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CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE;

SEDATED.

[ content warning:
sexual themes mid-chapter ]

WALKING THE TIGHTROPE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG HAD NEVER FELT SO TREACHEROUS. Since the hundred had plummeted into the Earth's charred embrace, Bellamy Blake had held fast to his convictions. Justice. Retribution. Mercy. He had been their self-appointed arbiter. In those early days—right and wrong were as stark as the ash-streaked skies above. Grounders hunted his friends like animals? Kill them first. The Ark loomed above, threatening to descend and condemn him to death for the bullet he'd put in the Chancellor? Smash the wristbands. Sever their cord to the heavens. Let them choke on the silence.

Cause and effect. Action and consequence. A world forged in absolutes; a dichotomy of black and white.

        But then . . . there was Haven Grey Smith.

No one—alive or dead—had ever hurled Bellamy Blake into a chamber of self-reflection like she did. Her divinity wasn't the kind that sang of salvation; it screamed of exposure and stripped him bare. Left his sins raw and festering in the open. Evoked repentance without words or judgment. One blink from her all-knowing eyes, and his certainties faltered. One slight twitch of disapproval in her frown, and every conviction he clung to so fiercely felt as fragile as ash. And her tears—god—those tears. One glistening reminder of her pain could halt him mid-stride and force him to pause. To feel the weight of his actions, the blood on his hands, and to confront the decay beneath his pride.

Earth was not the place of absolutes Bellamy had imagined.

He existed in the grey more often than he cared to admit.

        And as he incessantly replayed the most recent argument with the girl he loved—the words that had spilled out too harshly, too untempered—he realized it was not one of the grey areas he'd been struggling to navigate.

Bellamy had been dead wrong.

        Not about his conviction that Haven needed to prioritize her health. He would never apologize for fighting to keep her alive—that much was non-negotiable.

        But in his methods.

Stress had ravaged Bellamy's bag of bones for four goddamn days, chewing away his humanity until he felt more corpse than man. His stupid, desperate compulsion to count had spiraled far beyond his control since entering the Mountain. What had once been an unspoken rhythm in his head had metastasized into a mantra murmured under his breath. And now, it had invaded his body—tapping, tightening, squeezing his fists until his nails broke skin.

        Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

        He knew he had been destined to lose it sooner or later.

But it should have never been in front of Haven.

How could Bellamy have been so selfish, so weak, so impossibly cowardly as to raise his voice against her? He was supposed to be her safe space. The steady ground for Haven to lash out at when life became too burdensome to carry alone—not throw it back at her.

        He . . . failed her.

He hadn't meant to break, to hurt her, to make her cry. He hadn't intended to bare the deepest, most primal wounds of his devastation in an attempt to make her understand. To see why the sight of her here—pale, bleeding, slipping further from herself—tore at him in ways he could not name. He hadn't meant to explode. To let his anguish spill into sobs as the seven ghosts of the girl he loved rose from the graveyard of his fears. But they had levitated through sinew and flesh unabashedly, forcing him to voice the truth he had fought so hard to bury.

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

        " . . . I just wanted to CHOOSE! . . ."

        The admission had frozen Bellamy cold.

Her voice had been uproariously loud yet devastatingly small. She sounded so young—so impossibly, achingly young—and when his glassy eyes found her face, she looked it too.

Haven was fifteen again.

And in that tragic, cataclysmic moment . . . every act of her self-destruction made perfect sense.

Haven Grey Smith had forced him, once again, to stand in the wreckage of his own intentions and examine their brittle underpinnings. To strip away his trauma and peer into the void where hers lived. Where grey smothered black and white, and survival wasn't about living but deciding who you would be when the smoke cleared. He had seen only the blood, the torn stitches, and the shadow of her walking willingly back into the hell that sought to bleed her dry. He'd been so consumed with rage, with desperation, shouting at her to fight harder. To live. To stop ripping herself apart . . . and to stop forcing him to lose her.

But Bellamy had missed it. He had missed the quiet truth.

Haven wanted the power to live—or not—on her terms.

And beyond that truth, deeper still, was something else he had failed to see—he was not the only one standing between them who had lost her.

He had grieved Haven seven times.

        But ultimately . . . he got her back.

        Haven was left to mourn seven different versions of herself that would never return. Seven pieces of her soul buried in a graveyard she could not visit because she'd never been allowed to stop moving forward.

         Perhaps that was the cruel symmetry of their experience—the grey area Bellamy had found so difficult to navigate as of late.

        Since Haven was fifteen and Bellamy was seventeen, their lives had been stitched together by the same doctor's hand. But as deeply as they were intertwined, their wounds had been carved in vastly different shapes. Bellamy had stood on the precipice, powerless, as he watched her die. But Haven had never stood beside him there. Her trauma existed in another realm entirely. She hadn't been the one watching someone else die—she had been the one forced to die. Again and again. To be dragged into the underworld without consent, stripped of her agency, resurrected only to be thrown back into the fire.

How could Bellamy have stood there and shouted at her for something he was incapable of understanding?

(He wanted to. God, he ached to.)

Still.

Their experiences remained a paradox: intrinsically bound, yet irreconcilably different. Bellamy grieved the girl he kept losing; Haven grieved the girls she had already lost. Bellamy would never know the suffocating claustrophobia of living a life he did not choose. Haven would never feel the agony of loving someone who kept slipping through her hands. He struggled with the permanence of death; she wrestled with the haunting weight of life.

        A two-way mirror.

Each saw the other clearly, yet neither could reach through the glass. Transparent but untouchable. Seen but never truly understood.

Perhaps that was the tragedy they could never speak aloud.

        But perhaps the tragedy wasn't a flaw.

        Maybe their truths weren't meant to fit together neatly. Maybe neither of them needed to be right, or wrong, or whole. Maybe it was enough that they existed in their fractures, trying, in their own ways, to carry the weight of what they'd lost—and what they still had. All that mattered was that both of them were alive to try. To hold space for the other's pain without bitterness or blame. To stand at the fragile edge of understanding without shattering what remained.

        Bellamy could never resent Haven, anyway.

        Especially when she was looking like that.

The girl he loved wearily rested her spine against the edge of the Vie family's porcelain bathtub. An absurd sea of bubbles spilled over the rim, frothy peaks catching the dim light. It was, of course, Bellamy's doing—his eagerness had turned a simple gesture into a small catastrophe. He hadn't meant to empty the entire fuckin' bottle of bubble bath beneath the faucet, but how could he have known they would multiply like that? Factory Station had never offered him luxuries like this—bathtubs, let alone bubble bath, were things of myth and whispers.

(He wasn't complaining. Bubbles were strangely . . . cool. Alpha brats must've gotten spoiled with this shit.)

Now, the suds rose high around her—a whimsical shield concealing Haven from the collarbone down. Her locs were gathered in a loose, haphazard knot atop her head. Some rebellious strands had escaped, framing her face in a softness that defied the harsher edges of exhaustion. She leaned back, eyelids fluttering periodically, her body surrendering to the water as she'd finally been granted permission to rest.

She looked peaceful.

And for a fleeting moment, Bellamy dared to think—maybe, just maybe—he'd gotten something right.

Seated on the floor just outside the tub, shirtless and fractionally at ease, he wore nothing but the sweatpants Maya had handed him while she laundered his stolen uniform. His cheek rested against the cool edge of the tub. Fingertips danced idly across the water's surface, tracing fragile patterns in the foam—ephemeral, fleeting, gone.

But Bellamy's eyes never left Haven.

        He decided—right then and there—that he would be content with dying like this.

Exactly like this.

Cheek to porcelain. Fingers grazing froth. Breath mingling with the faint scent of soap. Heart tethered to the girl resting just beyond his reach but somehow closer than she'd ever been.

        After disentangling from their earlier embrace, the first task they'd faced was tending to Haven's wounds. She had been baptized in blood—some hers, some not—making it impossible to determine the true extent of damage to her stitches. The first shower was a necessary reckoning, scarlet and onyx swirling down the drain until the truth of her injuries came into focus. Bellamy had braced himself for the worst . . . but relief washed over him when he saw that most of the sutures on her torso had held.

        His relief, however, was short-lived.

        The stitches at her hip were torn open.

And her collarbone.

Yet, it was the sight of Haven's shoulder that truly unmoored him—the sutures there hadn't just torn; they were completely obliterated. The wound gaped, black and ruinous, a violent reminder of everything she'd endured.

        It was impossible to look at.

But Bellamy was nothing if not stubborn.

He had swallowed hard, clenched his jaw, and forced himself to look.

        Partly because Jackson wasn't here. With no professional medic to truly lean on, the task of monitoring Haven's wounds had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Not that it would've been any different if Jackson had been here. Bellamy knew himself too well. Every detail mattered. He needed to memorize every millimeter of the damage—the jagged tears in the stitches, the strained muscle beneath, the faint bruises—so that he could note any changes during their time in the Mountain. So that he could relay every detail with utmost precision when they got the fuck out of this godforsaken hell and back to safety.

