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CHAPTER SEVENTY;

DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD.

        SILENCE HAD NEVER FELT SO PUNISHING. It tainted the air between them, vast and unrelenting, swallowing every traitorous breath that Haven attempted to claim. She and Bellamy had weathered their fair share of wordless battles on Earth—arguments fought in glances and resolved in the quiet surrender of love. A shift in her gaze, a tightening of his jaw—silent wars waged and inevitably abandoned as survival demanded their focus. Anger had always felt inconsequential compared to the weight of loving each other through the wreckage of the world.

        But this silence was different.

        He wouldn't even look at her.

Each step they took down Mount Weather's stone corridors echoed like a sledgehammer to Haven's chest. It was punctuated only by the tap-tap-tap of their footfalls and the tick-tick-tick of her life expectancy. Her heart wailed for him to speak, to fight, to do something—but Bellamy's eyes stayed stoically fixed ahead. The silence was not just loud—it was fucking unbearable, as if it knew all the things they weren't saying aloud.

        As if it had already decided for them.

        (She found herself wondering if this was how Bellamy felt every time she shut him out.)

But despite the private, bloodshot glaze of his eyes and his startling retreat into silence . . . Bellamy's hand never left hers. If anything, his refusal to meet Haven's gaze only seemed to intensify his need to feel her. His fingers lingered against her pulse point, tightening sporadically. Whether it was muscle memory or an unspoken form of reassurance, Haven couldn't say—but the weight of it was excruciating.

        She was worried about him.

        Yet, the mere thought of Bellamy's hand letting go was infinitely worse. If his hand had slipped from hers, if his touch had wavered . . . it would have been the death knell of something sacred.

        It never did.

Now, the star-born couple moved in quiet tandem, trailing a few cautious steps behind Maya as she guided them through the dormitories. The flickering overhead lights painted hollow shadows under Bellamy's eyes, where deep, violet-veiled crescents betrayed just how long it had been since he'd truly slept. Haven knew without asking—he hadn't rested since he'd infiltrated the Mountain.

Not once. Not even for a breath.

        The plan now was simple in theory, impossible in practice: regroup, shove some food down Bellamy's throat before his stubborn pride left him sprawled unconscious on the floor. And then somehow coax, persuade, or outright force him into shutting his damn eyes. Not that he would listen. Haven would have to fight him on it, and she'd inevitably win after she threaded her fingers through his curls. Because rest, to Bellamy Blake, was indulgence. A luxury for people who hadn't carved a path through hell and back. But Haven Grey Smith was equally hell-bent in her own way—determined to keep him upright long enough to save himself, and their friends.

        Because they would save them.

They had to.

        The Mountain Men were bound to retaliate for the carnage of Level Five sooner or later.

Tucked at the far end of the corridor, the duo drifted to an uncertain halt outside one of the living quarters. Maya threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, her smile doing little to mask her unease, before unlocking the door and beckoning them inside. Haven hesitated at the threshold, her instincts tugging her gaze toward Bellamy. She knowingly scoured his face for reassurance—for some silent confirmation that he believed this was safe.

He still did not look at her.

But his hand—the one still tangled with Haven's—tightened.

Once. Twice. Three times.

"Dad," Maya began uneasily, her voice rupturing the fragile silence as she froze in the doorway. The halt forced Bellamy to tense mid-step, and Haven—caught off guard—smacked into his spine with a soft thud. "You're home."

Well . . . fuck.

"Yeah, yeah... the drill bit broke again."

Haven's gaze trailed past Maya's rigid frame to land on the man sprawled across the couch. Evidently, this was the Vie girl's father—half-asleep and blinking blearily in the low glow of lamplight. The room around him was unexpectedly inviting, its stone walls softened by vibrant paintings and the ambient warmth of lived-in comfort. It might have been serene, almost soothing, under different circumstances.
But the illusion of tranquility predictably shattered, crumbling to ruin the moment the man stirred.

        Fatigue evaporated as soon as his attention snapped to the pair of fugitives hovering at his doorstep.

He shot to his feet at once.

"What are they doing here?"

Cautiously, Haven edged into the living space, her fingers trembling as she reached for the door. With a quiet click, it sealed the three of them inside—a thin barrier against prying eyes and ears. No one could overhear their inevitable clash now, nor glimpse the intruders so glaringly out of place among the mundane lives of civilians.

As the man flew from the couch, Haven felt Bellamy's hand slip from hers. His palm ghosted down to hover near the pistol tucked into his waistband. Shoulders instinctively hardened as he assessed the severity of the threat before him. Though his death stare never wavered from Maya's father, his free arm moved defensively, sweeping Haven further behind his torso.

"They're in trouble. They just need some place safe to stay." Maya's glance darted back to the pair standing behind her—apologetically—before she turned to meet her father's scathing glare. "He's Bellamy. She's... um, she's Haven. Dahlia's daughter."

        . . . Regrettably.

        The name hung in the air like a curse.

Haven could feel it—the shift in the atmosphere, the sharpness of the stranger's gaze as it cleaved through her. Blood drained from her already pallid face, though her skin bore enough foreign crimson to mock its absence. Maya had scavenged a hospital gown for her during their escape from Level Three—offering a thin layer of decency to her otherwise half-naked torso. Yet, the effort felt futile. The gown clung despairingly to Haven's blood-spattered skin, smeared with the scarlet violence of the Mountain Men and saturated with the inky seepage of her own failing stitches.

        She looked like death gnashing its way back to life.

        But it was not just the gore that unsettled Maya's father. Haven sensed it in the way his gaze faltered, lingering a second too long on her face. It wasn't the carnage that marred her skin that caused his breath to hitch; it was the haunting resonance of another's features mirrored in her own.

        His verdict was final. "I don't care," he insisted tersely. "They need to go. Now."

        "Let me explain—"

        "I'll let you explain where you got that uniform from." The interruption came smooth and deliberate, not loud enough to startle, but honed with just enough edge to silence. His gaze condemningly slid to Bellamy, narrowing on his stolen uniform and prompting Haven's fingers to itch for her knife. "Maya—you know how dangerous this is. What are you doing?"

        Maya held her father's stare and refused to cower. "What mom would have done."

        Observing the clash between father and daughter was . . . strange, for Haven. She lacked any blueprint for this kind of argument, and housed no personal experience to draw from when it came to paternal disappointment. But Dahlia's shadow loomed large in her understanding of fractured families. She recognized the terrain before her and saw it for exactly what it was—a battlefield drawn from old scars, where every word was a familial wound waiting to reopen.

