, understanding dawning on me. He couldn't afford a piano. Or a keyboard. All his money probably went to food and the essentials, not pricey gadgets. My heart pinched at the thought. It was like a writer without paper, or an artist without pencils. It was like a doctor without surgical instruments.

I jammed my thumbs in my jean pockets. "You know, the hospital uptown has a piano in their lobby. Apparently, there's a study on how piano music,-well, any music really-helps soothe anxiety. Not just for the patients, but for those waiting, too."

Bellamy flicked off the stove and removed a smaller pot. He took it over to the sink and drained the water. A column of steam rose up before him. "Sounds like an uplifting atmosphere," he said.

"I remember someone playing it after the accident, when I was taken in." The words were out before I could think twice and the scar ached, but it was too late to take them back. That day was a haze, full of mangled metal and the color red. I remembered staring at the lights of the hospital as I was wheeled beneath them on a stretcher. And then I'd heard those tinkering notes, coming from somewhere else.

I had wondered if that meant I was dying. And that if I was, it wasn't so bad.

A knot formed at the base of my throat, making it difficult to swallow."That study is well-founded."

Bellamy's eyes met mine through the fading remnants of steam. Something in his face tightened. "I thought you didn't like music," he said.

I shrugged, wishing I had kept the natural course of this conversation. That I hadn't mentioned any of this. I glanced back to the stacks of magazines. "I don't."

The song had soothed me then. But it had stopped by the time I woke up to find my mom at my bedside, and the loss of my father so clear in her eyes.

Bellamy didn't say anything and after a minute, I looked back at him.

His jaw was clenched but he had no remark for me. Instead, he raised the small pot of noodles a fraction of an inch. "You hungry?"

******

I didn't realize how starved I was until I sat on the couch, fingers curled around a hot bowl of Ramen noodles. It looked fancier in glass than it did in Styrofoam.

I'd rejected his first offer to help him eat his dinner, but something-undoubtedly my rumbling stomach-must've given me away because Bellamy had wordlessly handed over a second bowl.

Now he sat adjacent to me, using the coffee table as an impromptu chair even though there was enough room for the both of us on the couch. We ate in silence, which was fine by me. My focus was entirely consumed by the food burning my mouth. I didn't care that I could barely feel my tongue by the time I was done.

I swiped at a trickle of juice from my chin. "Thank you," I said, again entertaining the thought of paying him. But I settled for taking my dish over to the sink and washing it.

Before I could even ask, he said, "farthest cupboard to your left."

He only had three lining the wall, so it wasn't that difficult to deduce which one he was referring to.

When I put my bowl away and my utensil in a little jar on the counter, I reentered the living room, that discomfort bleeding back into our silence again. Silence I was beginning to loathe, because it let my mind wander. To my mom in her room. To Marcus in his office. To their leftover plates in the sink I would clean the following day.

Clearing his throat, Bellamy stood and strode into his bedroom. For a second I thought he was going to bed. But then he came out a few seconds later, two folded blankets in his hands. He plopped them on the couch and looked over at me.

I could've sworn by the jerkiness of his movements that he seemed . . . well, nervous.

He folded his arms across his chest like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. Then he seemed to realize he looked like an angry parent and dropped them to his sides. "Do you . . . need a pillow or something?" he asked.

I wrapped my own hand around my elbow and shook my head. "It's fine. I'll just use the couch cushion." Or just lie flat, with my feet hanging over the sides. That image looked less than appealing, But it was better than a park bench.

Bellamy bobbed his head curtly. He looked between me and his door, still ajar from when he walked through with the blankets. Then he jabbed a thumb towards it. "I'll...see you tomorrow," he said, turning on his heels. "Bathroom's out the front door, down the hall to your right," he added without stopping or looking at me, like he was eager to leave the room.

I heard the door click quietly shut behind him.

*******

The living room no longer felt empty.

That was the first thing I realized as I lounged on the couch, my mom on one side of me, my dad on the other. I felt like it should be weird seeing him. But it wasn't. It felt like just another average day.

The TV was on and I recognized it as a medical drama. Stethoscopes and actors in white rushing past the screen to their patients. A bowl of popcorn materialized between my hands and I grabbed a handful. My mom did the same.

