thanks to asroarke for the prompt! & big thanks to the_most_beautiful_broom for all the beta magic love! I've held this fic close to my heart for a really long time and I hope you love it as much as I do! let me know what you think and all your favorite lines! part two should be up soon.

part one : a blind date

Wells Jaha is the first to suggest a blind date. The words still feel funny on his tongue when he talks to Clarke over the phone one Sunday night: it's Dad's long-lost son, or I guess my long lost-half brother...anyways I've met him a few times at family functions over the last year, and I think you'd really like the guy. She just rolls her eyes and ignores him. She loves Wells like he's family—they basically are since they've been best friends their whole life—but she doesn't really want to date his brother.

It's nothing personal, but even though it's been years since Finn, she's really not sure she wants to date anyone. Bruises on her skin faded a lot quicker than bruises on her heart.

Then Lincoln approaches her after a painting class and tells her his girlfriend, has a brother and he's single. Clarke's not really advertising that she looking to date, but Lincoln's known her long enough to know how painfully single she is at the moment. It blows Clarke mind when she realizes how small the world is, and that it's the same guy Wells was trying to set her up with be- fore. But she laughs Lincoln off and tells him she promises to just join Tinder like every other millennial is doing.

Being set up on a blind date by her friends just sounds so antiquated.

So when Raven and Clarke are having their weekly wine night, she decides the fates really must have it out for her. Raven has her phone out, swiping through her Tinder, as Clarke pours them another glass of wine. Clarke's dog, Buddy, wags his tail happily at her and follows her back into the living room.

"Oh my God, yes!" Raven exclaims taking the wine glass back from Clarke.

"What? Did you find a good one?" Clarke asks, settling back into the couch pulling her legs up under her. Buddy hops up onto the couch and curls himself up to Clarke's side.

"I would fuck, marry, and kill this one," Raven jokes and shows Clarke her phone. It's not the best photo, but Clarke guesses it's not the only picture on his profile. The guy has his hands covering most of his face. Clarke can see a smile peeking through his tan fingers and a head full of dark curls.

It's the name that catches her attention though.

She scrambles for her phone beside her on the armrest and sends out a text to both, Wells and Lincoln.

"Oh yeah. He swiped. I'm messaging him," Raven says but Clarke isn't listening to her, waiting for her phone to light up with the texts.

The two text messages come through at the same time. And Buddy pops his head up feeding off of Clarke's nervousness.

"What this guy's name again?" Clarke says slowly, trying to sound nonchalant. She scratches behind her dog's ears to calm them both down, but Raven looks up from her phone at her.

"Bellamy Blake."

Clarke glances down at her lap. She can see the two unread messages and they're reading the same damn thing.

"That's Wells' brother," Clarke whispers.

"This is Papa Jaha's bastard child?" Raven asks in disbelief. She started swiping through more of his pictures to get a better look at him.

Clarke, Raven, and Wells had gone to the same high school together and knew each other well. It was quite the scandal when it came out Thelonious Jaha had a son no one had heard about before. And Raven knew as much as Clarke did about the guy.

"He messaging me back!" Raven says excitedly and places the phone in between them and throws back the rest of her wine. Clarke squints down at the phone trying to read the message, but Raven picks it up first and stands, heading to the kitchen to refill her glass.

"He's free tonight," Raven calls back into the living room, "and wants to meet up in like an hour."

Clarke's stomach flutters for just a moment, before she follows the voice into the kitchen. "Are you really going? On wine night?"

"Nope," Raven says with a huge grin on her face, a grin that Clarke knows well enough to make her nervous as Raven continues typing.

"I'll be wearing," Raven dictates as she types, "jeans with a gray sweater."

Clarke glances down to look over at Raven's yoga pants and t-shirt. She then glances at her own clothes, the ones she hadn't changed out of yet: jeans and the gray sweater.

"Are we changing clothes?" "Nope," Raven says again, with an emphatic pop of the 'p', and the same enormous grin. "The Universe is clearly pulling you two together and as much as I'd love to get laid, I am not going to stand in the way of this."

Clarke wants to protest but she doubts Raven will take no for an answer.

"I'm drunk," she tries.

Raven doesn't even look up before responding, "I'll order you an Uber."

"I'm not ready." "You're already dressed. I'll do your makeup."

"Does he think he's going out with you or me?"

"I'll explain it to him. Come on."

"I can't leave Buddy all night!"

"I'll stay with him until you get back; he'll be fine. You're running out of excuses here, babe."

At some point, it's not worth arguing, so Clarke just relents. Forty-five minutes later, she steps out of her Uber, grateful that she kept her thick gray sweater on, since the night has turned the sunny day into a chilly evening.

Clarke looks up at the cream-colored moon, bursting with fullness then down at stray leaves, the color of mud, littering the streets. The streetlights try to provide little spots of comfort for the pedestrians and the lonely shops try their best to do the same. The café on Main is casting a faint glow onto the sidewalk and voices float out if it on waves of music and laughter, down the street.