        This was not about her. Nor about Bellamy.

        After a heavy, exasperated silence, the man cast the fugitives another stern glare. "I need you to leave."

        "Sorry." Bellamy unflinchingly shook his head. "We can't do that."

        "It's okay." Maya's words floated back to them—a skittish attempt at reassurance. Though well-intentioned, they couldn't quite conceal the anxiety nested in her throat. "He's gonna help us."

"Really?" Bellamy's hand settled fully on the handle of his gun at his waistband, no longer hovering . . . but intentionally death-gripping. "Cause I'm not getting that."

"Bellamy."

        A traitorous vein in his neck pulsed, betraying his strain and twitching under the soft weapon of Haven's voice. Although Bellamy stubbornly managed to resist the monumental temptation of looking at her, Haven did not need his eyes to see him. She saw it all—the agitated clench of his jaw, the thermonuclear, unfamiliar fury housed within his stance. He was no different than a live grenade, the pin barely holding, trembling on the edge of detonation. One reckless, misdirected burst . . . and he would obliterate their only cover in blood.

        Haven knew he wasn't pissed at Maya's dad.

        He was pissed at her.

        Which . . . fine.

But they couldn't afford for him to lose control now. Survival didn't allow for such indulgences. Not when one misstep could see them thrown to the curb, left adrift because he couldn't navigate the foreign terrain of his own frustrations with her.

"Don't," she whispered.

        Slowly, reluctantly . . . Bellamy's fingers lifted from the pistol, returning to their hypervigilant hover above.

        "My parents were part of a movement that was against using outsider blood," Maya continued, offering the words as an olive branch to the fugitives awkwardly watching the father-daughter standoff. "My mom refused the treatments and it killed her. She was willing to die for what she believed in."

         For the first time, the father's hardened shell softened, the weight of the past shifting in his aged eyes. "Maya... you were five," he murmured, stepping closer to her and scouring her pale face for understanding. "I couldn't leave you alone."

        Maya shook her head. "I'm not a little girl anymore.

(Yikes! Yikes! Yikes!)

        The longer the conversation stretched, the more Haven's chest tightened—a sharp, suffocating pressure that left her on the edge of spontaneous combustion. It wasn't the gravity of their moment that unnerved her; it was its intimacy. The love between the father and daughter was undeniable, but that was exactly the problem. It was so achingly foreign, so impossibly distant from anything she'd ever known . . . that she couldn't decide if she should politely look away or simply self-implode.

Familial tenderness wasn't something she could bear witness to without feeling like an intruder.

        (The Blake siblings were the only exception.)

        "They were willing to kill you before," the father reasoned. "If you get caught—"

       "We won't if you help us."

"Please," Haven cut in recklessly, daring to emerge from beyond Bellamy's protective shadow. Allowing herself to fully step into the dim light felt like bleeding out in front of an audience. "They're killing my friends. I—I don't know where my mom is, and I know this is a lot to ask of you, but we don't have anybody else."

        She stared at him with a desperation that bordered on mania.

        "Please."

Time slowed to an excruciating crawl.

And then . . .

The father blew out a weary exhale. "Just this once," he whispered, the words laced with resignation—as though he could already feel the consequences stalking him. "Just for one night."

Haven almost sighed in relief.

Thank the goddamn stars.

        Maya's smile cut through the gloom like the first rays of dawn. "Here," she began, reaching out as if to guide Haven forward, only for her hands to falter mid-air. Her pupils dilated at the livid stitches that crisscrossed Haven's skin. "Sorry. Um, just this way. Guest room's right down the hall."

Although Haven's distrust of the Vie girl had begun to thaw in the wake of her aiding Bellamy's life . . . her instincts refused to relent. She waited, observing as the Blake boy inhaled—slowly, deliberately—his chest rising with the vigilance of a soldier on edge. His eyes swept the room in calculated arcs, cataloging every corner, every shadow, every unseen threat. They lingered on the door, the phantom pull of an escape route ever-present, before he finally permitted his body to move.

Bellamy dipped his head towards Maya's father—not a bow, but a weighted gesture of gratitude. From one protector to another . . . who had successfully braved the chasm from stranger to ally.

        "...Thank you," he whispered earnestly.

        Before Bellamy could turn on his heels to follow the girls, the man's hand shot out, clasping his shoulder and halting him mid-step.

        "You know they'll never stop, right?" he warned lowly. "If the rumors are true and your bone marrow can get us back to the ground... they'll never stop."

Once again, Haven found herself paralyzed—a powerless observer as Bellamy absorbed the full weight of the man's words. From her vantage, his face was obscured, yet even the fragmented glimpses spoke volumes. The subtle rigidity in his posture. The faint droop of his shoulders. The way his head tilted ever so slightly forward, as though bowed beneath the enormity of the truth, told her all she needed to know.

Bellamy said nothing.

And in that moment, as his silence stretched into eternity, the truth gutted her as irreparably as it gutted him.

The war looming before them was boundless.

Soon enough, the duo was shepherded from the primary living space into the threshold of the guest room. It was humbler than their quarters back in Alpha—the room Jackson had yet to evict them from—but the bed was undoubtedly massive. It could fit, like, three of Bellamy. True to the Mountain's eerily curated aesthetic, oil paintings adorned the walls, their brushstrokes glinting faintly under the stained-glass lampshade as Maya flicked it on. The room softened immeasurably, washed in dull hues of kaleidoscopic light. A gas-powered fireplace murmured in the corner, its glow flickering across the nearby bookcase, and outlining the adjoining bathroom.

        It was beautiful.

        Yet tension was tenfold.

        "Make yourselves at home," Maya announced softly, gesturing to the room with a tentative smile and a slight dip of her head. "I can wash the blood from both of your clothes while you two lay low. The bathroom also has first-aid supplies—top drawer beneath the sink." Her eyes fell upon Haven's bloodied hospital gown—again—before peeling away out of respect. "If your stitches need redoing, I'm trained to suture from my work. I can also teach Bellamy how to do it... if you'd prefer. Whatever makes you most comfortable."

        Haven nodded. "Thank you, Maya," she whispered, fingers brushing against her forearm in a genuine gesture of . . . gratitude. She was secretly astonished that the Vie girl did not shrink away. "For everything. Really. Do you, um... know where my mom is?"

