I Run to You

Chapter 4

Bellamy sat at his rickety kitchen table, nibbling on stale pizza. It had been a long day at the shop, and he was getting tired of the every day run around. He had just taken another bite, chewing thoughtfully, when he heard a knock at the door.

He tried to ignore it, but the loud banging persisted.

"Keep your shirt on, I'm coming," he yelled around a mouthful of food.

When he opened the door a certain blonde shoved past him into his tiny apartment, the smell of coffee drifting along behind her.

"I intended to stay fully clothed, Blake," she said with a wry grin.

"Wouldn't expect any less, Princess. What are you wearing," he asked with a knowing smirk.

Bellamy chuckled as Clarke's neck began to redden, the blush slowly coloring her cheeks. Then she tilted her head to the side, that look of challenge that he loved entering her eyes.

"My sweater," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Whatever you say Clarke," he said with a chuckle.

He watched her as she shook her head with an embarrassed grin before following him back to the table.

"How are you?"

"Still sore, but I haven't ripped any stiches yet," Bellamy answered.

"You go to work today," Clarke asked nonchalantly.

"Yep. Lynx get's suspicious when I miss."

"Bell, does the guy not pay attention? Surely he knew you got roughed up in that fight the other night."

"He doesn't much care, Princess."

"We have got to find a way to get you out of there. You can't go on chopping cars until you get caught," Clarke said desperately.

"I know," came his quiet reply.

"Surely..."

"I'm done talking about it, Clarke."

"Ok," she answered softly, "I met somebody tonight."

"Oh really, is that why you smell like the inside of my coffee pot," Bellamy groused.

"Yeah, he kinda spilled coffee all over our shared sweatshirt," she said with a grin.

Bellamy stared at her, remembering the last boyfriend she'd had and the complete and utter disaster it had been.

It had been a sunny day in June, and Bellamy had just gotten home from the shop. He'd walked through the front door to find Clarke and Octavia seated on the couch with two boys.

The girls were seventeen, so he shouldn't have been surprised. Usually all male visitors had to be cleared through him first before either girl could pursue any kind of relationship.

"Hey, Bell," Clarke called over her shoulder with a smile.

He nodded, watching as she rose from her place beside a blonde jock and made her way into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms, looking him up and down.

"What," he asked harshly.

"Something's wrong. Spit it out Bell. Did something happen at work today? Are you hurt, did you bust your stitches," she asked in reference to the knife wound he gotten two days earlier before quickly grabbing for his shirt.