        True to her earlier word . . . Maya had also taught him how to suture.

        Bellamy's wide, unblinking eyes had stayed glued to the Vie girl's every movement, every careful instruction, as she threaded fresh sutures through Haven's shoulder. He hadn't dared to attempt stitching the wound himself—just looking at the severity of it was enough to twist his stomach into knots. It was too advanced, far beyond anything his shaky hands could manage. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Haven more than she already had been.

Still, he'd taken the lesson to heart.

And, remarkably, when it came time to re-stitch the laceration on Haven's hip, he had done a rather fine job. His stitches weren't perfect—they lacked Maya's innate precision—but they held firm, clean and secure against the livid edges of her skin.

        It wasn't much. But it was something.

And then . . . the couple had showered off the second round of fresh blood.

        Again.

Bellamy had washed Haven's hair, his fingers moving tenderly and intentionally, careful not to tug too hard or agitate her scalp. The last thing he wanted was to unravel her locs—or, worse, face her wrath. She'd let out a contented sigh that made the corners of his mouth privately twitch upward. But, as always, Haven wouldn't let him have the last word—or the last touch. Before he could so much as rinse his soapy hands, she had insisted he sit on the edge of the built-in tub so that she could return the favor.

        . . . He knew that whatever pain medication Tsing had pumped into her system was waning.

        Lifting her left arm had become visibly harder, especially after the fresh suturing. So when Haven had asked him to sit, Bellamy obeyed without hesitation, sparing her the unnecessary effort of reaching upwards to wash his curls.

        Not that he would've fought her on it anyway.

        In fact, Bellamy could've fallen asleep right there, perched peacefully on the edge of that damn bathtub, as Haven's fingers worked their quiet alchemy. According to her, he had dozed off—leaning forward and slumping against her abdomen for a few minutes—though he couldn't recall it. After his momentary . . . lapse of memory, she had thoughtfully washed his back. Counted the smattering of honeyed freckles that had apparently lived there since birth. Fifty-six, according to her.

He hadn't even known they were there.

        (He also hadn't ever thought they were worth noticing . . . until she had.)

They had eaten sandwiches next.

Peanut butter and jelly, courtesy of Maya.

Sitting cross-legged on the impossibly massive bed—it could probably fit three of him, maybe even four—the couple devoured the Mountain's humble delicacy. Bellamy had soundlessly torn the crusts off Haven's sandwich, slipping them onto his plate before handing hers back. He knew better than to wait for her to do it herself—her preferred method of discarding crusts on the Ark involved flinging them at his face. And while he didn't particularly mind her antics, he wasn't eager to scrub crumbs from his freshly washed curls—or endure the sting of bread shrapnel in his eyes.

        Besides.

        He needed to be able to see clearly to marvel at her.

And . . . god.

        Haven had looked ecstatic to be eating.

        The sight of her—freshly bathed, locs still damp, wounds hidden beneath careful sutures, wrapped in nothing but a soft, cotton bath towel—had stirred something deep within Bellamy's chest. For one fleeting, golden moment, it felt
as though the world had halted its endless rotation. Like gravity had released its grip and aimlessly let them float.

But normalcy, that fickle thing, was never theirs to keep.

The euphoria of the moment had inevitably slipped through their fingers, dissolving the instant the plates were set aside. They'd simply intended to wash their hands, but what was meant to be a mundane task became something else entirely.

        They hadn't been able to stop.

        Foreign blood had permanently rooted itself in their skin. An indelible stain etched into their flesh, caked beneath their nailbeds and smothering their souls in the weight of its crimson curse. Bellamy had been the first to break—scrubbing his hands with a desperation that bordered on violence—as if he could scour away the memory of every life he couldn't save, every life he'd stolen. His palms had split under the relentless assault, and when the phantom stains gave way to real blood—it was Haven who snapped him out of it. But when his blood had inadvertently stained her hands . . . the poison had passed to her, infecting her with the same relentless compulsion to scrub her skin raw.

        Which . . . led them to now.

        The third round of bathing.

        Cleansing. Purifying. Drowning.

At the faint slosh of water, Bellamy's head jerked up, his hands stilling in the frothy mound of bubbles he'd been molding into castles. His gaze latched onto Haven as she startled herself awake—again. Her body jolted, colliding with the cold curve of the porcelain tub, wet hands flailing out to seek stability.

        She looked petrified. Again.

"Still here, angel," Bellamy hummed softly. His soapy hand broke the surface of the water, drifting near her thigh before reaching out, palm open. She latched onto his fingers and squeezed until his skin bleached to ivory. "Close your eyes. Rest. I've got you."

Haven's breath steadied, the tension slowly ebbing from her body as the weight of his presence tethered her back to reality. "You know..." she breathed out. "You're kind of like my lifeguard, if you think about it. Making sure I don't doze off and drown."

        Bellamy shrugged. "I was also kind of your ambulance for four years," he deadpanned, lips curling into the faintest ghost of a smirk. "I don't take my duties lightly."

        "Four years and still on call—?"

        "Better get used to it," Bellamy declared. "You're stuck with me for life."

        A shadow marred Haven's features, at that. Delicate, restful eyes went lifelessly dark in one blink before regaining their warmth in the next. But the echo of that darkness lingered, leaving Bellamy with the startling sense that he'd said something wrong. Haven's hand slipped from his so seamlessly—so carefully—it could have been mistaken for thoughtless movement. But Bellamy knew better. There was nothing unintentional about the way she let her fingers disappear beneath the water's surface, as though she were closing a door without slamming it.

        Bellamy peeled his cheek from the cool rim of the bathtub and straightened his posture. "What are you thinking about?"

        Silence.

        Haven continued to stare unblinkingly at the bubbles clinging to the water's surface. Their iridescent shimmer was the only movement in the still, humid air between them.

        But Bellamy could see it, he could feel it—the relentless churn of her thoughts, spitting out fragmented truths that she couldn't outrun. He knew he should let her have this moment to wrestle her thoughts in solitude. That was the wiser move, the one he'd learned after years of watching her slip into the quiet recesses of her own mind.

        Wisdom, however, had no place here tonight.

        He clenched his jaw, debating. It would be so easy—so tempting—to pulverize that tension. To flick one of those stupid bubbles at Haven's face and coax the faintest flicker of a reaction, anything to remind her that she wasn't alone. His fingers twitched toward the water's surface, an intrusive reflex he almost couldn't suppress.

        Almost.

        And then she spoke.

        "How was it? With my mom?"

        There it was.

        Bellamy found himself grappling with the question . . . unsure of how to accurately convey the sheer, soul-sucking torment that was his interaction with Dahlia Smith.

Somehow, impossibly, she was worse in person than in the villainous caricature he'd conjured in his mind. Rude didn't even scratch the surface. Self-righteous could never encompass the venom that dripped from her every word. Narcissistic? That was far too kind. Dahlia wasn't just unaware of personal space; she dismantled it with calculated elegance, tearing down boundaries like a wrecking ball swaddled in silk. Working alongside her was medieval torture—where every glance, every word, was another test of his restraint.

        In his twenty-two years of life, Bellamy had faced chaos, rebellion, and death . . . but none of that compared to the sheer test of will this woman had imposed on him in mere minutes.

        He'd come close—too close—to pulling his gun on her.

(Three. Fucking. Times.)

Three distinct, crystal-clear moments where his finger flirted with the trigger, the weight of it feeling tantalizingly lighter each time.

After Dahlia had discreetly maneuvered him to Dante—as promised—the unholy alliance found themselves with an even more grating task: irradiating Level Five. Under Dante's orders, they'd located the Command Center, relying on Raven's steady voice in Bellamy's ear to guide them through the vents. The operation itself was about as refined as ripping apart a live wire . . . literally. They tore through the Mountain's systems, yanking cables and flipping switches until CONTAINMENT BREACH screamed through the intercom.

But their escape proved to be the true test of endurance.

Since Dahlia couldn't risk being seen alongside an undercover soldier in a dead man's uniform, they had been forced into the air ducts . . . again. Crawling through the metal confines, sweat pooling and tempers flaring, the heat hadn't been the only thing grating on Bellamy's nerves.

Dahlia kept reaching over to adjust his hat whenever sweat slipped into his eyes.

(Hence . . . why his hand had hovered near his gun during two out of the three close calls.)

So, as if infiltrating Mount Weather undercover hadn't already been nauseating enough, Bellamy was saddled with the ultimate torment—taking orders from Haven's ghost of a best friend, and partnering with her monstrosity of a mother.

        It was, without exaggeration, his worst fucking nightmare.