        "She's the one who led Bellamy to Dante." Maya caught her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitant, before summoning another timid smile. "That's how Level Five got irradiated. He told them where to disable the airlocks. I just... kept lookout."

        Haven's head snapped toward Bellamy with breakneck speed. "You saw my mom already?" she breathed out. Wide, glistening eyes frantically hunted his body language for confirmation. "She's on our side? Y-You worked with her? Together—?"

Bellamy dipped his head in response, the subtle motion discernible only by the faint sway of curls at the nape of his neck. He stood with his back to the girls—not out of indifference, but in some private effort to shield the weight of himself. Mechanically, he began to shed his riot gear, the pieces falling into the hollow steel mouth of a laundry basket.

        Each clink reverberated through the room like nails driven into the coffin of something unspoken.

        Fuck.

        White-hot, venomous guilt surged through Haven's chest, searing her lungs and etching acid into her ribcage as Maya's words sank deeper. Bellamy's inevitable interaction with Dahlia had been part of their plan from its inception—a calculated step toward survival. But the reality of its success was lost on her. The relief she should have felt—that her mom had helped instead of condemning them—was consumed by the shadow of what stood before her.

Bellamy was devastatingly quiet.

He was so unlike himself it physically hurt to look at him.

"Now, I think she's meeting with Cage," Maya continued, her eyes shifting as she became increasingly aware of the odd silence that permeated the room. "She's planning to scope out more info on the missile launch. If she gets access to the deactivation sequence, she can stop it from destroying her, um... village."

. . . Right.

The missile.

Haven had been so lost in the immediate battle to survive the last few hours that she had nearly forgotten Tsing's first truth bomb.

        Literally.

        Tondc was about to get nuked.

        The Mountain Men had set their sights on it, aligning their strike perfectly with Lexa's War Council meeting. The twelve clans were supposed to gather there under the fragile banner of unity. Clarke was to stand as Skaikru's ambassador, her attendance not just expected but essential. Surrounding her, the village teemed with hundreds of unsuspecting Grounder warriors. Families. Elders. Children. All blissfully unaware of the looming shadow of destruction.

        Lexa. Indra. Lincoln.

        . . . Wait.

        Breath fled Haven's lungs as she watched Bellamy drop his hat into the laundry basket, the action far more forceful than necessary. His movements were stiff, every gesture broadcasting an unfathomable stress that seemed to electrify the air. Yet, it wasn't the muted, silent fury that worried her most—it was the tremor in his fingertips.

        Realization struck with the force of an atomic bomb.

Octavia.

        She was supposed to be in the village.

Maya's departure was marked by a polite nod as she scrambled towards the exit. "I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything else."

        Silence.

        The space between Haven and Bellamy stretched vast—a chasm so titanic it suddenly felt as though they stood on opposite edges of the universe. Yet, despite the unfamiliar, aching distance, the air between them scalded. Not with frost, but with humidity. It clung to them, volatile and ruinous, seething with the unbearable weight of a thousand unsaid truths.

"They let you keep your shoulder brace?"

His first words for Haven since he'd found her amidst the horrors of Level Three were unbelievably strained.

Emboldened by a threadbare sliver of courage, Haven dared a step closer. "Same for my wristband."

Bellamy said nothing.

But his mouth did not need to move for Haven to feel the crushing weight of everything unsaid. He moved apocalyptically, continuing to unfasten his riot gear with a precision that felt almost violent in its control. At first, his focus stayed on the task at hand, but irresistibly, his gaze began to shift . . . drawn to her like a magnet to its undoing.

Bellamy still hadn't looked her in the eyes. He wasn't brave enough for that yet. Instead, his attention lingered on the faint, visible lines of stitches peeking through the thin fabric of her hospital gown. She could feel it—the way his eyes tracked the telltale blotches of dried blood that had seeped through during their trek to Maya's living quarters. He did not need to say it aloud—his focus told her everything. The worst of it was on her shoulder . . . where the fabric clung with the telltale heaviness of blood that hadn't slowed fast enough.

The clothing was nothing—a flimsy, inconsequential barrier—when Haven already felt so exposed.

"I'm okay," she whispered earnestly, though her words fell flat, sinking like stones into a bottomless pit. "Tsing shot me up with some pain meds once I got through the decontamination process. This is the best I've felt in... years."

Bellamy said nothing. Again. But this time, she caught it—the sharp tick of his jaw, the visible grind of his teeth as he bit down against whatever maelstrom was gnashing its way up his throat.

"Don't do that," Haven warned, braving another step forward as Bellamy shifted to turn his back to her again. "Don't shut me out. Not again. I already felt that for an entire month from you, and I can't—"

        The sharp clatter of his earpiece hitting the bookshelf cut her off.

Delicate shades of lavender and scarlet spilled from the lampshade, pooling over Bellamy's taut, incensed frame like spilled wine. His movements had grown reckless by the time he finally tore himself free from his remaining armor. His bulletproof vest fell next, hands trembling as they raked through his wild, sweat-dampened curls. When his fingers found the collar of his button-up, he nearly yanked it from his skin—as though it had become an infernal prison of sin, suffocating him, binding him to a version of himself he could no longer bear to inhabit.

He looked like he wanted to incinerate himself alongside it.

Haven could feel her worry begin to dismantle the framework of her ribcage. "How do I make it better?" she whispered. Her hand faltered as she reached for him, suspended mid-air, unsure if her touch would soothe him or stoke him. "Talk to me, Bell. Please. Please."

"I can't," Bellamy rasped at last. "I—I won't. Not like this. We're not having this conversation while you're standing there bleeding in front of me." Bare, violet-veined arms pulsed with unspent emotion as he gestured shakily toward the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up first, alright?"

But Haven refused to falter. "Is that why you can't stand to look at me?"

His jaw clenched—hard. Again.

"Bellamy. Talk."

"Talk—?" The word detonated from Bellamy's throat, far louder and far sharper than he'd intended. "I can talk. I can talk for hours about everything I feel right now, Haven. But are you going to listen? Would you actually hear me? Or are you just going to nod, smile, and lie to my face." His fists clenched faintly at his sides. "...Again."

Haven clamped her mouth shut.

        But the gates of hell that had imprisoned Bellamy Blake for four long, agonizing days in her absence had been flung wide open. Silence roared monstrously between them. His breaths came heavier—ragged and uneven—chest involuntarily inflating and traitorously deflating beneath his thin, sweat-streaked tank.

