• •

CHAPTER FOURTY NINE;

FINN FUCKING COLLINS.

• •

REACHING THE CUSP OF LINCOLN'S VILLAGE FELT LIKE INTRUDING UPON A GHOST TOWN. The late morning sun pierced through the dense canopy overhead, scattering fleeting beams that flickered across an ancient, moss-enshrouded stone monument at the heart of the clearing. Surrounding this relic, rusted barriers of scrap metal and jagged stones formed a grim perimeter. These makeshift walls stood as ambiguous guardians at the village's main entrance—blurring the line between keeping outsiders at bay and imprisoning unseen specters within.

        It was hauntingly vacant.

        At least . . . from the outside.

        Haven was well-versed in the customs of the Grounders, who often demarcated their territories with the grim trophies of fallen enemies. Yet, startlingly, the fortress-like entrance stood unguarded, devoid of the usual gruesome markers. Equally unsettling was the calm that had accompanied their morning journey to this point. No warriors concealed among the high branches, no hidden threats of spears or poisoned arrows breaking the stillness. It was as though this section of the woodland had been left deliberately defenseless, a notion that defied all logic.

        Grounders were known for their preemptive strikes and their aggressive territorial claims. But now, as if swallowed by the forest itself, they had seemingly just . . . vanished.

        Weird.

        Despite the unsettling quiet that sunk her gut with dread, Haven found an unexpected solace in their trek through the wilderness. Freed from the oppressive confines of Mount Weather's bunker, the vast sky above felt like an expansive canvas of liberation. Breathing the untamed air filled her lungs with a primal vitality, starkly juxtaposed against the suffocating artificiality she had left behind. Walking shoulder to shoulder with Bellamy and the girls, she felt an indomitable strength coursing through her veins—as if she were exactly where she belonged.

        Haven always felt safest with them.

        . . . Bellamy did, too.

        Raised alongside Octavia, Bellamy had always naturally steered towards the girls of the camp—his actions possibly a reflection of those early, formative bonds. Yet, Haven often wondered whether it was Octavia's influence that sculpted this facet of his being, or if this affinity was an innate part of who he was. With the girls, Bellamy moved with a fluidity that conveyed deep trust, a vivid contrast to his more guarded demeanor with his group of Gunners.

Despite his deep bond with his brothers in arms . . . the girls offered a different kind of camaraderie: they were confident, capable, and moved with a grace that the boys occasionally lacked. They didn't clumsily stomp their feet or engage in redundant bickering over the past lives of their ancient weaponry; their efficiency and poise set them apart, solidifying them not just companions, but a formidable force among the ranks.

". . . You think this blicky is the same shit that assassinated that old president—? . . ."

. . . They both knew it was Miller who often recited that joke.

Haven missed him. A lot.

Out of all those still entombed within the Mountain's cold walls, it was Miller who occupied Haven's thoughts most persistently. Their friendship had once been casual, a mere acquaintance before the turmoil of war. But on the night of the battle, under the shadow of impending doom—Miller had sworn the sacred oath to protect her, to keep her alive amid the rockets' devastating ascent, reducing the camp to rubble.

        Objectively, Haven hadn't made that promise easy to keep, her actions inadvertently leading to the amputation of Miller's trigger finger—a burden she knew he had every right to resent her for.

Yet . . . not once had he complained.

        Not once had he allowed his eyes to cast blame her way.

        Instead of succumbing to bitterness—which he probably should have—Miller redirected his energies into the most formidable resilience. He showed up, not just dutifully, but with a relentless determination to protect . . . even going as far as to hold a gun to her mother's head if it meant saving Haven's life.

And how did Haven repay him—?

. . . By leaving him behind to die.

        It wasn't the Reapers lurking in their dank, oppressive tunnels that had nearly claimed Haven's life—it was the crushing weight of her own guilt.

        The act of leaving her friends behind had leeched the strength from her limbs, rendering her maneuvers in battle sluggish, her strikes half-assed at best. In the hollow echo of her heartbeats, she would have chosen to die in the mine system rather than fight her way out without them.

        Yet, when she most ached to embrace the cold grasp of death, her body betrayed her . . . clinging stubbornly to life.

        Go fucking figure.

        Ultimately, it was not mere survival instinct—but the searing, relentless drive to save her friends that had saved her.

        To have any hope of rescuing their missing friends and toppling the oppressive regime of Mount Weather, Haven knew they needed Lincoln—a crucial link in her quest to find Lexa and harness the reinforcements Dahlia had cryptically mentioned. Yet, this also hinged on the bold assumption that her mother had been truthful in her declarations, and that the Grounders would consent to what surely seemed an outlandish request.

        The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

        . . . But how many enemies were left?

        The stakes were high, the uncertainties many, but the urgency of their mission left no room for doubt—only the slim hope that alliances could be forged in time to tilt the scales in their favor.

         Finding Lincoln was just as crucial as locating Finn and Murphy, which . . . was also easier said than done.

        According to Octavia, Lincoln had been missing for days. He had upheld his promise to Bellamy, safeguarding her in the aftermath of the battle at the dropship, even as he tended to the arrow wound in her leg within the safety of his village. But tranquility had been a fragile veneer. The village succumbed to a brutal assault by the Reapers, plunging it into havoc. In the wake of the devastation, Lincoln was conspicuously absent, either granted the grim mercy of a swift death—or facing the nightmare of being dragged into Mount Weather for harvesting.

        . . . He could've been trapped in one of the metal cages right beside Haven in the Harvest Chamber, and she would've had no fucking idea.

        "It feels nice to have the gang back together again."

        Orion's voice smoothly cut through the turmoil swirling within Haven's mind—a sharp, welcome clarity amidst the fog. She navigated the space between Haven and Clarke leisurely, Michonne tucked flat against her spine, her movements smooth and assured as Bellamy and Octavia led the group forward.

        "The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I don't have the urge to be violent—yet," she continued, casually slinging an arm around Haven's shoulders as they maneuvered around the fallen tree branches that littered their path. "I missed fucking shit up together!"

"We hunted for breakfast," Octavia chimed in from ahead. "That's about all the shit that was fucked up."

Orion reflexively rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm just happy to be back with my girl again," she declared, tightening her grip on Haven's good shoulder in a brief, affirming squeeze before her hand drifted back to its familiar perch on her sword's strap. "Can you believe that both of our moms are alive, Hav? That's some soulmate level shit right there. Bet Blake's real jealous."

        "Why would I be jealous?" Bellamy asked, his tone flat, hardly even bothering to look back at the jab wielded from behind. His focus remained unwavering, eyes penetrating the deceptive stillness, ever vigilant for lurking dangers. "Because your mom's alive and mine's dead?"

Haven blinked.

. . . YIKES.

"Well, when you put it like that, I guess—?" Orion shrugged, dismissing Bellamy's stony demeanor as if it were nothing more than mist in the wind. "I was going to say it's because I'm more connected to Haven than you are."

Bellamy scoffed. Loudly.

        "It's true, dickhead!" Orion jabbed, delivering a forceful swat to Bellamy's spine as he continued the trek onward, his demeanor as impatient and unamused by her provocations as ever. "You guys might have had matching seizures and all, but I..."