        But again, Bellamy Blake was nothing if not impossibly stubborn. The undying trait was his curse and his salvation, and he wielded it now like armor. Enduring the company of those who stirred his darkest, most violent tendencies was a small price to pay in the face of saving his friends—and saving the girl he loved. If it meant keeping them alive, he would've done it again, no matter the cost.

        A thousand times over.

        . . . Though, if he were fully honest? Perhaps nine hundred and ninety-nine.

Bellamy kept his expression neutral as Haven finally peeled her focus away from the glassy film of bubbles encasing her body.

"It was manageable."

Haven skeptically arched an eyebrow. "Your eye twitched."

"She likes me."

"She actually said that—?"

"...After a backhanded compliment," Bellamy grumbled. His hand wandered to the nape of his neck, fingers raking uncomfortably through his curls. "But yeah. According to her, 'tolerate' is a better word."

Haven absorbed his admission with a blank stare. For a moment, it was impossible to discern if she was too stunned to react . . . or if disbelief had simply stolen any effort to try. Her gaze locked with his, holding steady for two weighted heartbeats—long enough for him to catch the faint flicker of something indefinable in her eyes. Then, as though the moment had never happened, her focus dropped back to the restless shimmer of the soapy bath water. Fingers soundlessly tracing idle patterns against its surface.

Her next question was heartbreakingly small.

"... Did she talk about me?"

Bellamy felt his heart sputter out and die.

Dahlia hadn't spoken about Haven at all during their time together.

        Not once. Not in the way Haven needed. Not in the way Haven deserved.

        All Dahlia had talked about was herself.

        Her so-called triumphs. Her years as Lexa's secret weapon, weaving her way through the veins of Mount Weather and carving a path toward their vision of salvation. Earth was Dahlia's eternal obsession, her altar, her justification for every betrayal. She spoke of it as though it were a god she alone had been chosen to serve.

        Not her daughter. Never her daughter.

        Bellamy had recognized the truth with devastating clarity.

        Haven was nothing more than the collateral damage left in the wake of Dahlia's crusade. A sacrifice her mother had been willing to make when she abandoned her child in the stars, chasing after a radioactive mirage of utopia. And when that dream crumbled into chaos and war . . . Dahlia had unwittingly aligned herself with every enemy who had sought to destroy Haven. First with the Grounders. Then with the Mountain Men. Her final gambit, her years of infiltration, her aid to the forty-five imprisoned Ark teenagers—they were all just the threads of her self-proclaimed destiny.

        A destiny that had carved Haven out of its foundation like a bone torn from flesh.

        Bellamy couldn't decide if it was Dahlia's instincts—some innate sense that he literally would've shot her if she dared spout more sanctimonious, self-serving bullshit about Haven—or if it was the simple truth her daughter had always known.

        Haven was never Dahlia's purpose.

        Earth was.

        . . . Why would Dahlia waste her breath on anything that didn't feed her delusions of destiny?

        Bellamy sighed.

But he did not lie to the girl he loved.

"She talked about you when we first met," he answered, the words landing carefully—like walking barefoot over broken glass. "Said what you'd think she would."

        Rather than nodding in understanding or scoffing, as Bellamy had braced himself for, Haven's hands began to shift beneath the water. She soundlessly snatched the antiseptic soap from its perch at the tub's ledge. The water was already a frothing sea of bubbles—its surface shimmering with the promise of purity—but he knew it wasn't enough for her. It did not matter that her skin was already rubbed raw from countless repetitions before this moment.

She twisted the cap off, lathered her hands, and devotedly began to scrub.

Again.

        "She's with us." Bellamy leaned forward, the bite of the porcelain against his bare chest briefly grounding him. He poured every ounce of certainty he could summon into his voice. "She's with us, Hav. That's what truly matters. We have her help to take down the Mountain. We can save our friends. We... we can do this."

        Haven did not look up at him.

        She only scrubbed her hands harder.

Bellamy sighed. "Hav..."

        A wildfire of unease scorched its way through his violet veins, the heat of it threatening to consume him as he watched her. Again. And again. And again. Haven scoured her hands, her nailbeds, her wrists—the same wrists that had once been submerged in rivers of scarlet and shadows of obsidian. He knew better than to think this was simply a washing away; no soap or water could ever banish what haunted her.

        It was an exorcism.

        Bellamy reached for her hands at once.

        "Haven."

        Halting mid-scrub, Haven's frantic movements stuttered to stillness. Wild eyes rose to meet his, dilating instinctively, then softening. Beneath the water, Bellamy's fingers curled over hers, grounding her in rhythmic squeezes. He traced gentle circles over the places she had scrubbed raw in her desperation to erase what could never truly be touched. Over phantom grime and invisible wounds that bled into every breath she took. Over the stains of sin that were never hers to bear alone.

       And in that moment, Bellamy held them—held her—exactly as she was meant to be held.

        Tenderly. Unflinchingly. Lovingly.

        "You did what you had to do," he whispered.

        A beat passed.

        "So did you."

        This time . . . it was Bellamy who wrestled with the sudden impulse to raze his palms. After they'd scrubbed the sins of the day from their skin, neither had dared ask what horrors the other had endured during the four long days of separation. Bellamy hadn't asked about the slaughter on Level Five, or the alarming amount of black blood he'd glimpsed staining Haven's switchblade. Haven hadn't asked why Bellamy refused to meet her eyes as he handed off the stolen uniform to Maya.

        They had both killed people today.

They felt it without ever confessing the crime aloud.

        But Bellamy . . .

        The words felt like rot on his breath.

        "...I orphaned someone's son."

        The Blake boy could not look at her, could not bear to see the curse of his own reflection in her eyes. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as he began his mental count to five. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. A cadence to keep his hands steady, to prevent his nails from accidentally gouging into Haven's palms and spilling even more of his shame onto her. The confession scalded enough to crucify . . . but not nearly as much as the memory.

        The specter of Lovejoy's face. The fire fading to resignation as gray eyes dulled. The sickening certainty as Bellamy's hands strangled him to death.

        His grip had been unrelenting.

        He had become judge, jury, and executioner, stealing not just a man's life—but the fragile world still tethered to it.

And it hadn't been just anyone's world.

        Not when Lovejoy's gray eyes were echoed so purely in the innocent gaze of his son. Not when sandy, wispy bangs framed Leo's small face—a face that had looked up at Bellamy with wonder instead of fear. Not when Leo had found him outside Mount Weather's preschool—a monster drenched in shadow—and called him an alien superhero. Not when those tiny, still-growing hands had reached for Bellamy's bruised face . . . fingers tracing freckles in a clumsy, tender attempt to soothe the marks his father had left behind.

And now, because of him, those hands would never touch their father again.

        Haven did not dare ask the name of the child—a silence Bellamy could only assume was born of self-preservation, for both her sanity and his. The question hovered between them like a ghost, and yet she let it fade, swallowed by the gentle hum of the water around them. Beneath the bubbles, her right hand sought his and squeezed. She soothed the agent of destruction for what it was, her touch neither judging nor absolving . . . but something far more dangerous.

Understanding.

        He risked a glance upward.

        Her eyes were glassy with realization.

        And yet, Haven did not flinch away.

        "I slit Tsing's throat," she whispered.

Bellamy wasn't startled by the admission—not really. He had suspected as much, the threads of the story weaving themselves together in his mind long before her words confirmed it. He had heard the noise over the radio chatter, the news about Mount Weather's devil in a white coat. Tsing was found dead in the elevator during the bloodshed of Level Five's uprising. In some distant, desperate corner of his mind, he had clung to the hope that it wasn't Haven. That it could've been anyone—any of the terrified, furious teenagers with nothing left to lose.

But when the soldiers had described the eloquence of the kill, the efficiency of her slit throat . . . he knew.

        He also knew that Haven must've had her reasons.

        Rather than rushing to reassure her, Bellamy let the silence linger between them. It wasn't the silence of discomfort, but of reverence—a space carved for her to gather the fragments of her thoughts, if she chose to share them. He tightened his grip on her hands, grounding her, anchoring her to the present even as her lips parted and closed again. Words formed, faltered, and dissolved before they could shape themselves.

And then . . .

"Her blood was black, Bell."

Bellamy shook his head. "What?"

        "Her blood was black."

        Something tectonic and unholy rumbled through the scaffolding of Bellamy's ribs. He felt it—the rancid truth pressing against his skull. He felt it, and yet he fought it, refusing to let the sickness of realization sink into his bloodstream.

But . . . it already had.

He could feel its infection spreading atom by fucking atom.

        Of course. Of course another monster in a white coat had stolen Haven's blood, had violated her in ways only devils masquerading as saviors could. Of course they had twisted it, tainted it, done whatever godless, perverse sorcery had turned Tsing's blood black like hers. It shouldn't have surprised him—Bellamy had already lived this cycle of cruelty once before.

But it did.

It did, because it was Haven.