        "How many times, Haven?"

         Haven valiantly fought to peel her eyes from the stone floors. "What?"

        "How many times do you have to get yourself killed before you finally understand what you're doing?"

        The Smith girl's throat suddenly felt as though it had been scraped raw and razed by industrial sandpaper.

"Bellamy..."

        "How many times do we have to have the same exact conversation?" Somehow, miraculously, Bellamy summoned the strength to take his first step toward her—while she remained frozen, eerily still. His eyes were shackled to her hospital gown. "How many more times am I going to find you covered in your own blood? How many more times do I have to beg you to stay alive?"

        Haven crossed her arms over her chest, a brittle attempt at fortifying herself. "I'm sorry."

        The apology was barely audible over the insatiable pounding in her head. Her left hand twitched—a failed attempt at cracking her knuckles—the gesture stalling mid-air before she limply let her hand drop. She hoped Bellamy's ever-vigilant eyes hadn't noticed the falter . . . but of course, he did.

        He always did.

        "I'm sorry for freaking you out, alright?" Haven pitifully attempted to swallow down the immovable stone lodged in her throat and forced herself to stand taller. "But I'm not dead, Bell. You found me in the chamber alive. And I would've killed those other soldiers myself if you hadn't—"

        "Freaking me out—?" Bellamy echoed incredulously. "Haven, you're not just freaking me out."

       As his gaze tore itself from the blood marring Haven's hospital gown and climbed, trembling, to finally meet her face . . . the collision of their eyes was nothing less than annihilation.

        "...You're terrifying me."

        Haven went disturbingly still.

        The light toyed with Bellamy Blake as though it delighted in his ruin, dragging cruel, prismatic fingers over every ridge of his muscle, every hollow carved by suffering. When his gaze found hers, it was like staring into something already dead. Bloodshot eyes were raw with exhaustion, the vessels ruptured in their rebellion against tears he could no longer bear to spill. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingertips shaking like a condemned man's final prayer. The sweat glistening on his skin was almost violent in its desperation, as if even his body was uncertain whether to keep waging war or lay down its arms.

Haven found herself cruelly reminded of the blood-red graph of his vital signs.

". . . All you're doing is talking, and yet... you're terrifying him! His poor body couldn't tell the difference! . . ."

Bellamy forced himself to exhale before speaking again. "It's hard enough already to worry about you from a distance, Hav. But I trusted you to keep your promise. I trusted you to stay behind. I trusted that you wouldn't do this—" His voice caught, trembling with the weight of restraint, fists clenching invisibly behind his back as he edged closer. "So that I—I could breathe easier. So that maybe I could stop shaking every goddamn minute and focus on saving our friends. You promised me."

The bitterness in Bellamy's voice lashed out scathingly, yet it faltered—trembling beneath the unmistakable veneer of hurt.

"And instead... I find you here, and I had to hear it from your mom. Not even from you. From her."

        . . . He what?

        Guilt, already an unbearable ruin in Haven's chest, was no longer content with gnawing at her marrow. It coursed through her like molten lava, liquefying her veins, her muscles, her very soul into a putrid rot that spread with every traitorous beat of her heart.

        Was this it?

        Had her mother—her mother—done this? Had she said something so vile, so cruel, that it had broken the boy standing before her?

        . . . Which of the Smith women had corrupted him first?

        "I'm sorry," Haven repeated softly. Her mind spun, desperate for the right words, but everything that formed on her tongue felt foreign, wrong—a betrayal in itself. "I never wanted you to hear it from my mom. That shouldn't have been how you found out. None of this should've happened. I—I didn't mean to worry you—"

        "But you did!" Bellamy's interruption came with such intensity that Haven's feet cemented themselves to the floor. He saw her flinch—a small, involuntary recoil—and he immediately tempered his tone. "Whether you intended to or not, you did exactly that, Hav. If you wanted to show up... fine. I should've known better. I should've known that I didn't do enough to make you stay—"

        "No," Haven breathed out. "No, Bell. This isn't your fault—"

         "—But you couldn't have given me the decency of a heads-up?" Bellamy's words were heavy and unforgiving as he stepped further into the shadows, the scarlet light eclipsing the soft lavender glow of the lamp. His silhouette grew darker. "You couldn't have just been honest with me and told me over the radio yourself?"

"How could I have done that?" Haven countered—though the excuse felt pathetic and bitter, coating her tongue in filth. "I didn't want to risk compromising your safety by making you panic."

"My safety—?" Bellamy let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as though the explanation was more infuriating than reassuring. "What difference does it make now? You're already here. I would've rather found out through fucking Raven than your mom, Hav. But I guess I should've known better on that front too." His voice dropped, colder now, biting with accusation. "Because I know damn well you didn't tell any of the girls back at camp that you left, either."

He knowingly tilted his head.

"Am I wrong?"

Haven said nothing.

The farther Haven had drifted from Camp Jaha's borders, the more relentless the regret in her chest had grown. She hadn't said goodbye to anybody. Not a single whisper about her plan to return to Mount Weather had breached her bloodless lips. Not to Clarke, who was barely holding herself together beneath the crushing weight of Skaikru and Trikru diplomacy. Bellamy was too busy being everything to everyone to be burdened with the knowledge of her arrival. Raven didn't need to have her focus dragged away from tone generators and navigation charts. And Orion—Orion, who fought everything and everyone for Haven—did not need to fight her too.

        They were making themselves useful.

And Haven could not allow herself to be the cause of their distraction, the reason their focus wavered. They had their own battles to wage. To burden them with her decision—to force their hands into stopping her, or worse, into letting her go—felt selfish.

        It was better this way.

But the blood on her hospital gown and the terror scarred into the eyes of the boy she loved whispered a truth she couldn't run from.

Haven's lower lip began to quiver. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"You didn't mean to?" Bellamy stared at her with an exasperation so deep, so consuming, it could have blotted out the stars. "You didn't mean to tear your stitches open? To push your body past its limit again? You didn't mean to what, Haven? Die—?" He gestured violently to the ripped sutures near her collarbone, stomaching the indecision between sobbing or screaming. "Because that's exactly what it looks like you're trying to do!"

        "I get why you're angry at me, okay? I—"

        "I'm not angry at you."

        "Then stop talking to me like I'm incapable!" Haven's voice exploded from her throat with a conviction that startled the both of them. "Like I need to be babysat, or protected, or like I don't have the right to make my own choices!"