        Her eyes bulged in horror.

Meanwhile . . . Haven's flared with fury.

"Matching what—?!"

The Smith girl's voice thundered through the forest, an incredulous echo rebounding off the treetops like a gunshot, arresting her mid-stride as the rest of the group decelerated in sync. Octavia and Clarke, caught in the undercurrent, barely masked their grimaces, instinctively sidestepping the brewing storm as Haven's hands shot out and grasped Bellamy by the collar. He was yanked back, helplessly stumbling into her orbit, forced to meet the blazing eyes of the girl he loved—eyes that pinned him with a gaze as sharp and cutting as shards of glass.

"Well." Orion gulped. "Shit."

        "What the hell is she talking about—?!" Haven fumed.

        Bellamy cast Orion a scathing glare.

"Nuh-uh! Don't look at her! Look at me!" Haven's command was fierce, her grip on Bellamy's chin forceful, molding his features into an unintentional grimace as she redirected his deathly glare from Orion to herself. "You had a seizure—?!"

Bellamy's response emerged as a distorted muffle—every syllable smothered and garbled by the sheer intensity of Haven's grip, her fingers digging into his cheeks, contorting his lips into a clumsy pucker. "Awedggidly."

"...Allegedly." Haven echoed flatly.

        "Bell—cut the shit," Octavia droned, sweeping an exasperated hand across her weary features before sighing. Her expression softened as she pivoted towards Haven, the hardness in her eyes melting into a gentler, more vulnerable hue. "It happened three days ago."

        Three days ago.

. . . That's when Haven had been seized by the harrowing clutches of her own seizure, too.

        Releasing her iron hold on Bellamy's now reddened cheeks, Haven's hand moved with urgent desperation, clutching at the exposed neckline of his t-shirt. She twisted the fabric tight beneath her fingers, pulling him close until their faces were only inches apart, her breath mingling with his in the charged space between them. Words tumbled from her lips in an uncontrollable cascade, each syllable laced with a torrent of emotions—fury, confusion, fear—all converging into a raw, hysterical display of panic.

"Why are you even out here? Is this why you've been seeing Jackson? I-Is this why there was blood in your ears—?!"

        Bellamy shook his head. "Hav—"

        "How many times has it happened so far? Was this the first? Fifth? Tenth? Y-You're seizing because of your concussion—?!"

        "Haven."

At the firmness of Bellamy's interjection and the gentle touch of his fingers encircling her outstretched wrist, Haven felt the tumult within her begin to ebb. Her breath caught in her throat as she paused, savoring the warmth of his touch seep through the cold of her fear. Wide eyes searched Bellamy's for even the slightest flicker of acknowledgment—any sign that he understood the gravity of her fears.

. . . He did.

"It's a brain bleed," Bellamy admitted gently, his voice a soft counterpoint to the severity of his words, as if trying to cushion the blow. "I only seized because I hadn't slept in over a week, and it was aggravated due to overexertion...or whatever." His expression, carefully neutral, avoided the grim set of a clenched jaw, aiming instead to offer reassurance through a calm, soothing nod. "I haven't had any blood in my ears since yesterday morning—honest. Jackson says it's starting to heal."

  . . . Brain bleed.

        Every shard of truth that Haven had pieced together about Bellamy's condition since their reunion at Camp Jaha now crystallized with horrifying clarity.

The blood-stained whispers from his ears, the veiled lethargy he cloaked under layers of determination, the cautions murmured by Orion and Raven. His irritability. His aversion to the harsh caress of light in the shower, and the way his gaze flinched under the raw glare of dawn as they navigated the forest. His oscillation between leading the charge and guarding the rear. The subtle litany he muttered under his breath—a constant count to five—his makeshift anchor in a sea of disorientation.

He was trying to stay alert.

        Haven shook her head in dismay. "A brain bleed?" she echoed quietly. "...Why didn't you just tell me?"

        Bellamy mustered a sad smile, a fragile attempt that faltered before it could truly bloom, never reaching the depths of his eyes. "The same reason you still haven't told me that you seized, either."

         . . . Well, fuck.

         She clamped her mouth shut.

"Look, if you don't believe me...we can go talk to him when we get back," Bellamy ventured cautiously, imparting three tender squeezes to her wrist before she allowed her hand to drift back to her side. "Together."

        Clarke uncomfortably cleared her throat. "He's telling the truth," she offered, anchoring her gaze solidly on Haven as she spoke. "I, um...checked in with Jackson yesterday. I wanted to make sure both of you were cleared before we left."

        The duo swiveled their heads toward the blonde in perfect sync. Although Clarke's words were halting, they carried the weight of solemnity and resolve—a deliberate offering laid out in the midst of swirling doubts, designed to cement the fragile trust teetering between them and soothe their roiling fears . . . if only for now.

        Haven chewed her lip. "What'd he say?"

        Clarke released an elongated sigh. "That you're both too stubborn for your own good, and to see him as soon as we get back."

         "Ain't that the truth," Orion huffed.

        "Anyway..." Eager to shift away from the intense and unwanted scrutiny, Bellamy swiftly retrieved the paper coordinates from his pocket, unfolding them as he surveyed the landscape stretching out before the group. Turning to Octavia, his voice found its strength in the winds of purpose, veiling any traces of discomfort. "This is it. Which way to the village?"

       Octavia stood hauntingly immobile.

       Bellamy tried again. "O—?

       Haven silently watched through a veil of tender concern, her heart tightening with each unmet call; Bellamy's gentle attempts to center his little sister washed over her like a breeze over stone, leaving no mark. Octavia's eyes, glassy and distant, remained latched onto the looming monument at the village's edge. A tempest of unspoken memories and traumas floated across her vision—a congregation of ghosts that only she could see, their whispers echoing in the hollows of her unresponsive stare.

        "The Repears came from there," Octavia's whisper finally broke the silence, extending her sword toward a shadowed path concealed behind the statue, her hand trembling as the phantoms of her failures clung to her like a chill. "I...I couldn't save him, Bell."

         Haven felt her organs writhe with grief.

         . . . Lincoln.

Before Octavia's tears could fully breach the dams of her eyes, Bellamy was already there, bridging the void in seconds. He enveloped his sister in the fortress of his embrace, a titan against the swell of her grief. As her sobs escaped, silent yet profound, his hands moved with tender purpose—one threading comfort through her hair, the other a steady shield across her back. He stood unflinching as her tears seeped into his jacket, each drop a silent wound he pleaded his touch could heal.

"I couldn't save him," Octavia cried brokenly. "...I-I couldn't save him."

Averting her stare, Haven offered the siblings a moment of necessary privacy, her eyes drifting back to the distant monument that stood before them. Yet, as her gaze shifted . . . a sudden play of shadows and light abruptly transported her back to the ruins of battle at the dropship. For an ephemeral instant, she was engulfed in the sensory onslaught of war—the searing heat of grenades against her skin, the acrid stench of blood and charred flesh filling her nostrils.

She could see Bellamy's faint, fleeting smile . . . hauntingly etched on his face as he lay lifeless beyond the dropship door.