And the larger part of himself—the right side of his brain that led with heart, with fury, with her—erupted in murderous, volcanic outrage.

When would Haven be free?

When would the girl he loved—the girl who had endured more than any soul should—be allowed to simply exist? When would the gods tire of their sadism and let her live? To live without devils waiting in the shadows, salivating to carve her open, to exploit her blood, her body, her very being?

Bellamy's fists thrummed with the primal need for violence. The urge to wrench his hands from Haven's hold was almost unbearable. He wanted to slam them into the nearest wall, to feel the bone-shaking crack of impact as his anger found an outlet. He wanted to leave the suffocating safety of the Vie family's sanctuary, hunt down Tsing's corpse in the elevator, and reduce it to fucking ruins. To stomp it into oblivion, to deliver her to a second death, then a third, then a tenth—until the echoes of his rage drowned the memory of her cruelty.

But somehow—miraculously—he chained himself to the moment. He swallowed his wrath, wrestled his selfish impulses into submission, and turned his focus back to the reason he fought at all.

The girl before him, soaking in the water, trembling beneath the weight of her own guilt.

Awaiting his judgment. Fearing his reaction.

        He repeated the words as an undying oath.

        "You did what you had to do."

Haven knew that he meant it.

Yet even the iron in Bellamy's voice could not shield him from the war raging beneath his skin.

The absolutes he once clung to had shattered long ago, and he stood now in the ashes of his own convictions . . . again. Right and wrong, black and white—those clean lines had dissolved into a filthy smear, bloodied by choices he couldn't unmake. The phantom blood on his hands was a torment he could not escape, and he could no longer tell if it burned in damning scarlet or drowned him in a suffocating, soulless grey.

Here he was—an executioner cloaked in the justification of survival, orphaning children to save his people. Here were the Mountain Men, cloaked in the same grim desperation, bleeding children dry to save their own. There was Skaikru and Trikru, their festering hatreds set aside not for peace—but for war, their alliance forged only to redirect their blades toward another common enemy.

And there was Haven.

Her vengeance hadn't been survival—it was retribution. A cold, visceral fury aimed at the woman who had siphoned away her life. She had killed for it, and Bellamy found himself wrestling with the terrible truth clawing its way to the surface.

He wanted to encourage it.

What did that make him?

Protector or monster? Savior or villain?

The moral dilemmas on Earth never ended—they only evolved.

Bellamy was tired of thinking about it.

Hell, he was tired of thinking in general.

He needed to be sedated. Or suffocated.

(Preferably with his skull crushed between a certain pair of trembling thighs. But whatever.)

Exhaling the weight of the world, Bellamy leaned further against the porcelain that separated his body from Haven's. Their thoughts had tormented them long enough tonight. He could see it in the tight line of Haven's mouth, in the way her brow furrowed when the silence stretched too far, when the noise in her head became too much to bear.

        And he fucking hated it.

        So . . .

His lips tilted upward.

"...You wanna know something cool?"

Haven blinked at him. "What?"

Bellamy braved the subject fearlessly. "The Grounders think we're married. Huo...mons," he attempted, lips curling strangely around the unfamiliar syllables. "Huomons. That's what they call us."

In truth, Bellamy could not believe he'd broached the subject at all, let alone without stuttering from nerves. Watching her reaction was no different than a man teetering on the edge of salvation, clinging to the faint hope that the answer would catch him before he fell. But somehow, the compulsion to make his girl smile had gifted him some kind of reckless courage.

His eyes stayed glued to Haven, combing through every nuance of expression, every cellular shift, hunting for a clue. Shock, he'd expect that. Amusement, hopefully. Want—god, he'd take that over anything. What he didn't want to find was rejection. Not at the prospect of them. Not at the idea that an entire civilization had looked at them and seen something . . . more.

And then . . .

Haven nodded. Casually.

"I know."

         (What the fuck?)

        Bellamy froze, his mind screeching to a halt as her admission split reality in two. He stared at her, wide-eyed, as if she'd sprouted five heads, and each of them spoke Trigedasleng . . . backwards.

        "You—you know?" he managed.

"I've understood the translation ever since we met the widower outside Tondc." Haven shrugged with maddeningly nonchalance. As though she hadn't just detonated a goddamn nuke in the middle of his thoughts. "The villagers kinda sucked at whispering. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out."

        (It . . . wasn't?!)

        Bellamy gaped, his words fumbling somewhere between his brain and his mouth. "So... you knew, and you didn't think to translate it for yours truly—?"

        "Yours truly still hasn't asked me to be his girlfriend," Haven jabbed, though her lips curled into the first smile he'd glimpsed from her since they'd finished eating their peanut butter and jellies. "The Grounders just skipped over your whole indecision phase and went straight to the finish line."

         Bellamy stared at her in disbelief.

        . . . Here we go again.

Only Haven could turn his existential crisis into her punchline.

Bellamy cleared his throat, the telltale flush creeping up his neck betraying him before he could shove it down, far away from her knowing eyes. "I thought we already had this conversation."

"And I thought you'd have the guts to ask me by now."

"Fine," Bellamy grumbled defeatedly. But if he was going down . . . he wasn't going without masterfully scoping out as much intel as he could. "If that's the case, then does the Grounders assumption that we're married... bother you? Y'know... because I haven't formally asked you to be my girlfriend." He paused. "Yet."

Haven innocently tilted her head.

"Why would it bother me?"

        The words struck Bellamy with the force of a landslide.

        Relief—no, fear—no, something far more perilous than either roared to life within him. Something dangerously close to hope, igniting like . . . starfire, in the hollowed-out gallows of his bleeding heart. The sanctity it brought was glorious; it chased away the shadows of doubt that had lingered for far too long.

It almost compelled him to kneel.

Right here. Right now.

Soft, childlike dreams—delicate as spider silk—dared to stir, to stretch, to exist. Dreams so tender and foolish they felt alien against the man he'd become. They flickered in the safety of Haven's eyes—a fragile promise of something whole. Or perhaps, in that moment, those dreams were not merely remembered, but born. Endlessly. Relentlessly. Woven together from her presence and the aching ruins of his heart into something . . . tangible.

Something that might one day endure.

Her words were not an acceptance of marriage, nor were they a declaration.

But they also weren't an outright rejection.

         "Besides," Haven added tauntingly, retracting her hand from Bellamy's—only to launch a flick of bubbles straight at his face. "Bothering me is your job."

        His mouth found hers in seconds.

Bellamy did not even register the frothy assault landing against his freckled skin. It could've hit his cheek, his nose—hell, his forehead—and he wouldn't have cared. All that mattered was the way his body moved without thought, leaning intrinsically across the edge of the bathtub to claim Haven's lips with his. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. Shaky hands steadied as they rose to cradle her face, while hers emerged from the water to wind through his still-damp curls. She smelled of lavender and the cloying sweetness of too much bubble bath. Her skin was damp and tauntingly warm beneath his touch. But it wasn't her scent that intoxicated him—it was her, wholly and devastatingly her.

Every blood-drenched memory, every battle fought and lost, every aching scar etched into his soul—vanished beneath the cathedral of her mouth.

Like clockwork.

By the time Haven breathlessly pulled away, Bellamy's eyes stayed closed, just for a moment longer. As if to cling to the phantom imprint of her lips. When he opened them, heavy-lidded and utterly love-drunk . . . she was already watching him.

He knowingly arched an eyebrow.

She bit her lip.

Bellamy's smile could've outshone the sun itself.

        "Don't have to tell me twice."

All at once . . . Bellamy surged to his feet from the cold tile floor, as though every second outside that absurdly small bathtub was an eternity wasted. He shifted his weight between his feet, yanking off his socks before chucking them impatiently over his shoulder. Where they landed? He didn't know. He didn't fucking care. Next came his sweatpants, pooling in a heap around his ankles before he dismissively kicked them away. The atmosphere against his bare skin felt sharp, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of Haven's eyes tracing him.

"Bell..." Haven warned. "Bell, wait—!"

And then, without hesitation . . . he launched himself into the bathtub behind her.

        "Bellamy—!" Haven's voice erupted in a half-laugh, half-squeal of scolding as water and an egregious mountain of bubbles sloshed over the edge of the tub. "Be careful! Fuck! You're gonna flood the bathroom!"

        But Bellamy was far beyond the reach of her warnings. Gently, he coaxed Haven from her position against the rear of the bathtub, his fingers lingering on her bare shoulders before he lowered himself into the empty spot behind her. Once settled, his legs parted, drawing her into the cradle of his body. Greedy hands found her waist, guiding her to lean into him—her spine melting against the hard plane of his chest, her top-knot of locs pillowed beneath his chin. Iridescent suds clung to their damp skin as the water shifted, floating and catching the light like tiny, floating stars.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh . . . relishing as the tension in his aching body finally dissolved.