Her arms fell slowly from their protective barrier over her stomach, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Though it seemed her left hand had officially betrayed her—the knuckles refusing to crack for the first time from nerve damage. The numbness was another reminder of what she'd lost, but she refused to let it define her. Her strength was not loud or invincible. Not anymore. It was flawed and frayed at the edges, trembling under the frailty of its own existence, but at least it was hers.

. . .Wasn't it?

"I—I can do this," she insisted hotly. "I've been doing it since I got here."

        "This is not about being capable," Bellamy countered. He stepped forward again, his presence consuming the space between them, and the final traces of lavender lamplight surrendered to the shadow he cast. "What the hell did Jackson warn us about? It's not about capability or choice. It's about preserving what you have left! Your health! Your life! I... I don't even know how you're standing right now—"

        "And what about you?" Haven cut in.

        Bellamy shook his head. "What?"

"What about the preservation of your life, Bellamy?" Haven sunk her nails deep into her palms, carving crescents into her skin, desperate for the sharp sting to satiate her. "What about your brain bleed, huh? What about the Harvest Chamber? Why the hell should you even be standing here after they drained you of a fifth of your blood? Why are you allowed to risk everything when you were bleeding out of your ears the day before you left?"

Bellamy froze.

Haven could barely string her next sentence together without tears scorching her vision. "See? You do it!" she shouted, blinking rapidly in an attempt to banish the phantom sight of crimson spewing from his ears. "You do the same shit I do—bleeding—but somehow, I'm the one who has to stop. I'm the one who's too fragile. Why do I have to carry the weight of my survival when you treat yours like it's nothing? Why is your life so disposable, Bellamy, but mine isn't? Why am I supposed to stand here and exist without you? Tell me!" she demanded brokenly. "Tell me how the hell that's fair!"

"That is not the same," Bellamy muttered quietly. "You know that is not—"

"Why not? Why isn't it—?!"

"Because you're DYING, Haven!"

"I've ALREADY died before!" Haven hurled the truth into the face of the boy she loved as an unwitting weapon, forcing Bellamy to stagger back. "That doesn't change anything, Bellamy! It never has! I—I was always meant to die! You've known this from the day you met me!" Her voice broke as she valiantly forced herself to stomach her sob. "And I'm not going to sit around, pretending that's not true, while you—and our friends—get yourselves killed! I won't let you!"

The declaration struck him as though she had physically pried into his chest and torn something vital loose.

An excruciating heartbeat passed.

"...You don't get it." Bellamy's voice was a shadow of its former strength. "You—you still don't get it. Jackson said that if you don't start taking your health seriously, HIBI will kill you. I was there. You were there. We both heard it. Next time you die—you aren't coming back from it. Not unless you change." As he stepped back, the scarlet glow that once illuminated him flickered out, plunging him into an unfathomable darkness. "I know you've already died before. I—I can't even imagine what that must have felt like for you. And I'm not trying to compare this to... that."

        Delicate glass seemed to sheath his eyes.

        "But forgive me for doing all that I can to try and keep you alive after grieving you seven times."

At the fracture rupturing through Bellamy's voice—the telltale warble of his syllables—Haven's outrage faltered, sputtered, and died. The starfire in her chest was suddenly consumed by the weight of flashes crashing through her mind—his brain scan glowing like a death knell; the haunting incantations of Tsing's confession looping endlessly in her ears.

Her hand in the destruction of his body chemistry.

Bellamy turned from her, shielding his face, his shoulders shaking as he clawed at the traitorous saltwater spilling from his eyes. Then, as if mustering the strength of the Mountain itself . . . he bravely stepped back into the lamplight.

        The tears marring his sunken cheeks bled like watercolors.

       Smearing away the man she once knew and leaving behind only the ghost of what she had slaughtered.

Haven cautiously stepped forward. "I—"

        "Don't lie to me and tell me you understand," he rasped brokenly. "Please, don't lie to me anymore. You haven't been on the other side of it, Haven."

"Bell..."

        "Don't!"

        Bellamy could not contain the annihilation ravaging through his cells any longer as he finally broke.

        "I—I've watched you collapse onto the floor in front of my eyes and seize. Twice. I've brought you into Medical not knowing if I was carrying you alive or dead. I've watched you get resuscitated... violently! Over and over and over again!" His chest began to heave as he expelled the irreversible truth scarred into his soul. "I—I've felt it, Haven! I felt your heart stop beneath my own hands! Do you understand what that means? Do you have any idea what it's like to push against someone's chest—someone you—" A sob strangled his next breath. "Someone you love—and wonder if it's the last thing you'll ever do for them? I almost broke your ribs giving you compressions in my tent! I've seen more of your blood than I've ever seen of my own! I—I've seen the inside of your heart! I could point out exactly where Abby butchered you on a diagram—blindfolded! In my sleep! I-I see it every time I close my eyes! And I can't—I can't stop seeing it! I can't stop watching you get tortured to death for a lie! A lie that you volunteered for!" He stumbled a step back, his breath hitching as the tremors snaking through his fingertips overtook his entire frame. "And now, just now, I find you here! Bleeding! Half-naked! Again! Surrounded by those men—those fucking animals—who wanted to do far worse than just bleed you! A-And every time..."

Bellamy sucked in a volcanic breath, his lungs heaving with the pressure of his words. And for a moment, he tried—he tried—to rein himself in. To harness the whirlwind of emotion and immeasurable fear threatening to unmoor him. His voice sunk, barely above a whisper, as though speaking any louder would rip apart whatever thread of control he had left.

        But the effort was futile.

He could not contain his sobs any longer.

"And every time," he choked out. "Every single time you're in danger, I-I think... 'This is it. This is the time I wasn't fast enough. This is the time she doesn't come back.'"

The words broke apart in Bellamy's throat, dissolving into a broken, breathless cry that obliterated his entire body. Fresh tears amplified the ruin. He vainly clutched at his chest to prevent the inevitable wreckage. His lips trembled, his jaw locking and quivering as he fought—pleadingly—to congeal himself together.

He failed.

"And then you... you keep doing it. You keep running toward the danger like your life doesn't mean anything. Like I don't mean anything! You can't... you can't possibly understand!"

Silence roared.

Haven could not look away from him.