Blinking fiercely, Haven expelled the gruesome vision from her sight, forcibly refocusing on the soothing greenery of the trees around her.

Still, despite the respite offered by the familiar landscape, the haunting memory lingered, etched indelibly in the recesses of her mind, never to be forgotten. In that harrowing, suspended moment of time—she knew exactly what Octavia was feeling.

Guilt, a monstrous beast, loomed larger and more formidable than grief ever could.

        Every glance Haven cast toward Bellamy only deepened the cruel irony etched within her heart. Here he was, comforting his sister over a loss that echoed so eerily with Haven's own haunted reflections. The very boy she watched, alive and breathing, was the same she had once seen half-dead . . . decomposing amidst the flames.

. . . I couldn't save him.

Before the group had the chance to react, gunshots tore through the air, snarling with violent insistence.

Everybody reached for their weapons in impeccable synchronization.

Following the violent interruption, a harrowing stretch of silence fell over the group, as if the forest itself held its breath in solidarity. Five bodies instinctively huddled into a protective circle, a formation as ancient as it was immediate. Five pairs of eyes, wide and vigilant, scoured the unseen depths of the dense foliage ahead, searching for any hint of the source of the gunfire. Five hearts thudded in a torturous, unified rhythm—each beat a heavy drum of anticipation and terror. They waited, each second stretching taut, every sense heightened in the dreadful quiet . . . waiting, waiting, and waiting for what might emerge from the shadows.

"What the fuck?" Orion panted. "What the—?"

Gunfire resumed at once.

But this time . . . it refused to cease.

        The group launched themselves into a sprint.

        There was no room for speculation on the implications of the gunshots, not when they were already hurtling towards its distant echoes with wild urgency. Octavia and Orion led the frantic sprint, their swords drawn and poised to carve through flesh and bone. Clarke, her grip steady on a handgun, scanned the path ahead, while Bellamy instinctively tightened the grip on his rifle. Haven, despite the searing pain that knifed through her shoulder with every jarring step, swiftly withdrew her blades, her resolve steeling her against the agony it caused.

        Yet, as the icy steel of the left blade settled into her palm, Haven was struck by an awful realization—she might not possess the strength, nor the functionality to hurl the blade anymore.

She didn't even know if she could lift it.

        . . . Bellamy wasn't taking any chances.

As they hurtled toward danger, he fluidly drew the backup pistol from his waistband and thrust it into Haven's instead. Although he loathed the thought of burdening her with it, just as much as she dreaded accepting it, the grim necessity of their predicament left no room for hesitation. They both understood that if fate cornered her . . . she was capable of pulling the trigger.

The Repear tunnels had taught her that much.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Orion's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and frantic as she leapt over a fallen tree log and carved a path through the dense undergrowth ahead. "Who else has freakin' guns?! We're nowhere near camp!"

        "FINN!"

        Haven nearly faceplanted into the dirt.

        "FINN—STOP!"

        . . . No. No. No.

        John Murphy's desperate cries shattered the stillness, echoing frantically across the windswept forest, each shout matching the ferocity of distant gunshots. His voice, raw with urgency, seemed to shake the very treetops and rattle the earth beneath their racing feet. Bellamy had entrusted only him and Finn with firearms, aside from Kane's group. They had been the ones tasked to delve into the heart of the Grounder village in a relentless search for their friends . . . a search doomed from the start.

        Deafening, blood-curdling screams tore through the distance, escalating into a cruel symphony of terror as the group charged closer to the epicenter of chaos. The closer they drew, the more the air thrummed with the palpable pulse of impending doom, driving them headlong into the abyss.

        Whatever the hell had been unleashed . . . if it was enough for Murphy to plead for Finn to stop . . . it only signaled a situation spiraling dangerously out of control.

"FINN—WE NEED TO GO!"

. . . The ammo kept firing.

        Faster than the speed of sound, the group cleaved through the dense underbrush. Shrubs and wayward branches clawed at their flesh as they soared faster, faster, faster. They surged onward, relentless, until the world abruptly ceased at the edge of the treeline. There, breaths torn and ragged from their chests, their grips on weapons tightened into devastated shock. They stood, a somber phalanx arrayed at the cusp of the wild, standing at the outskirts of what appeared to be the Grounder village.

        Or rather . . . what was left of it.

Bodies lay sprawled across the ground.

Elders.

. . . Children.

       The village was so engulfed in chaos it became impossible to discern where the bloodshed began and where it ended. Warriors, corralled like cattle in the center of a dirt clearing, fought against their bonds with a desperate ferocity, hurling themselves toward the slaughtered bodies of their people. From the shadows of their huts, mothers emerged, their wails piercing the air with the raw agony of loss. Blood salted the earth. Splattered across the wooden frames of dwellings. Stained the hands of warriors as they frantically tended to the injured, and marked the dead, motionless bodies of children.

        And in the midst of it all . . .

        Finn. Fucking. Collins.

        The boy who had once been an emblem of peace, who had recoiled from the very notion of war and bloodshed, now stood gripping a rifle—willingly committing a massacre.

• •

        FOURTY-EIGHT HOURS HAD PASSED SINCE FINN COLLINS HAD MURDERED EIGHTEEN GROUNDERS—dragging the group back to Camp Jaha under the dark cloud of his actions. With the camp's fate now hanging by an even slimmer thread, twisted by his hands, there was no choice but to deliver him and Murphy to the judgment of the Council and . . . Abby. Imprisoned under the watchful eyes of the Guard, they awaited the Council's probing investigation—a grim prelude to the inevitable verdict.

. . . They'd be voting on their lives.

        According to the fragments of information Haven had pieced together . . . the tragic chain of events had begun with deceit. Delano, the Grounder who had initially crafted the map for the search group, lured them to the village under the pretense of finding their friends. Unsurprisingly, Delano was a fucking liar; this manipulation turned out to be a desperate bid to save his own life—a ruse steeped in treachery, promising safety where there was none.

Finn had shot him anyway.

In a grim escalation, Finn and Murphy had then driven the villagers into the center of their town, using the threat of violence after discovering items ransacked from the dropship—a harrowing sign they misread as a dire threat. But for Finn, the sight of their friends' belongings, stripped and scattered, was a spark to a powder keg. It wasn't enough to hold back, to wait, to understand. No, for Finn . . . it had ignited an unstoppable fury, transforming fear into a lethal rampage that left no room for mercy or truth.

After realizing the depth of Delano's deception, it was Murphy who, in a rare display of caution, nearly pleaded with Finn to retreat—to spare the Grounders before the situation escalated into retaliation.

        It had almost worked.

        . . . Almost.

        As the tension simmered, an elder, in a silent bid for freedom, had attempted to slip away from the makeshift pen. The subtle movement, barely a whisper against the tense backdrop, should have gone unnoticed. But in that charged silence, every leaf rustle sounded like a shout.

        And then . . .

        Finn had snapped.

        The fragile thread of his restraint severed, his actions transformed from defensive to aggressively lethal in an instant. The sight of the elder's desperate, creeping figure had unleashed in Finn a cataclysmic reaction, turning him from child soldier into unhinged slayer—irreversibly altering the course of events with the thunderous echo of his gunfire.