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" she shouted from my right, throwing a piece of popcorn at the screen. "You would not use that size blade in that kind of surgery!"

Dad snatched up a few pieces of popcorn for himself. "Maybe that person has a smaller neck."

I snickered and snuggled deeper in the couch, propping my feet up on the coffee table.

Mom prodded me in the shoulder. "Don't listen to him. That," she gestured a popcorn-filled fist to the screen, "is a medical travesty."

"Or maybe they do it specifically to get under the skin of experts like you," Dad added, smiling wickedly at her.

I laughed and shook my head, shifting to give both parents a look.

But when I turned to my dad, he wasn't there anymore. Someone had taken his place. Someone with slick brown hair and crossed legs.

A jolt ran through me but Marcus Kane didn't notice. His eyes were on the screen, as if he'd been watching it the whole time.

I jerked away from him, slamming my shoulder into my mom, keeping my eyes on Marcus. No, this wasn't right. It couldn't be.

"Where's my dad?" I asked as calmly as I could muster, sparing a furtive glance towards the kitchen. Empty. Hall; empty. The fullness of this house suddenly bled out like a punctured water balloon.

"Mom?" I asked, twisting around to face her. A bead of panic leaked into my voice. She would know what was going on.

But before she could answer, the scene evaporated and I was suddenly standing in the kitchen when the front door opened and in came the heavy squelch of my dad's sneakers. "Bakery was open," he called from the entry. "I know your mom has a thing against preservatives and the potential for GMO, so of course, I bought a dozen muffins."

That was an inside joke in our house. After work, dad would sometimes stop by a grocery store or some bakery to get baked goods, just to see if mom would cave again.

She always announced she wouldn't.

She announced it every time.

A smile was already spreading across my face, previous fear forgotten, as I started over to greet him and swipe up a muffin. But it froze, when I saw the man who turned the corner.

I stared. Because it wasn't my father.

Marcus Kane smiled at me, white box in hand. He flipped open the corner. "Got blueberry; your favorite."

I suddenly had no appetite. No, I wanted to say. And maybe I did, I just couldn't hear it over the chorus of wrongness screaming in my ears. Because this was wrong. This was my family's joke, not his. Why was he-?

But then the scene fragmented and broke apart.

This time, I was in my dad's office, all oak desk and family pictures. His chair swiveled around so it wasn't facing me. A paper was in my hand, a red A painted in the top corner. There was a grin on my face as I said, "Guess who got top grade in her trig quiz?" I brandished the paper to him.

"Bragging rights," he replied.

The chair turned around.

Marcus was in my father's chair.

He didn't notice my silence, or how the grin slipped off my face. He was too busy studying the paper as I studied the pictures around him. Family photos, of me, and my mom, and...Marcus.

I stared at them, as the office around me crumbled away. Yet those pictures didn't follow after it. No, they zoomed in on me, encompassing me. They flashed through my head. Memories of my parents. Of us all together. But never was it my father in them. It was always Marcus.

Marcus, teaching me to ride a bike.

Marcus, counting shooting stars with me as we lay on the front lawn.

Marcus, taking me to get my driver's license.

Marcus, and not my father.

"No," I said, as the images surged around me. All of them the same as I remembered, save for the man who stood in my dad's place, like he was photoshopped into my memories.

They swirled around and around, smothering me. "Where's my dad?" I asked Marcus, again and again as he flashed by with every image. But he didn't answer. My mom didn't seem to notice the man she was with didn't have the same eyes as her daughter.

The pace sped up, as I was forced to walk through each memory.

"I want my dad," I told Marcus as we got ice cream downtown.

As he helped me study my flashcards on the sympathetic nervous system.

As we blasted Danny Boy over the radio and he paused, waiting for my cue.

But I didn't take it.

"I want my dad," I told him, as the music rose in volume, a crescendo in this tight car that felt as if it were growing smaller and smaller, curling itself around me. But Marcus continued the song. The music shredded my eardrums and panic became a hot, raging thing inside my chest, just over my scar.

I want my dad, I tried again, but the words didn't make it past my lips.