Not until she cast a hollow glance at the stone ceiling overhead, the weight of it pressing against her lungs like a grave not yet filled. And suddenly, she found herself aching to curse the stars once more. Whatever cruel, celestial force had tethered Bellamy Blake's fate to hers deserved obliteration—an implosion so catastrophic it scattered their remnants into a thousand irreparable galaxies. A ruin that stretched so far across the cosmos that even the gods themselves could not reassemble them.

        And if the stars refused?

        Let them burn her instead.

Let them kill her sooner.

        Let them scorch Haven's body, her soul, her very existence, reducing her to cosmic ash. Let her be dragged across the heavens and entombed in some far-off, forsaken universe—a universe Bellamy could never reach, no matter how bravely he swung across the constellations in search of her. Better to endure an eternity of isolation, a thousand lifetimes of silence, than another moment of watching him suffer in her shadow.

        Better to vanish completely than to remain the darkness smothering his light.

Six months felt too far away.

Bellamy forced himself to inhale without shuddering and furiously wiped at his cheeks. "I... I don't care if I sound selfish right now. Not about this. I'm not trying to...restrain you, but fuck, Haven!" He shook his head, curls falling forward to shadow his red-rimmed, watery eyes. "It's like... I don't even think you care sometimes."

Haven could not raise her voice to anything louder than a treacherous, decayed whisper. "Of course I care."

"About me? Sure. Enough." Bellamy miraculously summoned the strength to move towards her once more. His anger had burnt itself out, cooled into a state of profound, irreparable fracture. "But what about yourself? W-What about you?"

Haven fell devastatingly silent.

Bellamy lessened the distance between them until he was close enough to touch. "Tell me," he began quietly. "Tell me you weren't trying to kill yourself when you took the blame for Raven on the execution pole. Tell me that you didn't want Lexa to kill you." A tear-drenched, trembling fingertip knowingly tapped against the left side of her jawbone. "Tell me without lying."

The closeness of Bellamy's body to hers was enough to unmake Haven, reducing her to something small and ruinous in the shadow of his grief. Star-forged, ancient walls dissolved as though they had never been anything more than useless illusions. Pathetic lies masquerading as strength. And as his sobs began to stabilize—whether by sheer force of will, or because he had simply run out of tears—hers grew harder to swallow.

        What power did he carry in his blood that allowed him to see her so clearly? To strip her of pretense, of pride, to know her truths even before she could summon the courage to face them?

        It was unbearable.

        Because he was right. He always was.

        She had willingly welcomed death that day.

        She knew it.

        And worse, he knew it too.

        Fresh tears scorched Bellamy's eyes as he withdrew his hand from her cheek. "Exactly what I thought," he whispered. "I just... I can't.. I don't know how it always gets worse around here. I just found out my sister's about to get blown up by a missile. Our friends are being drilled into. Your abusers make up the entire fucking Council. We're fighting a war we can't win without the Grounders." He selfishly allowed his hand to curl around Haven's wrist and tether itself to her pulse point. "Every day we're up against something new. And every day... you're the first one running into it."

        Haven found herself aching for death again—the thought creeping in like an old, familiar enemy—as she silently reprimanded herself for the selfishness of her assumptions. How could she have been so blind, so self-absorbed, to believe that Bellamy's earlier silence had been solely about her? He wasn't just grieving for her choices—he was crumbling beneath the weight of the atlas he shouldered. The trauma engraved into his young features was not hers alone to claim; it was the collective grief of every war fought, every loss endured, and every impossible decision he had been forced to make.

And yet, she had only made it worse.

How could she make him feel better? How could she undo the pain she had added to the mountain he already bore? She grasped for words, for something—anything—that might justify the reckless actions that had only led to Bellamy's ruin.

But none came.

Nothing could erase the truth that her intentions had only tightened the noose around his neck.

        "I just wanted to help," Haven admitted at last, her hands trembling at her sides as she blinked against the tears blurring her vision. "I—I never wanted to make you feel this way on purpose, or burden you any further—"

        "You're not burdening me," Bellamy cut in wearily. "You're not. That's not what I meant."

        "I just... I wanted to do something to help you. Something that mattered."

"Mattered to who?" Bellamy echoed, his voice rising ever so slightly. The perpetual, deep-set crease of despair that seemed carved between his brows resurfaced with a vengeance. "To who, Haven? Because your help doesn't matter to me if you're dead. You can't help anyone if you're dead. Why don't you see that?"

        Words stumbled and fumbled over themselves, tangling miserably in the wreckage beneath Haven's skull. She begged for the strength to shape the thoughts lancing through her into something coherent, something that might reach him. But the pressure behind her ribs only intensified. When she finally opened her stupid mouth, the only thing that escaped was more failure.

"I don't... I don't know." Haven felt heat flush her cheeks as the pounding beneath her skull erupted into white-hot, blistering . . . shame. "I'm not good at sitting around. This—this is what I know. This is what I'm good at."

"Killing yourself—?"

"Helping," Haven reasoned weakly. "Making myself useful instead of doing nothing."

Bellamy's chest tightened, the taste of something bitter and familiar rising in his throat. He could feel it—the ghost of her mother's venom, bleeding through Haven's logic and tainting it.

        "...You and I have very different definitions of doing nothing."

"Do we?"

"Yeah," Bellamy bit out. "This wasn't your job—it was mine. I promised you I'd make it home. You promised to stay back, stay alive, and help me navigate over the radio." His hand tightened around her wrist, her weak attempt to pull away only intensifying his heartache. She was retreating, disappearing into herself, folding into the shadows where she thought she could bury everything he already saw too clearly. "I intend to keep mine. What about yours?"

Blood roared dangerously in Haven's ears.

"I am alive. I'm not trying to die—"

"You're not trying hard enough to live!"

"I just wanted to CHOOSE!"

        Bellamy stared at her with something utterly unreadable yet unmistakably tender.

        But Haven was beyond the reach of his eyes softening into their familiar lens of lovesickness. She was shaking, shuddering, heaving with the weight of ghosts—seven versions of herself that haunted the mausoleum of her ribcage.

        Perhaps Bellamy had lost her seven times—seven times when Abby's scalpel dragged her to death's precipice and left him to mourn the haunting quiet that followed.

But Haven . . . Haven had lost herself sevenfold.

Seven deaths. Seven resurrections. Seven times she'd woken up to a body she could no longer claim as her own. Seven times, she had been stolen from herself, stripped of even the agency to die on her own terms.