". . . I'm not fucking perfect, Hav. But at least I don't kill people."

The ghost of Finn's past words haunted the ruins of Haven's mind, a relentless echo that pulsed through the fragmented corridors of her consciousness, incessant and unforgiving. He had once stood before her, a figure wreathed in self-righteousness, condemning her actions as he shamed her for killing Dax to save Bellamy's life. That moment, irreversibly seared into her memory, was followed by the fateful shove—cruel, unexpected—that had triggered the lethal stillness of commotio cordis, abruptly stopping her heart.

Now . . .

He had killed eighteen people at once.

Unflinchingly.

        As Haven's thoughts spiraled deeper, the raw edges of her own unhealed wounds meshed painfully with the cruel irony of Finn's actions. She had spilled Grounder blood; she had faced her enemies with lethal force when pushed to the brink, each life taken a dire measure against clear, imminent threats. Eight of the nine lives she had been warriors, armed and dangerous, their intentions morbidly clear.

But Finn . . . Finn had crossed into far darker waters. He had struck down the unarmed, the unthreatened, in a cold deluge of violence that washed away any pretense of self-defense. This was no battle; it was a massacre, carried out with chilling detachment.

        She wasn't sure how she felt about it.

        But then again, feeling anything was becoming a challenge . . . literally.

Majority of her left arm was numb.

When Bellamy had discovered that Haven physically couldn't feel his fingertips drumming against her wrist that morning, his reaction was immediate—a blind, urgent panic that propelled them straight to Jackson's Med-Tent. For Haven, the numbness brought an odd sort of solace; the absence of pain allowed her arm to move more fluidly, free from the sharp halts of agony that had plagued her before.

Yet, this newfound lack of sensation was objectively disconcerting—a silent alarm that wracked Bellamy's brain far more violently than her own.

The visit had been excruciatingly quiet.

        . . . Again.

        While Haven had stared stoically ahead—unwilling to confront the colossal, unspoken beast of truth that loomed between them—Jackson had meticulously tested her reflexes. His findings punctuated the quiet with grave implications, concluding that she was suffering from nerve damage. Each time she had torn through her stitches, originally sutured by Tsing, she had unwittingly aggravated the incisions . . . seeding areas of numbness that now speckled her arm like ghostly stains.

Now, Jackson's prognosis was sharp and urgent—the numb patches would only expand, deepening further into a relentless void of sensation . . . unless Haven lessened exertion on her arm by wearing a sling.

This necessary respite, utterly alien to Haven's active nature and ludicrous to her pride, was essential for healing. It wasn't just a pause; it was a vital battle against the silent progression of damage that, if left unchecked, could strip away her arm's function permanently.

So . . . she wore the goddamn sling, and thrust her more able-bodied arm into motion—engaging in the intricate ballet of wires and signals. Alongside Raven and Kyle Wick, she found a new battlefield within Alpha's radio, toying with frequencies and soldering connections, her fingers moving with a precision that mocked the restriction forced upon her other limb.

The interaction had also been excruciatingly quiet.

. . . At least, Haven was.

Wick, once an apprentice under Sinclair back on the Ark, carried the relentless zeal of a seasoned mechanic despite his official title as an engineer. His confidence veered into astounding arrogance, yet his brilliance was undeniable. Both he and Raven filled the air with their animated discussions as they dissected the radio's anatomy, their voices echoing with theories that spiraled into heated debates before coalescing into solutions.

        Amid this dynamic exchange, Haven found herself on the periphery, her interactions with the machinery reduced to what felt like aimless fumbling with the actuators. It seemed that her contributions were dwarfed by their expertise, leaving her feeling . . . isolated-ish.

        The best friends, once bonded by the grit and grind of Mecha Station, had found themselves estranged by silence.

In truth, they hadn't really spoken . . . at all.

        Haven kept looking at Raven's limp.

        Raven kept looking at the scars seared into Haven's chest from being resuscitated.

        Both girls bore the weight of unspoken guilt, each believing they were somehow responsible for the other's wounds. And in the back of their minds, an even darker shadow loomed—a childhood friend turned mass-murderer, awaiting his judgment. In any other moment, they might have sought refuge in their shared pain, finding comfort in the silent understanding that had always bridged their unspoken thoughts. But now, even that connection, once so effortless and unbreakable, felt tenuous, almost foreign.

        For the first time in Haven's life . . . she felt inexplicably distant from her best friend.

         But for what reason?

         The five-year chasm that had separated them while Haven languished in the Sky Box seemed to dissolve the moment Raven crashed into Earth. They had slipped into their old rhythm with the ease of slipping into a favorite pair of boots, worn and comfortable, as if those years were mere heartbeats in time. Side by side, they had navigated the wild new world, fighting for survival with a fierceness that mirrored their unspoken resolve to never be parted again.

Nothing could ever possibly come between them—never in a thousand unforgiving war-torn years.

         So . . . why did she feel lightyears away?

Aside from . . . that, Raven upheld her formidable intellect, proving once again why she was the sharpest mind among them. As she delved into the depths of Alpha's malfunctioning radio, her hands moved with practiced ease, tweaking the actuators with the finesse of a master. It was during these adjustments that she stumbled upon a revelation—a familiar, cryptic signal that bled through the airwaves, eerie and unmistakable.

This was no ordinary signal; it was the very same frequency that Haven and Monty had stumbled upon within the black box of the Exodus ship.

Not only had Mount Weather been orchestrating a sinister blockade, jamming long-term communication between the Ark's scattered satellites, but their actions also had an even darker facet . . . their signal, malevolent and calculated, had been the unseen force that drove the Exodus ship to its disastrous crash into the mountains.

They'd been fucking with them from the very beginning.

Now, armed with the sinister truth about Mount Weather's manipulations, the group was thrust into urgent strategizing. Their next move was critical: they needed to spread the word among their friends and assemble another covert team skilled enough to sneak out of camp, and navigate enemy lines. The objective was urgently clear—locate Mount Weather's radio tower, infiltrate the Mountain itself, and blow the fucker to dust.

        . . . Woo-hoo!

"Time's up. My turn."

        At the familiar warmth of his voice, Haven was wrenched from the world of her book, her attention shifting as effortlessly as flowers reaching toward the sun. She intrinsically lifted her gaze . . . and there he was—the boy whose gravity she had unwittingly aligned her orbit around, drinking in the sight of her with an irrepressible smile.

        Bellamy's figure loomed in the doorway, a shadow cast in casual defiance against the frame, his lips curling into a knowing smirk as his eyes captured the image of the girl he loved. There she was, curled into the contours of the rolling chair in the room's quiet corner, her injured arm cradled carefully in the sling—a rare moment of stillness in her otherwise restless mannerisms. The simple act of witnessing each other in such fleeting snippets of ordinary life seemed to stitch their worlds closer with each glance, their hearts syncing in a shared rhythm that skipped and stumbled beautifully.

        Every. Damn. Time.