        "Who cares?" Bellamy deadpanned, leaning back against the porcelain and closing his eyes. Strong forearms tightened around Haven's abdomen as he tucked her closer. "This isn't the Ark, Hav. No water rations. We've got the entire Philpott Dam to drain if we want."

        Haven sank deeper against his chest, her head tilting ever so slightly as Bellamy's lips warmed her temple. "Still," she protested, glancing at the water threatening to spill over the edges. "We have to be respectful. This isn't our room, and I don't want Maya's dad to think we're..."

        Bellamy's smirk spread slow and wicked.

        "We're what—?"

        "Defiling their home!"

As Haven twisted to glare up at him, her cheeks flushing with a warmth that betrayed her whisper-shout indignation . . . Bellamy laughed. It was far louder than the moment allowed, spilling out of him in a way that only Haven could draw. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he failed to suppress the higher-pitched crack that threatened to dissolve into a snort. The sound did not just fill the space; it anointed it, brighter and wilder than the glittering bubbles that orbited them.

Four days without her had been too damn much.

When the laughter waned, its echoes still lingering on his lips, Bellamy leaned back further.

        He could've fallen asleep. Again.

        The bathwater cradled him, its serene warmth seeping into his sore muscles and softening the edges of his exhaustion. Every nerve seemed to sigh, lulled by the cocoon of suds that kissed his skin and the quiet rhythm of her breaths. But it wasn't just the water that worked its magic. Haven herself seemed to exhale melatonin. She was a goddamn opiate; her weight against his chest, her heartbeat threading through her shoulder blades and into his ribs, binding them together in a lullaby only they could hear.

        Peace.

        That's what she had gifted him.

        Bellamy hadn't felt this content in . . .

        He couldn't say.

Before Bellamy could fully succumb to another involuntary sleep, he became acutely aware of Haven's fingers. They wandered absentmindedly, tracing idle patterns over his right knee. Circles. Spheres. Delicate arcs that danced around the curve of bone. Slowly, her fingers meandered upward—skimming along his thigh and scorching a molten trail beneath the water's surface.

Bellamy did not bother to fight it.

(He liked being touched. So what!)

It was maddening, the way Haven's touch alone unraveled him. Her hand seemed to siphon the tension from his muscles in a way no narcotic ever could. Bellamy felt himself drifting further toward the haze of unconsciousness, lulled by her soft persistence—until her fingers ventured too far.

        Dangerously far.

        Achingly, dangerously close to his—

"Hey," Bellamy warned. "Stop that."

Stillness evaporated at once. His hand shot out, capturing her wrist and halting her mischief before it crossed the threshold of no return. The touch was firm, yet beneath it, his pulse betrayed him—a wild, treacherous thunderstorm pounding in his veins. He glared down at her, but Haven, in her infatuating defiance, was unfazed.

She only tilted her head to look up at him, eyes wide and guileless—infuriatingly, devastatingly false.

"Stop what?"

        "You're plotting," Bellamy bit out. "Again."

        "I am not plotting," Haven hummed, allowing her hand to drift back beneath the water once Bellamy loosened his grip. Sin incarnate, her fingers resumed their scarlet trail, taunting the expanse of skin just above his upper thigh. "I'm a virtuous woman, Bellamy Blake. And I definitely don't have any interest in defiling the Vie family's home, or touching your—"

        Bellamy's hand shot out—slower this time—snatching Haven's wrist with a hesitation that betrayed his faltering control. Her fingers hovered, perilously close to crossing the line, achingly near the pulse point that throbbed beneath her reach.

        "Careful," he rasped lowly. "Your virtues are playing with fire."

Haven pouted, her lower lip—those beautiful, taunting, goddamn lips—a weapon as lethal as any blade. The action sent Bellamy's heart rate careening toward the stars.

"I'm not playing at anything."

"Yeah?" he challenged.

"Yeah," Haven repeated, rivaling the temptation in his glare with the cosmic heat of her own. The atmosphere between them simmered, but then . . . her gaze faltered. "I'm still... I'm sorry for scaring you. And I'm sorry for scaring you for... five years straight. I don't know how to make it right. I don't know what's gonna happen to us once we're outside that door. I-I still don't know the right things to say. But I just..." Her voice trailed off as she shyly averted her gaze. "I just want to make you feel better."

        The fire in Bellamy's eyes softened.

Fuck.

        He'd be lying if he denied that sexual healing hadn't become their strong suit back at Camp Jaha. It was perhaps one of their only coping mechanisms, especially on those endless days, when they barely had time for anything more than collapsing on the sofa bed. Entwining in limbs and stolen breath, momentarily transcending earthly woes to touch the stars—it was a sanctuary that often spoke louder than words could.

        Still.

        Bellamy would never accept or incite any touch, any advance, driven by guilt. The thought alone churned something sour in his gut. He'd rather light himself on fire than allow Haven to feel like she owed him anything—least of all her body. Hands were crafted to tremble with want, not obligation.

        Intimacy was meant to be a reprieve, not a debt.

        She owed him nothing.

        Besides.

        (He'd rather give than take.)

Bellamy pressed another tender kiss to her temple. "I've got the whole wide world in my lap already," he whispered earnestly, tightening his hold around her torso and drawing her impossibly closer. "I... I don't need anything to make me feel better, Hav. And I don't need you to apologize either. Right here, right now—this is the happiest I've been in four goddamn days."

Haven parted her lips in protest. "But..."

"No," Bellamy cut in. "Shh."

Choosing the wiser battle, Haven clamped her mouth shut. A sigh of exasperation tumbled free, soft yet sharp enough to crease Bellamy's brow. He loosened his grip on her forearm, watching as her roaming hand vanished back beneath the water. But when her touch didn't return—when she made no effort to bridge the chasm that suddenly felt too wide—he chose his own battle.

        The wiser one. The one that mattered more.

        He touched her instead.

"But... are you happy?" he whispered.

        Warm breath caressed Haven's temple as Bellamy dipped his head lower, the ghost of his lips caressing the shell of her ear. It wasn't a kiss—it wasn't anything so merciful. His left hand cradled over the swell of her right rib, the soapy water turning his touch slick and seamless. But his right hand—oh, his right hand—it traveled a path that ignited and destroyed in equal measure. Slowly, torturously, it skimmed the plains of her lower abdomen. Languidly danced over her thighs. Teased the edges of those forsaken hips and birthed chemtrails of stardust to fester in their wake. Fingers hovered, agonizingly close, ghosting the vulnerable expanse just above the apex of her thighs. Not enough to cross the line, but close enough to feel the hitch in her breath, faint yet deafening.

A quiet surrender. A silent plea.

"Or," he murmured. "...Are you only itching to touch me so that I touch you?"

Haven jolted just before his fingers could slip beyond the edge of her sanity. "Nevermind," she breathed out. But her resolve faltered as Bellamy's mouth abandoned her temple . . . trailing a slow, incendiary path along the curve of her jawbone. "Maya's dad is, like, right outside—"

"Then stay quiet." Bellamy answered simply.

As if his greedy fingers weren't poised on the precipice of destruction, As if her pulse wasn't ricocheting through her spine and flooding into the sanctity of his ribs. As if every trembling breath she took, as his fingertips teased—closer, closer, closer—to plunging into the depths of her undoing, wasn't destined to be her last.

        Haven fondly rolled her eyes. "You kind of make that impossible."

        "Is that a compliment?"

        "No," she snapped, leaning into the ecstasy of Bellamy's lips on her jaw before abruptly straightening. "I mean... maybe. No. No. It's not! It's—you're infuriating and smug and slutty. And what if—?"

        "Slutty—?" Bellamy echoed with a laugh.

        "What if my mom randomly storms in?" Haven was utterly lost to the haze of sensation as her eyes fluttered shut against her will. "Then we're dead."

They both knew the question was useless.

"It's a good way to go."

        "Again. You're impossible."

        "And yet... you're still here."

Bellamy maintained his tender assault along her jaw as Haven melted back into his chest once more. He knew her too well to mistake her hesitation for resistance. This was her method—the push and pull of taunting him with her boldness only to retreat behind feigned innocence.

She thrived on the danger of being caught; he thrived on the thought of muffling her moans with his palm.

It was no surprise when Haven bared her throat in surrender, offering him unobstructed access as he worshipped her jawbone, the tender area behind her ear, then journeyed down to her throat. What began as featherlight caresses grew deliberate, each kiss deepening into worshipful devotion. Lips turned to teeth, to tongue, to soft, intentional sucking that branded her skin as his. Resistance dissolved like mist under the scorch of the sun, giving way to surrender. Surrender bloomed into bliss—inevitable, celestial, and all-consuming.

        "C'mon..."

        His mouth hovered lethally close to her ear again.

        "Spread your legs."

🚨 EXPLICIT SMUT ALERT 🚨
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Haven obliged without resistance.