        At fifteen, her heart was defiled, mutilated by hands she hadn't yet learned to fear. At sixteen, Abby had spared her—not because she wanted it, but because she could. At seventeen, she dropped dead for the first time in the Sky Box, her body crumpling under the weight of someone else's choices. She had no say when her heart stopped, no say when Abby forced it to beat again.

        Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

        Each year, death came for her, and each time, Abby wrenched her back—mutilated, reconstructed, and silenced.

        Haven had never chosen any of it.

        She became a graveyard of the girls she used to be. A hollow vessel, cradling the cremations of her younger selves—their screams still echoing, their innocence still pleading, their anguish rotting against the tomb of her flesh. She had nursed them, caged them, but no matter how tightly she held on . . . she could never resurrect who had been lost.

        She hadn't chosen to die.

        But she also hadn't chosen to be brought back to life.

"I just wanted to choose something for myself!" Haven cried out, finally losing the battle against the tears flooding her eyes and allowing their salt-laden depths to drown her. "I wanted to make a decision! For myself! Instead of you, or Abby, or anybody else choosing for me! A-And if I can't choose, if the Mountain Men need my blood, if Abby wanted to continue her experiments on me... maybe I should've just fucking let her."

Bellamy went deathly still.

"...What did you just say?"

Haven choked out the final piece of her confession as though it had always lived on her tongue.

        "At least I would've been good for something."

        Nothing could be said after that.

The confession shattered the fragile equilibrium between them, detonating the air with the force of its revelation. Every molecule of oxygen was corrupted, burned, then reformed into a suffocating anesthesis that froze them in place.

Bellamy stared at her in disbelief—wide, horrified eyes trying to anchor themselves in a sea of unspeakable truth.

But slowly, painfully, the shock in his features gave way to something softer.

        Understanding.

        His eyes grew watery. Again.

And then . . .

Bellamy was tugging her into his arms.

Haven crumbled, utterly defenseless against the sobs tearing through her frame as she surrendered to Bellamy's embrace. Her cheek found its sanctuary against his chest while his chin crowned the top of her head. Molten tears bled into his shirt as she shook from weeping, senselessly and relentlessly, but he did not flinch. He only held her tighter. One arm wrapped firmly around her back, pulling her closer, crushing her against his warmth with a desperation that bordered on mania. As though his proximity alone could breathe life back into the hollow places within her. His free hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her locs, brushing over and over in a soothing, quiet rhythm. Yet, every stroke of comfort intended to steady her only seemed to unravel him further.

He privately wept with her.

"Don't say that about yourself," Bellamy whispered. He lifted his chin to bestow a tender, lingering kiss to the top of her hair before returning to its familiar resting place. "Never. Ever."

Haven had long lost her ability to speak coherently. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm sorry. I-I just want—"

"Stop apologizing."

"I-I'm... so... s-sorry..."

"Stop. Apologizing."

Time blurred into oblivion as Haven bled into the solace of Bellamy's embrace. The world beyond those arms could have collapsed into ash, its armies crumbling, its heavens rent apart. Stars could have scorched their skies and oceans swallowed their shores. And yet, none of it could pierce the fortress he had built around her. She cried—violently, crushingly—clinging to the worn fabric of his tank as though it were the only anchor in an existence unraveling at the seams. Her fingers dug deep, threatening to tear through cotton and flesh, desperate to root herself in the thunderous cadence of his heartbeat.

        It was not just a tether; it was salvation.

        The only proof that Haven still existed in a world too cruel to bear.

        Perhaps she did not care if it shattered further—if the earth split open to devour them whole. She was safe here, cocooned in arms unafraid of her jaggedness, hands steady enough to hold the shards of herself without flinching. Hands that would bleed willingly, if only to prove she was not too broken to be touched. She buried herself deeper against Bellamy Blake, as though his very essence could fill the void within her. If this was her final sanctuary, her last refuge . . . then so be it.

        She would not leave. She could not leave.

Bellamy did not rush her unraveling.

He let her cry until there was nothing left.

He hugged her, and hugged her, and hugged her, until the lines between their grief began to blur. His tank clung to him like a second skin—damp with Haven's tears, or perhaps his own, though he could no longer tell. Distinction had lost its tyranny here. And yet, as his heartbeat thrummed steadily against her ear, the universe gradually began to knit herself back together.

        Time began to flow again.

        Slowly, achingly, her cries began to subside.

Bellamy braved the silence first.

"I love you," he whispered fervently, the words spilling from his lips like prayer. "I love you. I love you so, so much, Hav. I'm the one who needs to apologize. Not you." His voice was thick with unspoken guilt. "I-I'm sorry for raising my voice, alright? I should've... I didn't mean for everything to come out that way."

Bellamy's hands, calloused yet impossibly gentle, shifted to cup her tear-streaked face. He tilted her chin upward and compelled her to meet his gaze. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, soundlessly catching stray tears, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers.

They closed their eyes in perfect sync.

"It's okay," he panted shakily. "You're okay. We're okay."

But Haven only shook her head, trembling in his hold. The tender cradle of his hands and the firm press of his forehead against hers allowed her no escape.

"I-I just want to be useful."

"You are far more than just useful," Bellamy declared. "You're... everything."

Once again, Haven's glassy eyes fell, vying to escape the gravity of his stare. She pitifully tried to fold into herself, retreating into the shadowed corners of her soul where his words could not reach. But avoiding Bellamy's gaze was as impossible as defying the lure of a magnet. His presence was a force of nature—immovable, undeniable, inescapable. And she knew—god, she knew—that resistance was futile.

        "Look at me." Bellamy urged softly. He lifted his forehead from hers, crouching lower, his breath ghosting her lips as he came to meet her at eye level. "Look at me, my love. You're everything."

Kaleidoscopic light from the lampshade bled across his face like a gentle confession, casting him in soft, dreamlike hues she hadn't taken the time to notice. Haven had been too far—too distant, too consumed by her own ruin—to see the boy she loved as he truly was. To see Bellamy not as the shadow she had cast upon him but as the light that existed despite it. Tears glistened in his swollen eyes. His jaw quivered as though the agony of congealing himself together had become too much. And yet, even beneath the crushing weight of the suffering she had inflicted . . . Bellamy still burned. Warmth poured from the constellation of freckles scattered across his face. From the trembling curve of his lips. From the way his gaze—so reverent, so impossibly tender—clung to her with an almost holy devotion. His pupils dilated, expanding with a love so consuming it bordered on divine, shimmering like galaxies imploding into one another.