And there she stands, stuck by the corner café.

Clarke's body is frozen in place, her bright blue darting from side to side, waiting. She's not even sure what for. Perched on the sidewalk, she muses that she probably looks like a simple woman waiting for a cab or for a lover.

From a distance, no one would notice how her mascara stains her cheeks with black and how her body hunches every few moments in pain. Like most women, she has her share of secrets. It's the main reason Clarke had declined the blind date the first two times; she's not above ad- mitting that she's terrified to put herself out there.

Not again.

Not after last time.

After many moments passed, Clarke gathers herself, steadies herself, and finds the strength and courage to abruptly turn around, and walk into the café.

She slips into the busy shop, sitting down at an out of the way table, away from the path of bustling waitresses and busboys. People are huddled in booths and around the café bar, ask- ing for coffees and pastries to ward off the chill, and Clarke makes herself ignore them all. She pulls a compact out from her purse, smearing the mascara from under her eyes and trying to smooth her windblown hair. When she's somewhat satisfied with the face blinking back at her from the small mirror, she calls the waitress over to her table and orders a cappuccino.

The warm liquid calms her nerves and she pulls the last of her resolve together, just as the café doorbell rings to announce another patron.

At first, Clarke's too busy willing herself to calm down to notice him. She's chanting over and over in her head that it will all be alright, that nothing could hurt as badly as last time, that she has to take a chance sooner or later. But then she does notice him, and is surprised she didn't sooner.

He's a large, husky sort of guy with muscular arms and a head full of curly black hair, and Clarke wonders if it's wishful thinking that has her thinking he looks like the guy she's waiting for. His face is darkened from the dim lighting and she's can't exactly make out who he is or what purpose he has there.

She swallows some more of her coffee, scalding her tongue and throat. She winces and pushes her hair to the side, glancing at her phone to remind herself what her date is supposed to be wearing. If this isn't her guy, maybe the mysterious stranger won't notice her...

But he's wearing a dark button down and khaki pants, just like Raven had said, and his eyes stop scanning the room as they land on her. With a steady pace, the man makes his way over to her table, pulling off his beanie.

And when he gets closer, he smiles.

It's like something inside of Clarke just relaxes at the sight. His smile stretches across his whole face and his brown eyes twinkle in the light, and her nerves just melt away.

"Are you Clarke Griffin?" The man asks in a rough voice, deeper than she'd expected. Even though she doesn't say anything, he continues talking easily, "I'm Bellamy. Bellamy Blake. I believe we have a date?"

Clarke straightens in her seat and holds out her hand to the man. "Uh, yes. I guess we do. Please, sit."

Bellamy cautiously sits down across from her, unsure of the woman before him. She looks like someone who really doesn't want to be here, her face filled with worry lines and faint traces of smudged eyeliner.

They sit in an awkward silence for a while, studying the other, sizing them up, too stubborn to admit that that's what they're doing. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest and Bellamy casually leans back in his chair.

"Thanks for meeting me here," he tries, and Clarke makes herself breathe. She can do this, she can do this. She offers him a hesitant smile.

"Sure," she manages.

If Bellamy is put off by her silence, he covers nicely for it. "I didn't really know where to go and I hadn't had dinner yet."

"They have the best chicken fried steak in the county," Clarke says, and Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

"You're the authority on that?"

Clarke points behind him in lieu of an answer, and he reads the gaudy sign above the coffee bar. When he turns back to her, his eyes are amused, and he considers her for a moment. "So," he again breaks the silence, "Raven is the one who messaged me on Tinder and she's your...?"

"Best friend," Clarke supplies, "Well, one of them at least."

"She must be a good friend, if you came here for her," he says softly, and when Clarke tilts her head in confusion, his eyes are equally gentle. "You look like it's taking everything in you to not run."

Clarke isn't quite sure how to respond to that, so she just snaps her mouth shut, before looking away. "She's a good friend," she says pointedly, and Bellamy gets the unspoken message: we're not touching backstory yet.

He looks like he understands, and raises a hand to catch the attention of a waitress, who makes a sign like she'll be over when she can, but it might take a couple of minutes.

"Well, I'm glad you came," he says lightly, "I saw your Tinder profile, too."

"Wells is your his half-brother."

It's not her best transition, and it's a statement rather than a question, but Bellamy still nods in response. Then something like realization flashes over his face.

"Clarke Griffin," he snaps his fingers, looking pleased with himself, "You're Wells' best friend. I knew your name sounded familiar."

The waitress, a stout older woman, finally makes it back over to their table. She leans down on the table with her pad and pen, striking up a conversation as effortlessly as breathing, joking with Bellamy about his beautiful date. To his credit, he agrees with her, sending another dis- arming smile at Clarke, and she can't do anything but give him another hesitant smile back.

He orders two ham sandwiches, a piece of cake and a Danish roll, and Clarke isn't surprised. He's a massive man and his stomach probably would agree with her.