The movement was small, tentative—yet forceful enough to evoke ripples through the water. It disturbed the stillness, coaxing the bubble bath to finally dissolve into a faint veil of foam.

Relishing the expanse of new territory exposed beneath the water, Bellamy's grip on her rib tightened. His palm grounding her while his thumb traced slow, reverent circles over the delicate skin. It lingered for a moment—a moment that felt suspended in eternity—before his right hand resumed its torturous descent. His middle finger ghosted across the apex of her thighs, skimming the throbbing, sensitive flesh that betrayed her anticipation. He did not push further—did not allow himself the indulgence of sinking deeper into her heat.

But . . . god, he felt it.

The molten slickness. The warmth.

The quiet ache of her body answering his.

It would've taken nothing—nothing—for him to plunge two fingers into the mess of her arousal.

. . . But she hadn't granted him enough access.

"More," Bellamy whispered, his hand leaving the curve of Haven's rib to trail downwards, slowly reaching to grasp her exposed kneecap. He caressed the skin gently before coaxing her limb into submission. "Open wider for me, Hav."

Soon enough, Haven surrendered—again—melting further into the solid strength of his chest as her knees bent, thighs parting. The motion stirred the water further. Bubbles vanished, baring more of her glistening, soapy skin to Bellamy's eager eyes . . . and revealing precisely where his fingers ached to explore.

        "That's it," he murmured in approval, lowering his mouth to gently capture the skin of her ear between his teeth. "Good girl."

        Bellamy found himself staring at the divinity of Haven's bare body with the same reverence he always had. He'd seen her like this countless times over the last few weeks—knew her in ways no other soul could claim. Down to the scar lashed across her lower back and the lone freckle behind her right kneecap. But familiarity never dulled her brilliance; no, it magnified it, each unveiling striking him as if it were the first.

        Heavenly brown skin harnessed the richness of the earth itself, stretching taut over moon-pale bones, humming with the power to shatter stars and cradle galaxies. Her curves did not just fill space—they redefined it, flooding emptiness with vitality, fire, and boundless warmth. She was an enigma of every extreme across every goddamn universe. The devastation of a black hole and the salvation of a sunrise; the edge of ruin and the cradle of creation. An angel meant to reign over galaxies, to be draped in stars, her throne forged of the finest constellations.

        And yet, she chose him. A mortal man.

        Fragile. Inadequate.

        Haven Grey Smith chose to anchor herself in his lap, to entwine her divinity with Bellamy's humanity . . . as though he were worthy of such ruinous grace.

        He couldn't afford to fuck this up.

        (Plus . . . he'd shaken the stars from her skies enough times to know exactly how to make her come undone.)

        Cautiously, Bellamy let his middle finger drift lower—gliding over the heat of Haven's most vulnerable flesh. His touch was nothing short of sacrilegious, the pad of his fingertip coming to rest on her clit and circling in languid, torturous strokes. The soft rhythm of his touch matched the cadence of their breaths—his catching in a low, satisfied rasp as hers stuttered in pleasure. He did not linger long, though the temptation clawed at him. Instead, he let his finger drift further—deeper—just brushing against the slick, trembling edge of her entrance. He teased her there, hovering at the precipice before retreating . . . only to glide upward once more.

        Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Haven screwed her eyes shut, nails sinking into his thighs beneath the water as she dissolved into breathless, intoxicating pants.

        "God, you feel so fucking wet," Bellamy breathed out, circling his finger more intentionally over her sensitive nerves. His thoughts raced with the selfish desire that it was his tongue instead. "I can feel you through the water, Hav. You're leaking for me. This is exactly what you wanted, wasn't it?"

A strained whimper escaped her in response.

Bellamy could not peel his eyes away from her devastatingly flushed face. "Tell me," he rasped, barely stifling the impulse to groan as Haven's legs began to tremble. "You were waiting for me to touch you, weren't you? Waiting for me to fuck you with my fingers... or sit you on my face."

Vulgar words had never been whispered so delicately.

        There was something prophetic in the way he touched her. As if his sinful fingers were meant to trace holy ground, aching not to preserve it but to revel in its sweet ruin. Bellamy mapped every delicate nuance of Haven's reaction as though it were scripture. He was attuned to all of it—the way her breath hitched just before she bit back her brewing moan, the soft clench of her thighs. Or the bite of her nails sinking deeper into his flesh, desperate to anchor herself to the world beneath her.

        But Bellamy wasn't interested in keeping her earthbound.

        His finger slipped inside her at last.

         "...Fuck."

        The expletive slipped from Haven's quivering lips in perfect synchronization with his own.

        Bellamy savored it—the way her body clung to him, her heat wrapping around his finger with an exquisiteness that made him momentarily forget how to move. Her walls adjusted to the invasion, and for a long, torturous moment—he simply existed there, drinking in the way Haven surrendered to him.

        Then, his finger began to curl.

        He plunged, seeking and finding that sacred place within her that made the air catch in Haven's throat and her nails rake into his thighs. He could feel her pulse against him, her breath coming faster, and he knew—he knew—the exact moment when her vision splintered into bursts of starlight. And when he intensified his rhythm, his finger gliding smoothly in and out of her . . . it was impossible for her to contain her first moan.

        "Shh," Bellamy hushed, lifting his free hand from its clasp atop her knee and gently palming the flesh of her throat. "Shh."

Before Haven could release another moan, Bellamy tightened his hold on her throat. Not to choke her—but to guide her, tilting her face toward him instead of away. His lips brushed against hers, effectively silencing the frantic rhythm of her breathing. And just as her next whimper threatened to form, he captured it, swallowing the sound and tucking it safely into the depths of his mouth.

        His. Only his.

Kissing Haven while his fingers ruined her was a maddening feat of coordination, one Bellamy had mastered over stolen moments like this. It was clever—necessary, even—because it was the only way to keep her quiet during the late nights or early mornings in Alpha.

        But it was also torture.

        Because every muffled moan, every trembling sigh, every aching sound she tried to bury in his mouth . . . only made Bellamy want her louder.

"You're so fucking pretty when you fall apart for me."

Bellamy detached his mouth from Haven's just enough to drink in the sight of her. Dark eyes gravitated to where his hand pumped devotedly beneath the water. His breath came heavy, lips parting as though the view alone threatened to undo him.

"Look at you. So beautiful. So perfect. So needy and wet. Dripping all over my fingers."

Feverishly . . . Bellamy plunged a second finger into her. The soul-shaking gasp that tore from Haven's lips hollowed his chest, only for his own moan to echo back. His pace quickened as her right hand shot out to grip his bicep. Nails clawed against his arm, sinking into the star-born sinew that flexed with every movement, grounding her even as he drove her further and further from control.

        Bellamy could feel the molten heat of his blood simmering within him. It was torturous, heightened from the ecstasy of watching Haven arch and writhe beneath him. He kissed her again. Harder this time. Hungrier. Lips crashed against hers in a needy, chaotic clash of teeth and tongue that surged with every thrust of his fingers.

He loved the bite of her nails.

        He fucking loved being claimed by her sting.

Time slowed as Bellamy tasted her moans, drank the sweetness of her cries and claimed them as his own. His mouth housed Haven's noises privately . . . only to wrench more from her by capturing her lower lip between his teeth and sucking. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Steam curled in thick, oppressive waves. Spit mingled between stolen breaths. Splashes of water slapped against porcelain. Heat was so consuming it could have scorched the tile from the walls. His movements grew reckless. Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Each plunge of his fingers drove deeper—harder—begging for the sanctum of Haven's release. The tension coiled in her body spilled achingly into his as her moans surged against his mouth.

        He could feel her pulsing around his goddamn fingers.

"You're close," Bellamy panted, breaking away from her reddened, kiss-bruised lips only to cover them with the hand that cradled her throat. Her moans muffled and warmed the flesh of his palm. "So fucking close. Come on my hand, angel—just like that. Just for me. Take what you need. It's yours."

        But then . . .

        Her lips parted, and she took one of his fingers into her mouth.

        Bellamy's head flung backwards.

"Oh, my fucking...."

        Before he could even capture the brilliance of the pleasure she ignited—before his own name could claw its way back to his consciousness—Haven's hand slipped beneath the water, blindly vying for him.

        No. Fucking. Way.

        As her greedy fingers found the narrow space between her hips and his, grazing his sensitized tip, Bellamy's entire body jolted. His fingers slipped free from their ruin and snatched her wrist. Commandingly, he redirected her hand away from the edge of his arousal and guided it back towards her own. His palm hovered over hers, their fingers lining up in perfect, trembling alignment.

Slowly, he guided her hand between her thighs . . . coaxing her to touch herself.

Haven froze.

        Still trembling with desire. Aching for release.

        And far too stunned to summon the glare she wanted to aim at him.