        Raven merely rolled her eyes at his imminent arrival. "Touch grass," she spat, her voice flat and uncompromising. Her hands, previously tangled in the innards of the radio's wiring, now found their way to her hips in a gesture of annoyance. "You've had your turn for, like, the past forty-eight hours."

Bellamy tilted his head. "Your point—?"

"Ooo—lemme guess," Wick chimed in, a sly grin spreading across his face as he glanced from Haven to the boy in the doorframe. "He's your scary boyfriend?"

        Haven casually shrugged. "Kinda."

        "Kinda—?" Bellamy echoed.

        Mildly amused, Wick continued to glance back and forth between Haven and Bellamy, his eyebrow arching with intrigue. "...Kinda scary or kinda your boyfriend?"

        "Both," Raven grunted lamely. "Both."

At that, Wick swung his feet off Raven's cluttered workstation and stood up, smoothing down his shirt as he crossed the threshold to meet Bellamy at the door. "Kyle Wick—lead apprentice of engineering and critically acclaimed sex god," he declared. "Do you do handshakes—?"

He extended a friendly hand forward.

Bellamy stared at him. Blankly.

        "Damn." Wick managed a slight grimace, barely holding back his discomfort. He quietly withdrew his hand, allowing it to fall back to his side as he muttered under his breath, "Scary indeed."

As Wick smoothly pivoted his to resume his casual slouch in the chair beside Haven, kicking his feet up once more as he fiddled with a disassembled walkie—Bellamy instinctively met Haven's eyes. His gaze discreetly shifted towards Wick, and with a nearly imperceptible movement of his lips, he mouthed a baffled and slightly incredulous . . . who the fuck is this guy?

        Haven bit down on her lip to restrain her grin.

        "Y'know what....it's fine, Bellamy," Raven decided, her focus already returning to the depths of the radio's circuitry. "Take Haven with you and send Clarke in next. I need to tell her about the signal jamming and figure out how the hell we're gonna bypass Abby."

Haven involuntarily tensed.

Struck by the unintended ripple of discomfort she had stirred, Raven paused, her hands momentarily stilling among the radio's guts. "Shit," she hissed, her eyes softening as she cast an apologetic glance towards Haven. "...Sorry."

Haven bit back the instinctive grimace that threatened to reveal her unease. It wasn't Raven's words that had cut deep, but rather the raw nerve that was touched whenever Abby's name surfaced. Around her, the core group moved with a hushed reverence, tiptoeing around the now Chancellor's name as if it were a sacred curse, an unspoken acknowledgment of the agony it summoned—a pain known in full only to Bellamy.

Despite the goodwill behind their cautious actions, Haven felt reduced, almost infantilized—as if she were a child wrapped too tightly in the overprotective arms of concern. Trapped in a body that betrayed her with every involuntary twitch and shudder at the mention of Abby's name, yearning for the strength to face her past head-on.

. . . Maybe one day.

        Managing a shaky smile, Haven rose from her chair, placing her book back in its designated spot among the clutter of Raven's desk. "Don't be. Bye-bye, birdy," she hummed, her free hand fluttering in farewell as she called out to Wick without turning back. "Try to keep up, Wick."

        "I will! My stamina's in-fuckin-peccable!"

As Haven slipped beneath Bellamy's arm, still anchored casually against the doorframe, he fluidly lowered it to drape over her shoulders. Her fingers naturally sought his, entwining seamlessly atop her good shoulder, each movement between them as effortless as surrendering to gravity's irresistible lure. Bellamy responded with equal intuitiveness, his lips finding the crown of her head in a gentle kiss, mindful not to jostle her sling.

        "There's my girl," he greeted warmly, smoothly steering their joined steps away from the quiet of the dormitories and towards the outdoor Mess Hall. "You eat?"

        Haven blinked. "Um..."

        "Figured," Bellamy cut in, shooting her a knowing glance while thoughtlessly drumming his fingers against the warmth of her hand. "Miss Vincetta made some stew earlier. Saved us some extra bowls."

        . . . Of course she did.

        Amidst the harrowing challenges they faced on Earth . . . Naomi Vincetta emerged as a beacon of hope and resilience, a silver lining in the shadow of their struggles. Her extraordinary kindness, thoughtfulness, and warmth had become indispensable to their community, especially since the Council had effectively abandoned the Ark's survivors to fend for themselves, providing only minimal food rations.

Taking initiative, Naomi had stepped into the role of forager, ingeniously sourcing vegetables and herbs from the land around them to supplement their meager supplies. Just yesterday, she had enlisted Orion and Haven to help prepare a meal of roasted potatoes and leeks, turning simple ingredients into a nourishing feast. Today, her efforts manifested in a soup—a soothing brew that spoke of her unwavering resolve to do more than merely sustain; she aimed to nurture, to heal.

        Haven had never seen Orion so wholly, blissfully . . . happy.

        "What about you?" Haven asked. "You haven't eaten yours—?"

        Bellamy offered a nonchalant shrug as they navigated the shadowed twists of the corridor. "I was waiting for you," he answered simply, utilizing his free hand to push open the steel door that led them into the night's embrace. "Consider it a dinner date. Plus...y'know, Clarke."

Haven's smile could summon starlight.

Though apprehension lingered—a fear that her rebellious stomach might once again succumb to its usual turmoil of nausea and resistance, a stubborn remnant from her grim days within the Mountain—soup seemed like the safest bet. Yesterday, the roasted potatoes had settled in her stomach with only mere whispers of discomfort, and her mouth had watered not from the sway of nausea but from a clear, emerging hunger.

. . . Stew would be fine.

As dusk embraced the world in its cool shroud, the pair found Clarke settled at a table nestled within the newly crafted outdoor Mess Hall. Since only the heart of Alpha had withstood the brutal kiss of their crash landing, leaving the dormitories and engineering headquarters relatively unscathed, Naomi and her band of volunteers breathed life into this makeshift sanctuary instead. By day, they labored tirelessly to restore the kitchen to its former vibrancy; by night, they spun the outdoor wreckage into a place of warmth and congregation.

Camp Jaha may have been a complete and utter shitshow, but not here . . . not this.

        "Alright," Bellamy began, leaning forward, his finger tracing the contours of the map spread out before them on the table. "Run it by me again."

Clarke released a deep sigh. "It's a labyrinth—Anya and I got to the dam through this tunnel," she started, her pencil hovering over the snaking lines that represented the Reaper tunnel, a hidden artery running through the bowels of Mount Weather. "It's all connected to the mine system. That's our way in."

        "There's another tunnel that leads back to the dropship too," Haven chimed in, tentatively swallowing a spoonful of the soup plated in front of her and allowing it to warm her belly. "That's how I got out. It's a straight shoot all the way from the dumpsters." A shadow marred her features as she recalled the memory. "We must've been shoved into the same damn trash chute."

        Bellamy cast Clarke a reflexive glare.

Although Bellamy had apologized for his outburst when Clarke admitted she had left Haven behind, a smoldering grudge lingered, unextinguished—a dark undercurrent beneath the currents of their usual conversation. As his eyes traced the cold contours of the map spread between them, visions of Haven, discarded and desolate, began to haunt him. He pictured her cast aside like detritus among the dead, battling shadows in the murky underbelly of their world, half-naked, her dignity stripped away . . . alone.

