Bellarke One Shots Book 1

28) On the back of a hurricane

A/N Not my story

Clarke hates Valentine's Day.

It isn't in a cliché, nonconformist way, either. It's just that, well, she broke up with her boyfriend of a whole year last week for cheating on her (he was actually cheating with her, but she didn't know that — who cares about technicalities, right?). Her first legitimate boyfriend, her first serious relationship, and she ends up being the Other Woman. A whole fucking year and she didn't suspect a thing.

Raven attends college a town over, which is coincidentally where Finn grew up. She's smart, funny, absolutely gorgeous — and, not to mention, his high school sweetheart. They've known each other since they were kids, for Christ's sake, and he thought it was a good idea to cheat on her. For a whole year. Raven didn't deserve that, neither of them did. Clarke still feels horrible about it and she's allowed to sulk, okay.

(And by sulk, she means head to the nearby convenience store, stock up on wine and discounted candy, binge watch Orphan Black, possibly with Drake playing in the background and not think about Finn Fucking Collins, because she's better than that.)

So, that's exactly what she does.

For a few minutes, Clarke does a one-eighty and actually loves Valentine's Day.

She's in Heaven, really, her very own Comfort Food Heaven; practically everything is on discount. Which is why she takes her sweet time going around the store, making sure she knows all her options. She plans on having the best night ever and this is very serious business.

Red wine? Check.

A party sized bag of Tortilla chips? Check.

Salsa? Check.

Sour Skittles? — Wait a minute.

There's a guy; tall, dark hair, broad shoulders, star-like freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and most importantly, he's reaching out for the last bag of sour Skittles. The bag that's hers, thank you very much.

Clarke makes a run for it.

And, well, if he ends up complaining to the store manager about her hip-checking him out of the way, she'll deny it.

"This," she says, waving the bag in the guy's face. "Is mine."

Clarke feels smug for about two seconds, two victorious seconds, before he actually has the audacity to grab it from her.

"Nah, it's mine," he retorts, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a smirk. She wants to punch him. She's not above punching a stranger over a bag of Skittles.

"Listen," she starts, narrowing her eyes. "That bag is mine, I saw it first. So," Clarke reaches out for it, giving him the meanest glare she can muster when he dangles the bag in front of her face, making sure it's out of her reach.

He has a good few inches on her. Fuck this.