        "I—"

        "You want to make this about me? Fine." Bellamy's words escaped him as a low, poorly restrained pant. His eyes were darker than the void between stars. "Show me how you want me to touch you."

Haven hesitated.

        "Show me," Bellamy begged. "Show me."

        One agonizing heartbeat passed. Another.

        And then, she fucking did it.

Bellamy nearly lost it. Every atom in his body ignited as volcanic heat surged through his veins, scorching away reason and sedating thought. He could hardly think. Hardly breathe. His vision blurred as he fought to witness Haven's fingers tracing paths of ecstasy over the flesh he'd worshiped with his own. Two of his fingers slipped between her teeth, muffling the whines threatening to undo him, while his own moans were smothered in the cascade of her locs. The hand that lived between her thighs hovered just long enough to let her feel its presence before covering hers, their fingers intertwining. Traitorously, selfishly, he took over . . . guiding her touch and unraveling the sacred task for her.

        "That's my girl," he praised. "Come for me."

Galaxies ruptured over his gluttonous fingers.

        . . . But the Blake boy wasn't done.

        As soon as Haven crested the high of her first climax, Bellamy wrapped his arms around her torso and spun her. It left her no option but to straddle his lap rather than collapse against his chest. Insatiable hands sought his curls, while his arms slid beneath her thighs, securing her firmly against him. Once she was stable, he stood, effortlessly lifting their molded forms from the water as one. The sudden motion sent the shampoo bottle teetering from its perch, crashing down to thwack him sharply on the back of the head. Bellamy cursed under his breath, but the sound was swiftly swallowed by Haven's burst of laughter.

It spilled into the narrow space between them—a melody of breathless joy—and before he could resist, he was laughing with her.

Their mirth tangled in the steam-filled air before dissolving into feverish, open-mouthed kisses. And by the time Haven's spine met the tiled wall, all humor had vanished. He couldn't remember what they had been laughing about. It did not matter. All Bellamy could register was her legs tightening around his waist, and his name slipping from her lips in a quiet, aching plea.

And then, Bellamy finally sank into her.

Time did not idly pass.

It throttled—spun—then scorched.

Bodies were no longer vessels of flesh but ruinous offerings, desperate to reach the stars, to collide with the infinite. Nails bit crescents into freckled shoulders as Bellamy clutched Haven tighter, kissed her deeper, and claimed her against the wall. Achingly. Pleadingly. Slow enough to torture, deep enough to possess. Teeth claimed flesh—not for pain, but for permanence—sinking into her with worship so fervent it bruised. Profanities unraveled into whispered names. Rhythms broke apart and the mightiest of titans sank to his knees. Bowing before her altar and drowning willingly. Moans muffled by her flesh as he sought to purify his soul in the flood of her ecstasy. Rising again only to descend further. Alternating between the sharp demand of his mouth and the deft insistence of his hands. Transforming agents of destruction into conduits of pleasure. Shedding blood for starlight. Trading ruin for radiance. Trembling as he fought to stretch the rapture into eternity, but faltering again, undone by the reflection of himself shimmering in her tender, tear-bright eyes.

        A mirror of longing. A vessel of ruin.

        The universe collapsed for the second time.

        Humanity was restored in the afterglow.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO TELL HOW MUCH TIME HAD SLIPPED THROUGH THEIR FINGERS as they sank into the porcelain tub once more. Bellamy reclined against the tiles, legs sprawled weightlessly beneath the water, while Haven straddled his lap. Her cheek rested against his chest—the erratic thrum of his still-racing heartbeat steadying her breaths. Calloused hands ghosted along her damp skin, tracing the length of her spine in slow, hypnotic strokes. What few bubbles clung to their skin dissolved under his touch, fingers rhythmically dragging their iridescent forms into nothingness.

It was peaceful.

So peaceful that Bellamy could feel his body succumbing, eyes growing heavy . . . his mind slipping toward the void of sleep that had already betrayed him.

(Again!)

"You're lucky I'm too tired to ride you."

Nevermind. He was fully awake.

Bellamy's head jerked from where it had rested against the wall, dark eyes narrowing as he peered down at the smirking devil in his lap. "Woah, woah, woah," he fired back, incredulous. "How am I the lucky one here? I know my limits, and I definitely remember you tapping out first last time." He shot her a lazy wink. "Don't act like I didn't do all the work."

"Right..." Haven agreed listlessly. "After you stopped shaking."

Bellamy gaped. "I did not shake."

"You so did," she countered, a sly smile creeping across her lips. Quiet snickers burst from her chest as she wickedly pushed herself upright. "And you sounded like..."

She paused for dramatic effect, biting her bottom lip to stifle her amusement . . . then mercilessly unleashed it.

        An exaggerated imitation of his moans cursed the air.

"Ha... ven... fuuuckk..."

"Oh, hell no—"

        "...You... feel... so..."

Gasping in outrage, Bellamy jolted, flailing his hand over Haven's mouth in an attempt to silence her cruelty.

But it was futile.

Laughably, miserably futile.

Muffled squeals vibrated against his palm until she erupted into full-blown, cackling laughter. It was every bit as evil as he'd expected—actually, worse. The sound warmed his skin, obliterating his defenses until, despite himself, laughter exploded from his chest as well. It echoed off the walls harmoniously, forcing Bellamy to shyly cover his crinkled eyes . . . if only to shield himself from the scarlet heat flaming his cheeks.

"Shut up," he managed. "You sit on a throne of lies."

"That tracks." Haven, still gasping through her laughter, wiped at the tears streaking down her cheeks with little success. "I'm sitting on you, aren't I?"

. . . Fuck.

(Why had he said that?)

"Whatever," Bellamy grunted, forcibly clearing his throat—a valiant attempt to reclaim even the smallest fragment of his dignity. "I did not sound like that. I—I don't sound like that. You just think you're funny."

"I know I'm funny," Haven deadpanned, finally managing to drag in an unshaken inhale, though her voice was still honeyed with amusement. "Plus, your ears are pink."

She reached for his right earlobe and tugged.

Bellamy indignantly swatted her hand away. "Stop it!" he scolded, the sharpness in his tone undercut by the lopsided smirk tugging at his lips. "Just... fuck!"

"Ha! Said that too."

"I did not."

        "Sure did! Right before the fuuuckk—"

        "Moving. On."

Shaking his head in exasperation, Bellamy clung uselessly to the tattered remnants of his pride. Just as he thought he'd finally regained some ground, the girl he loved parted her lips and—of course—unleashed another mockingly obscene whimper into the air.

His eyes bulged in horror as his hand flew over her mouth again.

"Christ, Haven!"

Haven exploded into another spiel of wickedly divine laughter. "And that!"

That's it.

Bellamy was going to kill himself.

No, not just kill himself—he was going to hoist Haven over his shoulder like the cruel tormentor she was, stagger to the edge of the goddamn bathtub, and faceplant into the water. Her body weight would serve as the perfect anchor to drown him beneath the surface, putting him out of his fucking misery once and for all.

        Of course . . . Bellamy knew her well enough to recognize his attempt was useless. She'd haunt him even in death, mercilessly mocking him from the shadows of the afterlife.

(Damn her! Damn her and that perfect laugh!)

        "C'mon..." Haven began, allowing her hands to gravitate to Bellamy's bare shoulders as she adjusted herself against his lap. "Turn that frown upside down, my King. I love you more than I love teasing you." Fingers knowingly danced along his jaw, poking and prodding at the corners of his mouth, daring his scowl to soften. "Which, you know, says a lot."

        Sighing in quiet surrender, Bellamy caught her hand mid-air. He glowered before he brought her palm to his lips, pressing soft, reverent kisses to its surface. One by one, he kissed all fourteen of her knuckles, his mouth lingering on the pad of her thumb before wandering down toward her wristband. The device mocked him, a mechanical barrier between him and the rhythm of her pulse—the proof of her life he craved. He hated it, selfishly, for stealing what should have been his alone. Still, his lips brushed the edges of the band anyway, seeking out her warmth wherever it could be found.

He gently entwined their fingers and squeezed.

"I love you too," he whispered.

"I love you most."

. . . God.

Bellamy never grew numb to those words.

        But reality was never far behind. Beneath the intimacy of Haven's vow, he could hear it—the low, rhythmic hum of the laundry machine in the next room. A sound too mundane for the wretched weight of their existence. The spin cycle was relentless—a clock ticking down the moments they had left in this cocoon of borrowed time. Sooner or later, the cycle would end . . . leaving them with only a handful of hours to sleep, gather their meager belongings, and abandon the Vie family's sanctuary.

        The world was waiting for them out there.

        Not with open arms—but with clenched fists, lethal ammunition, and a voracious thirst for their blood.

       They were marching into the fight for their lives.