He wasn't sure if he could let that go.

. . . Ever.

"Sure...if we can get past the Repears and the Mountain Men," Bellamy grunted. He shook his head, frustration etching deep lines across his brow as he contemplated the gravity of the situation. "Clarke, I swear to god, if your mom doesn't sanction a mission soon—I'm going by myself."

Clarke shook her head. "You won't be by yourself."

Nodding in agreement, Haven softly placed her hand atop Bellamy's on the table, stilling the tremor before it could begin. "She's right—the only way we'll make it through is together," she asserted, her features morphing into a sheepish grimace as she disclosed the next layer of her thoughts. "...And together includes the Grounders, too."

Bellamy blinked. "What?"

Unfazed by the intensity of the twin stares pinning her under scrutiny, as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head, Haven redirected her focus to Clarke. "You said that Kane was trying to meet with the Commander while looking for Finn and Murphy, right?"

Clarke nodded slowly.

        "My mom made it clear that I need to speak to the Commander to send in reinforcements, or something," Haven began cautiously, acutely aware of the tension coiling in Bellamy's fingers beneath her palm. "If she really was ordered to be their inside source, then Lexa should already know who I am."

". . . . Honor the Commander's orders! She lives—but the rest of her people perish! . . . "

Haven took a deep, steadying breath. "I don't know how much the Grounders out here know about the blood transfusions. Anya only had suspicions until she saw it for herself," she admitted. Though her tone was solemn, her eyes betrayed the rapid calculations firing within, a glimpse of her sharp, strategic mind at work. "But if I can somehow meet with Lexa...if she wants info about what's happening to her people...we might be able to leverage my mom's role to our advantage."

        "A trade." Clarke's response came slowly, her nod deliberate, each movement seeming to mirror the turning gears of thought aligning with Haven's proposal. "We give Lexa the information she needs in exchange for assistance and protection in the tunnels."

"Reinforcements," Haven concluded.

Meanwhile . . . to Bellamy, the very fabric of their idea seemed woven from the strands of utter fucking madness, each word a thread pulling at the seams of his war-hardened sensibilities. It felt like deciphering an alien language, or miraculously unlearning the reflexive violence that had defined his survival. The hundred's entire existence on Earth had been marred by relentless conflict with the Grounders—from the horrifying moment they had speared Jasper and strung him up as bait. He had never wanted to kill them, but the Grounders' ruthless assaults had left him no choice but to defend what had become his family.

But now, a sliver of possibility crept into his thoughts, challenging the hardened lines of his beliefs.

Unless . . .

. . . unless they chose a different path, a new narrative forged not with blades but with words.

Bellamy's eyes softened as he observed the girl beside him. "You want us to work together, Hav?"

Haven nodded shakily. "That's what my mom was insinuating."

"...You trust her?"

Bellamy's question was clipped, each word carefully carved out of the stillness . . . yet it was delivered with an unexpected softness, stripped of the usual bite of skepticism that so often laced his tone.

        He was being genuine.

        "No," Haven admitted firmly. "But my mom also said this is bigger than all of us. If we play our cards right and put all of the bullshit to the side, we could potentially free both of our people—together." A sad smile briefly illuminated her features—a gentle, fleeting warmth that seemed to acknowledge the enormity of their task yet hinted at its fragile hope. "Maybe we'd have a chance at coexistence."

Coexistence.

This tentative idea, sparked by Haven's strategic insight, suggested a radical shift—a gamble on diplomacy over bloodshed. It was a daunting pivot, but as he listened to Clarke and Haven plotting a course of cooperation, Bellamy found even himself wrestling with the potential for change, the hope that perhaps they could transform their grim cycle of violence into an unprecedented alliance.

. . . He'd believe it when he saw it for his goddamn self.

        Clarke shook her head. "It's our best bet so far...but it's also wishful thinking," she admitted solemnly. "Finn just committed a massacre. I doubt Lexa would be kind enough to listen."

        As Clarke's words lingered in the air, heavy with the echo of conflict and consequence, the environment shifted, as though responding to the very mention of their predicament. The circular hatch to the Council's chambers creaked open, casting the silhouettes of Finn Collins and John Murphy against the stark light from within. The moment seemed to fracture, with Murphy disappearing swiftly into the comforting obscurity of the night, his path determinedly set towards the bar . . . while Finn, on the other hand, slowly approached the trio at the table.

        "Speak of the devil," Bellamy grunted. "Guess the inquisitions over."

Haven absentmindedly drew her lip between her teeth. "...How's he been?"

"I wouldn't know. I haven't talked to him since we got back," Clarke confessed quietly, her gaze detached, drifting into some distant, shadowy place as if to escape the haunting images that lingered on the edges of her consciousness. "I-I don't know what to say...he just kept shooting."

        "We're at war, Clarke," Bellamy offered lowly, though it was uncertain whether his statement was meant as consolation for Clarke or a reassurance for his own shaken convictions. "...We've all done things."

As Bellamy spoke, he could feel the shift in Haven's gaze as she observed him, her eyes softening, reflecting an understanding and depth that went beyond mere words. She absorbed the quiet weight of his consolation, recognizing it instead for the confession it was.

        Though his disdain for Finn fucking Collins remained a sharp thorn in his side—viewing him as nothing more than a deceitful, self-righteous hypocrite—there was a slight, almost imperceptible shift in Bellamy's understanding. His perception hadn't softened; rather, it had widened, a reluctant admission to himself that under the shadow of war . . . he also harbored the same capacity for devastating violence that Finn had unleashed on the Grounder village.

        It didn't mitigate his scorn.

        It didn't make Finn any less of a fucking idiot.

         But if Bellamy had truly believed, even for a moment, that Haven had been ensnared in the depths of that Grounder village . . . if he had thought they were holding her, flaunting her possessions as a cruel taunt . . . his response would have been catastrophic.

        He wouldn't have left the village standing.

Perhaps, in the bleak corridors of his heart, that was the most wretched truth of all—Bellamy's potential for destruction was not solely bound to the instinct of survival . . . but was intrinsically linked to the terror of losing her.

        "Hey."

        Finn's simple greeting cut through the quiet tension, his voice low and weary as he approached the helm of the table, coming to a halt beside Haven's stool. Each step seemed a monumental effort, laden as they were with the weight of recent atrocities. His presence brought with it the enormity of his recent actions, a tangible reminder of the brutal reality that Clarke had just voiced.

       The Griffin girl refused to even look at him.

Haven barely restrained her wince.

. . . Awkward.

"I'm, um...happy to see you're wearing a sling, Hav," Finn ventured, gesturing towards the garment cradling her left shoulder, his hand moving tentatively, almost fearfully—retracting it before Bellamy's protective instincts could manifest into action. "Bout damn time."

        Haven nodded. "Thanks."

        Silence roared. Apocalyptically.