They couldn't, over the flood of rainwater that suddenly came pouring into the car, filling my mouth and collecting in my lungs.

I choked. Dad! I wanted to scream. Dad! But I was drowning in rainwater, black novas the size of nickels exploding across my vision.

The rainwater suddenly didn't taste like rainwater anymore, but blood.

I cried, as my panic morphed into something feral, something I couldn't control. I called out for my dad again, waiting for an answer. For anything.

And somewhere, somehow, a sweet melody began to play.

*******

I jolted up, the blanket twisted around my waist causing me to lose my balance and fall between the couch and the coffee table. My knee slammed against the table leg, and I distantly heard a door open.

The light flickered on and someone called my name but I didn't look up, too preoccupied with trying to get air in my lungs, my chest splintering. I blinked rapidly, waiting for that dream to shatter and fade like ash.

There were fast footsteps and then warm hands touched my shoulders.

"Clarke? Clarke, what happened?" Bellamy asked, the anxiety clear in his voice.

That dream—that nightmare—was already starting to fade like I'd hoped, and Bellamy's apartment crystallized around me. I realized I was wedged between the furniture, gasping for breath that was clearly there. And behind me was Bellamy, leaning over my left shoulder to see my face.

"Clarke," Bellamy ground, gentle but forceful. "Tell me."

I shook my head and pulled myself up. Bellamy kept his hands on my shoulders, probably ensuring I wouldn't fall again.

Once sitting upright on the couch, I tried to take more leveled breaths as Bellamy sat too, wide eyes frozen on me.

Seconds passed and I realized my hands were clenched around the blanket. I instantly loosened my fingers.

"What was it?" Bellamy asked softly, finally letting his hand fall from my shoulder. He dropped them in his lap.

I gave my head another shake. "It was nothing. Sorry for waking you." I didn't know which I felt more: guilty, for having taken both his couch and his sleep, or embarrassed, at him finding me on the floor. Both. Definitely both.

"That didn't look like nothing, Clarke," he said, and hesitated, only for a moment, before adding, "What exactly happened yesterday?"

My hands shook. "I said I didn't want to talk about it," I murmured.

"And how's that working out for you?"

I swallowed, well aware of the sweat still slicking my palms. I looked at him. His curly hair cast shadows over his face, making his eyes look black instead of brown. "This isn't your problem."

"Which is exactly why I'm asking," he deadpanned. He leaned back in the couch, close enough that his knee nearly grazed mine. He crossed his arms and waited, a clear sign that this was not up for debate. He never moved those eyes off me.

I chewed on my bottom lip and had little choice but to relent. Keeping it to myself didn't make it any less true. Maybe saying it would prove as much. But it didn't make the words any easier to get out.

"My mom," something in my throat felt tight and I had to swallow again. "My mom started seeing my therapist."

Bellamy's eyebrows drew together and I could practically hear the retort forming in his mind, but, for what I assumed was my benefit, he refrained. "That's...good isn't it? Gives her someone to talk to"—

"No," I interrupted. "Seeing, as in personally. Dating."

"Oh." That confusion lingered in his face. "Why . . . I mean I get the whole thing with your dad, but is that really so bad it called for you leaving home and crashing here?"

I sighed, casting a glance down at my hands. A honk came from the intersection outside the windows. "It wouldn't be, if she had just bothered to mention that the therapist she told me to go to was the man she was also seeing behind my back."

Understanding bloomed in Bellamy's eyes. "Are you sure?"

I actually smiled, at the absurdity of the situation. Maybe I was really starting to lose it. "My mom thought I'd already left this morning. Or yesterday, I guess." Those nightmarish images swelled up again. "So she brought him home."

"And you were there?"

I nodded, wringing my pinkie finger.

"What'd you say?"

I pursed my lips. "I didn't say anything. They didn't even know I was there. I uh, sort of stayed in my room."

A pause. "Was that why you weren't in school?"

"Yeah." I smirked without humor. "Pretty ridiculous, right?"