        So, even if it was only for now . . . Bellamy clung to the solace of Haven's bare body pressed against his own. He did not lean back against the wall as he might have before—no, his head bowed forward, seeking asylum in the crook of her right shoulder. Weary arms coiled around her torso. Hands splayed against her lower back, as if clutching her tighter might fuse them together for eternity. Eyes shut, he willed himself to memorize every infinitesimal molecule of the moment. The quiet cadence of her breathing. The delicate brush of her lips against his damp curls. The heat of her skin melding with his. It wasn't just her body he held, but the rarest gift of all.

Normalcy.

A fragile, beautiful illusion.

But for this—just this—he would carve through the world's cruelty with bloodied hands and undying fury. He would kill to claim another moment like this.

A thousand times over.

        "Bell?"

        Bellamy was far too weary—or perhaps too selfish—to lift his head from the safety of Haven's shoulder. "Mhm?"

       "Do you..." A traitorous hitch in her breath forced her voice to shrink. "Do you think you can read to me?"

        That made him pause.

Bellamy lifted his head. "What?"

        Haven shyly drew her lip between her teeth. "Before we sleep. Later," she clarified, her eyes tracking every crack and imperfection in the shower tiles to avoid his. "I already know you were checking out the bookcase earlier, and—well—it's fine if you're too tired. I just thought, since we don't have much longer here, it might be nice—"

        He silenced her rambling by kissing her.

        "Of course," Bellamy breathed out, tightening his clasp against her spine and beaming with the holiest of smiles. "Just... just pick the book, and I'll do it. Any book. Even that cooking crap you used to like."

        Haven smiled. Beautifully.

        They hadn't read together in . . .

        Over a goddamn year.

Bellamy could recall almost every shared moment with Haven on the Ark—down to the minute—as if time itself bent beneath the magnitude of her presence. There was something about her that had always made his eyes flick toward the nearest clock, especially during moments of significance. An insatiable need to mark it, to preserve it . . . while dreading its inevitable end.

The first time she'd successfully flicked a blade from his weaponry belt into his makeshift target? A Thursday, 2:56 PM. Its metallic flight still whirred vividly in his mind. The night he had stayed up reading The Republic by Plato, the first book she ever recommended him? He finished it at 4:14 AM, red-eyed and resolute, just forty-six minutes before his Guard shift began. And the first time she reached for his hand—her trembling fingers brushing his during the sting of an IV insertion? 9:07 AM on a Monday.

The Magic School Bus: Lost in the Solar System.

        A children's book.

        He couldn't remember the exact time they had read their last book together. He couldn't remember the ticking of the clock or the hypnosis of her laughter . . . because he hadn't known it would be the last.

All he could remember was the title.

A sudden flick of bubbles sailed through the air, splattering against the freckles dusting Bellamy's face and wrenching him from his reverie.

Haven fluttered her lashes. Innocently.

(Uh-oh.)

"We need to drain this before anything else," Bellamy muttered, swiping at the soapy remnants clinging to his cheek and gesturing toward the still-swirling bathwater. "It's defiled."

One heartbeat passed. Another.

And then . . .

She struck. Again.

Another handful of suds launched through the air, colliding with his face in an unapologetic burst of foam. But Haven did not stop there—she refused. Her hand followed through, smearing the bubbles with exaggerated care, fingers devilishly massaging every freckle until his cheek gleamed under the sudsy assault.

Bellamy stared at her in exasperation.

        Suds mockingly dripped from his face.

"Alright," he huffed. "What the fuck—"

Before he could finish, she did it again.

Again, and again, and again—bubbles assaulted his bare skin as Haven waged her relentless war. Fingers tangled in his hair, smothering the unruly curls with suds and howling with hysteria. He cursed under his breath, swiping at the lavender-scented foam blinding his eyes . . . but the sting was nothing more than a whisper against the symphony of her laughter.

        Years.

        Years. Plural.

        It had been so goddamn long since Bellamy had truly heard that sound from her. Not a shadow of amusement or a fleeting cackle—but real, untamed laughter that felt like the heavens splitting open to bask in her godlight. It wasn't just a sound; it was sanctification. Sweeter than it had any right to be. A hymn to the deities he'd long stopped believing in. She was laughing, and laughing, and laughing, and it hollowed him out, filled him to the brim, just to inebriate him with its magic.

        And then—as the invisible string between them snapped taut—he kissed her.

It wasn't careful, nor was it planned. It was raw, desperate, messy. His lips found hers, tangling in the taste of soap and salt and sweetness. As Haven's laughter hitched in her chest, Bellamy moved, strategically sneaking his fingers behind her back and twisting the faucet on.

An icy torrent of water struck her spine.

Haven erupted into a shriek.

"BELLAMY FUCKING BLAKE—!"

Bellamy silenced her outrage with swift, smug vengeance—a handful of bubbles clamped firmly over her mouth. Her response was as immediate as it was chaotic. She sputtered, spitting the foam back into his face with a force that had him reeling. Before he could recover, she unleashed a tidal wave of bathwater, splashing it squarely into his eyes. Soap blurred his vision, but even half-blind, he refused to surrender. His fingers raked through his soaked curls, seeking to clear his face, just as hers did the same—with far less gentleness—gripping, tugging, and attempting to dunk his head underwater. They breathlessly wrestled back and forth, bubbles anointing the space like hundreds of fleeting, silvery stars.

        And then—suddenly, achingly—everything in him stilled.

        In the midst of the splashing and the shouting, amidst the soap stinging his eyes and the ache blooming in his ribs from laughing too hard . . . Bellamy found himself wishing for something absurdly simple, yet impossibly profound.

        He wished he could conjure a golden, metal band from thin air.

        Right here. Right now.

        In this outrageously small bathtub, drowning in soap and water—he would do it. He would shift his weight against the porcelain, kneel before the girl he loved, and devotedly reach for her left hand. He would stare up into those glittering, defiant eyes and ask—beg, plead—to mark this moment as the start of their forever.

        Bellamy did not know a lot.

        But he did know this.

        The girl in front of him stood at five foot two on her best days—though she'd argue otherwise, perched on the edge of arrogance in Orion's too-large sneakers or combat boots worn thin. She hated untangling wires from circuit boards—grumbling that it was lobotomy-inducing—but could lose herself in solving long division for days. She styled her locs to emulate her mother's, loathed the bitter aroma of the coffee he'd down before his Guard shifts, but loved the soft, fleeting majesty of meteor showers framed by Ark windows. She carried scars, each one etched with the incisions of unspeakable trauma, and others—still ghosts—waiting to claim their place. He hated their existence . . . except for just one. A tiny, crooked imperfection on her left earlobe.

        (She had tried to pierce her own ears at seven with a safety pin.)

        Bellamy did not know a lot; the universe was vast, its truths elusive, its pain infinite. But he did know this. There was no grey area in what he felt for her. He knew that no force in existence—not time, nor death, nor the weight of the world itself—could ever possibly rival what he felt right now.

He would never love anybody as much as he loved Haven.

Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.

Unconsciously . . . he found himself clinging to Haven's left hand. Oblivious to the abnormal hue creeping beneath her fingertips.

The question hovered on his lips.

Waiting. Longing. Aching.

He could feel the words sanctifying every sin his tongue had ever carried. His throat cried for their release. His lips parted to soundlessly shape the forbidden syllables that had nested in the corners of his mouth as of late.

. . . Marry me. . .

Every shift of his eyes begged the question.

        Every splash of water against his skin, chased by her heavenlit smile, was her answer.

• •

HIIIIIII

YALL IM CRYING AGAIN 😭
THE END SCENE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS I HAVE EVER WRITTEN!!!! EVER!!! not that its particularly special writing wise but just bc it is sooooooo fucking cuuute. my heart is sore as im editing this in the BEST way. this man lives to love her!! so innocently!! so FREELY!!! so wholly!! i know i put them through a lot and the love they have for each other is often written painfully but THIS! that's my couple right there. i feel so proud of how far they've come. all i do is cry.
i hope you loved it

SONG FOR THE CHAPTER IS SEDATED BY HOZIER (hence the title) & j's lullaby by delaney bailey... if u want to sob at the last scene :,))
i can name like. 15 hozier songs off the rip that i associate with baven lolll

i just loved writing this chapter so much. i really tried to structure it so it had a little bit of everything. angsty bell in thought daughter mode again at the beginning... some smut as a reprieve, and then some fluff ✨ as previously mentioned, this is going to be one of the last happy chapters for a long time. </3

butttt.... smut through the lense of a bellamy pov? 🫦
its a little different and out of my comfort zone as a writer because i am a woman and he is a #man, but i have always and WILL always write smut for the GIRLIES, even if it is a bell pov. i hope that came across as intended. bellamy gets off on haven getting off! as he SHOULD! i literally dont give a shit about what a man wants !!! 😭
this is the last smut scene for awhile too. like. waaaay into act 3.
dare i say... toxic sex

anyway.
next week we back in action :))
I LOVE YOU!!!!!!