        It became excruciatingly clear that Finn wasn't going to sit down beside the group unless explicitly invited. He seemed caught in a limbo, shifting from foot to foot on the precipice of belonging, an outsider looking in. His gaze, a wandering exile, drifted from Bellamy—whose very aura whispered of silent warnings and veiled threats—to Haven, a beacon of soft respite in the storm. But it was upon Clarke that his gaze finally anchored, intense and laden with silent pleas, hoping for a sign, any indication of acknowledgment or acceptance.

. . . Nothing.

Bellamy's voice finally cut through the stifling silence, rough but resolute, as he grasped Clarke's empty flask from the table. "...Next round's on me," he grunted, offering Haven's hand a tender squeeze as he stood to leave—then pinned Finn beneath the familiar weight of his death glare. "Six feet apart, Finn."

        Finn stared at him. Blankly.

"Six. Feet. Apart."

        The repetition, sharper and more definitive, seemed to galvanize Finn into action. Reluctantly, he complied, taking six measured steps away from the stool beside Haven, marking the physical distance mandated. His hands rose defensively, a clear gesture meant to signal his acquiescence and intent not to provoke further conflict . . . particularly under Bellamy's vigilant watch.

"There," Finn huffed. "Happy?"

Bellamy clenched his jaw in silent warning.

Once he had put the requisite distance between himself and Haven, Finn took a seat at the far end of the table next to Clarke. Only as Bellamy's figure receded, the confidence in his step painting shadows of triumph in the moonlit earth, did Finn finally allow his hands to descend.

        "So," Finn began cautiously, studying the map Clarke had drawn with a keen eye. "Mount Weather. What's the plan?"

        Clarke nodded in civil acknowledgment. "Still working on it."

        Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.

        Honestly . . . Haven wasn't entirely sure how the situation could get more awkward than this.

        Finn Collins, the former pacifist who had transformed into a mass murderer, now sat uncomfortably beside Clarke—the girl whose emotions he had once toyed with while still entangled with his actual girlfriend . . . and the girl he had inadvertently shoved to the brink of death.

        At the dropship, when their lives hung by a thread, they had somehow found a way to unite, to push past personal grievances and histories for the greater good. Survival had necessitated a temporary truce, a setting aside of all that was personal in favor of what was practical. But here, stripped of the immediacy of mortal danger, the fractures in their friendship seemed to widen, threatening to splinter at the slightest provocation.

        Everybody felt like a raw wound.

        "Check it out!"

        Suddenly, John Murphy swaggered into their midst with a bravado that seemed to defy the gravity of their earlier tensions, because . . . of course. Clutching a flask of alcohol, he unapologetically claimed Bellamy's seat beside Haven, his wounds—a visible testament to recent brawls—somewhat healed on his face, but his demeanor remained as insidiously unwelcome as ever. Like a serpent slithering into a nest uninvited, he weaved his way into the group, oblivious and indifferent to the discomfort his presence stirred.

        "Salvaged Monty's still from the dropship," he began, swallowing a hearty swig of the moonshine before setting it down. A sardonic smile twisted his lips as he continued, the edge of his words sharp as a knife. "Now, I guess, you know—if we could salvage Monty, huh?"

"Who the fuck invited you over here—?"

Haven's reaction to Murphy's presence was visceral, immediate, revolting. His proximity was like fire to tinder, every word he uttered, every careless laugh, fanning the flames within her. Her body became a taut wire, coiled and ready, as if her very cells rebelled against the closeness. The simmering of her blood, the involuntary twitch of her fingers toward the concealed blade beneath her shirt—these were her body's quiet declarations of readiness, a wordless promise that she was far from pacified by his audacity.

"Easy now. Just a joke," Murphy defended, lifting his hands in a mock surrender before claiming another swig of moonshine. "Not tryna' wake up Vampira and get shishkabobed again—trust me."

        "That was light work," Haven spat coldly. "You're still breathing."

        Murphy tilted his head. "Well...you did kind of split my calves in half," he pointed out, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he attempted to shrug off their last violent encounter. "Surprised Jackson was able to stitch 'em back up. I feel like Frankenstein."

Haven was going to beat his ass.

        . . . Again.

"You locked Jasper and I in the dropship," she murmured lowly, each word bitten out through gritted teeth, steeped in a venom that was as cruel as it was controlled. "You shot my best friend. You tried to hang Bellamy."

        "Touche," Murphy conceded with a slick, almost flippant ease, smoothly pivoting away from the explosive presence of the girl beside him. He turned his attention to Finn, seeking refuge in a change of subject. "You, uh, tell them we're cleared?"

        Finn shook his head. "No."

"Well...it looks like our pardon for surviving includes our time on the ground," Murphy mused wryly. "Bigger fish to fry, I guess."

Haven's simmering fury was momentarily stalled by the gravity of Murphy's words. If the Council had actually cleared the boys . . . it meant absolution from Finn's violent deeds within the jurisdiction of their own government.

        Yet, beyond the fortified yet fragile walls of Camp Jaha, a different peril lurked. The Grounders, with their own scales of justice, would undoubtedly see things far differently. Retaliation seemed not just likely, but imminent—a looming storm threatening to engulf not just Finn, but the entirety of their camp in its vengeful path.

Not if.

. . . When.

"We did what we had to do," Finn declared defiantly, yet his eyes remained locked on Clarke, betraying a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his words. As the weight of her icy gaze bore down on him, he abruptly rose to his feet—unable to withstand her frostbite any longer. "I gotta go."

And then . . .

He was gone.

"...Yikes."

        In a moment of unexpected unity, Haven and Murphy exchanged startled glances, their reactions perfectly synchronized. Both were unmistakably flabbergasted, mirroring each other not only in their simultaneous wincing but also in the timing of their looks—a rare alignment provoked by Finn's stormy and abrupt exit.

What. The. Fuck.

"Well, well, well...careful, Hav," Murphy warned humorously. "Don't start copying me in front of Bellamy. He's gonna get jealous, and somehow, it'll be my fault, and then he'll end up kicking my teeth—"

Before Murphy could cap off his taunt, his chair was abruptly yanked out from beneath him with startling force by none other than Bellamy Blake. The sudden loss of support sent Murphy crashing down, his descent marked by a startled exclamation as his moonshine soared through the air . . . inevitably landing on his ass with an undignified thump.

Bellamy's grin was wickedly innocent.

"You ready to go, angel?"

        Truth be told, Haven had never been more relieved to see the Blake boy in her life, his timely intervention emerging as a beacon amidst the insufferable atmosphere. As she rose to stand beside him, she reached for their bowls of soup—only for her free hand to pause mid-motion, fingers hovering over the bowls that sat unexpectedly before her.

        Both were empty.

        . . . When the hell did that happen?

        As the fog of memory swirled around Haven, she clung to fragments, piecing together her recollection of the evening. She recalled the warmth of the stew as she conversed with Clarke, strategizing through mouthfuls. But Bellamy's bowl? That remained a shadow in her recollection, untouched, or perhaps . . . silently surrendered to her own hunger without her even realizing it.

        She glanced back to Bellamy.

        . . . He was beaming.

        Haven gaped. "Why'd you give me yours?"