        Like the sun bowing to the stars.

He glowed—not because she deserved it, but because he couldn't help it. Not because she had never stolen the light from his chest, but because he had let it return to her anyway.

He glowed because he was Bellamy.

"I... I would love you even if you sat on your ass and never lifted a finger for anything or anyone... ever again. Do you hear me?" Bellamy held her watery stare and dared her to doubt the sincerity of his decree. Dared her to recognize it as anything less than the star-forged oath that it was. "I'd prefer it. You deserve to just... exist. You don't have to put yourself in danger to have meaning."

Haven sniffled weakly. "Maybe one day."

"That day starts today," Bellamy declared firmly. "We've gotta figure something else out besides... this. No more lying to each other. No more breaking promises. We can fuck shit up—together—but only if we're on the same page." He kissed her forehead again, the press of his lips a benediction, before gently brushing away the fresh trail of her tears. "I'll try not to make you feel sidelined, as long as you try to value your life."

        Haven resisted the impulse to frown.

She was trying.

(Wasn't she?)

        Bellamy absorbed her silence as permission to continue. "But... you have to understand there's limits to your health that somebody has to look out for," he added quietly, scouring her glassy eyes for comprehension. "Not because I don't believe in you. Not because you aren't capable. But because I—I need you. I need you to live, Haven. Alright?"

        His voice cracked on the last word.

        Haven nodded. Shakily.

        The motion was almost imperceptible, a mere flicker of agreement—but Bellamy saw it. He always saw it. That fleeting spark of resilience, fragile but real, buried beneath the seismic ruins of everything she had endured. It wasn't a promise fully realized, not yet . . . but it was a beginning.

        And beginnings were enough.

        A whisper-thin smile ghosted across Bellamy's lips. "You've got a long life ahead of you, angel," he vowed. "And after we save our friends... we're gonna live the hell out of it. Just you and me."

        . . . Tick. Tick. Tick. . .

        The sound was a noose tightening around her soul. A cruel, rhythmic countdown echoing sinuously in the chambers of Haven's mind. To feel her own existence slipping through the hourglass was a torment she had long endured. But now, to hear it set against the steady, defiant heartbeat of the boy who held her as though she were infinite . . .

Haven shook as her sobs returned.

         "No more tears," Bellamy soothed, warm hands sliding from her cheeks to cradle the nape of her neck. His lips tenderly brushed against each of her eyelids, then her nose, before finally settling on her forehead. "Please. Please. I hate it when you cry. C'mon, Hav..."

        Another crooked smile graced his mouth—one that paradoxically plunged the knife deeper into her heart.

        "I've still got a house to build you... remember? Walls. Roof. The whole nine yards. Think they got any blue paint I can rob from this shithole?"

        Selfishly, Haven allowed herself to surrender—just this once—to the cruel mirage of a future that would never be hers. To lean into the warmth of what could have been her future with the boy she loved. What should have been. She let herself believe, if only for the space between heartbeats, in the possibility of forever. In mornings woven with sunlight and Bellamy's arms lulling her back into dreams. In whispered promises exchanged beneath an endless sky. In the cruel fantasy of a life not shackled by the ticking clock inside her. If her body had not been designed to betray her, if her blood had not been forged into the curse she never asked to bear—this could have been the rest of her life.

Her eternity with Bellamy.

A home painted in stolen blues.

His voice filling the spaces time could not steal.

But the more she leaned into the thought, the more she longed for the impossible . . . the more the sword of her own mortality cleaved her in two.

Haven was not built for forever.

Still. 

The private smile that crept across her lips betrayed her as she surrendered to the treacherous fantasy of living. To the illusion of a world where Bellamy's steady hands could craft the wings to carry her beyond the confines of her fate. It lingered there, trembling like a secret too forbidden to keep, inevitably growing brighter as his eyes caught it. As if the quiet ember of her joy were a flame he was destined to stoke.

And he did.

        (Literally.)

With a knowing, familiar ease . . . Bellamy began to poke the edges of Haven's smile. His fingers danced against her lips, prodding and coaxing until her grin unraveled wholly—shimmering like starlight finally piercing through the veil of impenetrable dark.

        "I can't stand you," she warbled.

        "You love me."

        "Unfortunately."

At that, Bellamy laughed.

        A quiet sound, barely more than a scoff if she were to dissect the cadence of his breath. But even in its subtlety, it carried a warmth that seeped into the shadows nested tight within her chest. The gloom that had taken root there withered beneath the divinity of his presence, retreating as though it could not exist in the space he claimed. He drew her closer, tucking her against his chest, where the soft rumble of his laughter reverberated through his ribs and warmed the shell of her ear.

        For a fleeting moment, Haven let her eyes drift shut. She allowed herself to inhale the safety of him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the lingering echoes of his voice, the impossible peace that came with being here, in his arms.

Even if it was only for now.

Even if it was doomed to end.

• •

.... 😔

me rn. like. FOR REAL

i dont even know what to say. i think the chapter speaks for itself. my period has me ugly crying and my eyes are burning from editing this and crying with them. i always say i cry when writing but this is different. and i know ive said that before too!! but this is DIFFERENT!!
IM SO SAAAAAADDDD.

song for this chapter is hot gates by mumford & sons </3 i am TERRIFIED to share the songs I have chosen for act 3 lol

but NEXT CHAPTER... WE ARE BACK!

BELL POV.
PLOT IRRELEVANT(ish) FULL ON BAVEN CORE AND FLUFF AND HAPPINESS (some angst) AND MOUNT WEATHER SLUTTINESS COMING RIGHT UP! 🍽️
THE BANDAID CHAPTER BEFORE SHIT HITS THE FAN AGAIN

🚨FOREWARNING!!!🚨
smut will be included in a portion of the next chapter. not as intense as last time, but it's there! is happier smut a thing...? i think its what it constitutes as lol. anyway! i'm going to mark it more specifically this time, right before it truly starts and right after it ends. those who prefer to skip can comfortably pickup onto the next scene without fear of missing anything by looking for
THESE MARKERS!!!!

⬇️⬇️

theres a moment towards the end of the chapter thats simply too damn cute and too important to skip 🥰 (its inexplicit and is written after the smut scene is over!)
one of my FAVORITE simple baven moments ive ever written too

I LOVE YOU!!!!!
SEE U NEXT WEEK!
👀🛁 🫧❤️‍🩹