"Clarke—"

"Sorry, I shouldn't be telling you this. You- of all people," I said. "You're the one dealing with an ex-con and I'm complaining over who my mom is dating?" I shook my head incredulously. "But I just . . . I deserved to know that the guy I was talking to about my dad and Finn and my life, was potentially my future . . ." step-father, I thought, but I couldn't manage the word.

I loosed another breath, not exactly feeling better, but I did feel lighter, like voicing it lessened the load of knowing it.

At my side, Bellamy made no comment. His eyes went from me to gaze straight ahead. "Jae's trying to get approved for visiting hours," he said, so low I almost missed it. "With Octavia."

It took me off guard, that he was telling me this, but I quickly shook it off. In fact, I felt a bit of gratification that he hadn't called him dad. It diminished almost instantly. Visiting hours.

"But—how can he do that?" I said, voice piquing as the reminders of my own issues dissolved. "They know what he went to jail for"—

"Yeah, drug and alcohol abuse they blamed for his behavior," the last word was imbued with venom. Bellamy's hands clenched into fists.

"But only under someone else's supervision, right?" I asked.

An expression I couldn't name flooded into his face. Dark and unyielding. I knew it was just the reflection of the light in his eyes, but just now, it looked like a thimble of flame. "That's the thing," His words came out low. "He wants me to be the one who supervises."

My mouth popped open a bit as I stared at him, a number of expletives running through my mind. My own anger lit inside the pit of my stomach, but I shoved it away, not wanting to add my own fuel to his fire. I scrutinized him, keeping my voice calm. "You're going to do it, aren't you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"How would you know?" He asked, going on the defensive.

I grimaced. "Because no one can protect your sister like you can. So you'll go to keep her safe, just as you've done for her entire life."

That perplexed look returned to his face, tinged with scrutiny, like he wanted to tell me I was wrong. That I didn't know him so well as to start predicting his choices, and maybe I didn't. But I knew that one. And so did he, which left us in a moment of silence.

He pulled his feet onto the coffee table and rested his head against the couch cushion. "So what're you going to do about your mom?"

I sighed and followed suit, pulling the blanket up to my chest. I played with a loose thread at the end. "Confront her, I guess."

"Oh, that sounds confident," Bellamy remarked sarcastically.

"It's better than nothing. I'm just," I shrugged, "not sure there's anything she could say that would make me feel better."

"I don't think there's anything anyone could say that would make you feel better."

"How promising," I chided, shifting to give him a faux look of enthusiasm. "Have you ever thought about being a motivational speaker?"

Bellamy smirked, and the heat in his gaze abated some. I thought back to when he'd first found Octavia at school, and wondered if I'd ever see that kind of smile on him again.

He reached for the remote on the table and sat back. He clicked on the TV, the light momentarily stinging my eyes.

"You aren't going back to bed?" I asked, surprised.

Bellamy returned to his head to the cushion. "I'd still be in bed if somebody hadn't woken me up."

That guilt mounted but there wasn't any anger in his voice. "I wasn't aware there was anything good on this late at night."

Bellamy began flipping through the channels, pillowing his head with the other arm. "Oh sure. I bet they save all the best shows for two am."

*******

I was woken by the pang of light burning against my closed eyes. I mumbled to myself how I should've closed the blinds before going to bed as I peeled back my lids.

I squinted, catching the flood of sun streaming in from panels of glass. And then I remembered. Right. There were no blinds, because this was not my room. Not my house. I recalled the previous day. The nightmare. Falling asleep to the food network.

Something warm tickled my cheek and I turned my head.

I froze.

Lying there, not even an inch from my face, was Bellamy.

He was asleep, and the effect it had on him was startling; it was like years had melted from his features. The tightness in his face was gone. The perpetual worry line between his brows was, for once, smooth. This close up, I could count his freckles, splattered across his cheeks and nose like someone had gone rampant with a dark paint.

His breathing was deep and even and when he exhaled, it disrupted a strand of my hair. I became aware of his leg, now pressed against mine. Heat blossomed over me at the contact.

And suddenly, I couldn't move. It was like I was back in my room again, made of stone and unable to do anything but stare.

Some invisible pull dragged my eyes down, down, down to his lips.

And that was when my heart did something very weird and unexpected:

It started to pound.