        Bellamy shrugged. "Miss Vincetta's a fuckin' miracle worker," he answered simply, scooping up the bowls, effortlessly sidestepping over Murphy's prone form as he tossed them into the growing pile of dirty dishes. "You want me to grab you another serving—?"

Haven shook her head.

The fact that she had managed to consume two portions without consequence was a small marvel in itself. There were no punishing cramps knotting her stomach, no vicious waves of nausea to fight, no acrid bile clawing at her throat. Only the rich, enveloping warmth of the vegetable stock remained, permeating her being with a deep, grateful sense of satisfaction.

. . . For now.

The walk back to their temporary sanctuary was undeniably peaceful.

        Navigating the labyrinthine corridors with ease, Bellamy and Haven dodged the swaying forms of drunken citizens, staggering shadows of their former selves. The simple act of walking side by side, of feeling the other's pulse through intertwined fingers—imparted a fleeting illusion of ordinariness, a stolen moment where survival wasn't their sole focus. It was a surreal contrast to the relentless days and nights they had endured, a brief reprieve where they could pretend they were just two people—not warriors, not survivors—simply two hearts beating in the quietude of shared space . . . momentarily untouched by the harsh reality lurking beyond the walls.

It was a gift.

Every element of their shared space and every shift of Bellamy's eyes upon her was a gift.

        The sheets on the sofa bed had been made every morning by Bellamy's insistence. The flickering bathroom light had been replaced with something softer and easier on the eyes by Haven's insistence. The wildflower, a fragile emblem of endurance, stood resilient in its mason jar, absorbing the healing blues of moonlight and reviving under the morning's golden touch.

        And with Jackson showing no signs of sending them away . . . they selfishly relished the borrowed time while they still could.

Now, in the quiet cocoon of their shared space, Haven lay on the sofa bed, clad only in her underwear and Bellamy's t-shirt. Meanwhile, Bellamy lay flat on his stomach, curled against her chest. Her legs were parted just enough for him to fit snugly between them, his shirtless form molded to hers in a sleepy, spellbound embrace. He lay chest to heartbeat, sinking into the rhythm of her life force, his head cradled against the soft drum of her heart as her fingers wove magic through his weary crown of curls.

He was already half asleep.

"So...you've really had nothing to drink?" Haven prodded softly, threading her fingers through his hair, pausing occasionally to untangle a stray knot. "I thought you said the next round was on you."

Bellamy shook his head. "Nah. You wanted something—?" he began, but his words veered into a deep, drowsy laugh that rumbled against her chest, a warm echo as if emerging from within her own body. "I can go back, but I don't want you scaling any trees again."

"No." Haven scrunched her nose as she sifted through the moonshine-tainted memories of her past Unity Day escapades. "I meant you."

"Can't indulge, Hav," Bellamy admitted wearily, shifting against her chest only to lure her torso impossibly closer—nestling his ear directly against the beat of her heart. "Alcohol makes me too damn sleepy. I've gotta stay alert."

. . . She didn't need to ask what for.

Sighing, Haven continued to unravel the knot at the root of his curls, relinquishing one of her hands to trace the sculpted arches of his bare shoulders. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting his form in an otherworldly luminescence, illuminating the freckles on his back and suspending them into constellations of their own. Counting them had become a meditative task for her, reaching the grand total of fifty-six before the count slipped away and she would begin again.

His beauty was too damn distracting.

"You look sleepy already," she whispered.

"You keep running your hands through my hair like that...and I already feel drunk," Bellamy mumbled, his words nearly lost to the softness of her chest and the irresistible lure of sleep tugging at his consciousness. "Don't need anything else."

Haven's skepticism lingered, softness infusing her voice as she probed gently, cautious not to pry too deeply. "You didn't want to unwind like the others?" she asked. "Y'know...get all loosey goosey...or whatever Jasper says."

        One heartbeat passed. Another.

        And then . . .

        "You're enough, Hav," Bellamy whispered. "You're always enough."

        Though Haven typically would have pressed him further, challenging his reluctance to surrender to the carefree abandon that had seemingly overtaken all of Camp Jaha tonight, she found herself silenced. Any urge to persuade him to join the revelry dissolved in the warmth of his embrace. And as Bellamy's arms tightened around her torso, a silent vow of protection . . . his breathing finally deepened into the soft cadence of slumber.

He was out like a goddamn light.

Honestly, when Bellamy's head wasn't constantly on alert, scanning the complex of Alpha, or buried insatiably between her thighs the past two nights . . . these quiet instances marked the most sleep he had managed in the past month.

        Haven harbored a quiet envy for the effortless way the Blake boy could succumb to unconsciousness—his body intuitively molding to the contours of hers, yielding to the profound pull of exhaustion as if drawn down by the moon's own tide. Within mere minutes, the rhythm of his breath would deepen, settling into a tranquil, restorative pattern. His eyes, usually sharp with the ceaseless duty of vigilance, would soften and close, granting him a rare reprieve from the ever-watchful state that governed his days.

       . . . But not all of Bellamy's sleep had been peaceful.

        Since the massacre, Haven had lain awake, a vigilant witness to the hauntings that plagued his rest.

        Awake, she absorbed every random jolt, his body startling from the clutches of unseen nightmares, only to draw her in closer and surrender to sleep's grasp once more. Awake, she sensed the sharp catch of his breath against her neck, a silent gasp as though surfacing from the depths of panic. Awake, she became acutely aware of how irreparably she had etched herself into his psyche. Awake, she understood how devastatingly her own torment had scarred his being—scars so deep that he shunned the embrace of peaceful slumber. Awake, she felt the excruciating weight of his body's unconscious choice to remain on guard . . . his constant worry for her chaining him to a half-life of restless vigilance.

Haven tried to ignore it.

She attempted to overlook the trembling of her fingers as she covertly checked Bellamy's ears for any trace of blood. She tried to dismiss the gnawing, serpentine twists of her stomach beginning to writhe. She sought to ignore the crimson that stained her hands—not merely from the lives she had taken, but from the unwitting sculpting and deforming of Bellamy Blake's tender, bleeding heart.

Yet, as the ghost of drunken, raucous laughter haunted the hallway once more, and Bellamy's form flinched against her in a half-conscious reflex . . . sleep evaded her.

Again.

• •

heyyyyy why the fuck did writing the end of this make me cry 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

i was initially soooo stressed editing this chapter because of my time crunch but i finished it so far ahead of time and it has quickly become one of my simple favs. its not super climatic but i just felt GOOD writing it. i feel like now im FINALLY at the point where i finished laying groundwork for the rest of the season.....gawddamn. 😭 i had to acclimate haven to mount weather and now back at camp and now i feel like we good to go. next week's update MIIIGHT be the delayed one instead, idk yet but im happy to put this one out now :)))

enjoy all the domestic baven while you can.
WE BACK IN ACTION NEXT CHAPTER🦅

im also feeling super emotional and super grateful to write this! idk why! but to every voter and commenter and ghost reader—u make my heart beat!!! some of u have literally been here for almost a year now!! :0 and for everybody new as well, i cant even begin to say how much i appreciate your love and support!! I DO IT FOR YALL

LOVE YOU!!!!