She chuckles at him when he asks for a beer. The waitress gives him a stern look and reminds him that this is a coffee house, not a bar, which Clarke takes as her cue to interject. She orders a pot of coffee, still feeling a little woozy from the wine she and Raven had shared earlier, and she needs to clear her head.

"So," Clarke asks once the waitress finally leaves, "do you have any other siblings you didn't know about?"

Bellamy laughs shortly. "No, just Wells. I have a sister, Octavia, but we grew up together."

There's a fondness on his face when he talks about her, and Clarke is touched by the amount he clearly cares for his sister.

"She's Theo's too," he says quietly and Clarke has a hard time imaging Thelonious Jaha with a daughter.

"Augustus had a sister," Clarke says, and immediately wishes she could bite her tongue. She doesn't know where the trivia came from, but she chances a glance at Bellamy, and he's smiling at that.

"He sure did."

The food comes then, suspiciously quick, and Clarke can feel Bellamy's eyes on her as he eats. To steady herself, she pours herself some coffee, not bothering with sugar or cream, realizing that conversation falls to her, now that he's eating.

"Lincoln tried to set us up, too," she blurts.

Bellamy stops mid-chew and stares at her. "You know Octavia's boyfriend?"

"Yeah, we met at an art class a few years ago..." she trails off, when she notices that Bellamy's expression has shifted from surprised to disapproving.

"He's a decent guy. You don't like him?"

"He a great guy. But he's way too old for my sister."

"Lincoln is a couple of years older than me. Wait, how old is your sister?"

"She's twenty-one."

Clarke chokes on her coffee.

"I thought Jaha...you're older than Wells?" Clarke knows it might be rude to ask, but she has so many questions. She was under the impression Jaha had a previous relationship before he was with Wells' mom.

"Apparently, my old man liked to have his cake and eat it too," Bellamy says, his tone telling how poorly the information sits with him.

"But Wells said you guys didn't know about each other until like last year when Mrs. Jaha passed away?"

Bellamy pushes his food around on his plate. "I don't know what Wells or his father knew, but my mom always told me our dad choose to live a different life. It was pretty hard to hear how he had a whole other family, but didn't want us."

Clarke doesn't know what to say. Wells doesn't like to talk too much about his family since the news had broken; she'd always understood, but now even more so.

"I'm sorry," she says simply, the words feeling shallow, but necessary. "I can't really imagine how that must feel. Jaha's always been like a second dad to me and...oh, God. That probably doesn't make you feel any better," Clarke buries her head in her hands in embarrassment.

"Hey, you're fine," Bellamy pulls her hands away from her face, with another slight smile. He shrugs, trying to make light of it. "It definitely would've hurt if I was fifteen, but I've gotten used to it."

The conversation pivots after that, back to her art class and the new hiking trail Bellamy had found recently. And...it's nice. Clarke finds herself relaxing more and more, finding comfort in the lilt of Bellamy's voice, and the unassuming way he talks. At the next lag in conversation, Bellamy rises from his chair, throws a few bills on the table, and reaches for Clarke's hand.

"Let's go down to the Tipsy Casa," he suggests.

"The what?" Clarke asks, staring at his hand, then the earnest expression on his face.

"The Tipsy Casa. It's this little-hidden music venue with drinks, tapas, and all the newest talents. I'm sure we can find something better for you to drink than that coffee."

Clarke almost laughs at his enthusiasm and Bellamy seems proud of himself for getting that reaction from her. She doesn't take his hand as she gets out of the booth, but she doesn't protest when his hand settles lightly in the small of her back as they make their way out of the restaurant. At his light touch, just a little more of her defenses lower.

The Tipsy Casa, Clarke learns, is a small and quaint Spanish music bar under a flower shop— yes, a flower shop. Though it's out of season for most flowers, the florist has a neat row of flowers tucked into cooling units along the front section of the shop. Intense fragrances filled the air and the lights are dim, casting a foggy glow on the room. With no one around, Bellamy plucks up a pair of violets and slides one behind Clarke's ear.

Clarke looks up into Bellamy's face and wonders why he wouldn't go with something more traditional, more expected. Roses, peonies, something like that.

Bellamy gives her a bashful smile in response. "They look like the color of your eyes. Roses are red and violets are..." he trails off and points to the blue flower. "Violet means delicate beauty."

He means it as a compliment, not that she's weak, but it's been so long since Clarke's been sincerely complimented, that it takes her a moment to convince herself that he means it. But she looks up at his expression, at the wonder and appreciation there, and she lets out a shaky breath.

"Um, thanks," she says softly, reaching up to steady the flower in her hair, and tries to think of something to distract herself with. "What do the others mean?"

Bellamy beams at her, before turning to point to the flowers. "White roses for purity, yellow for zeal, and red for passion. The greatest flower the gods ever created."

"Roses?"

"Red ones, yeah. The peony, though, came from Paeon, physician to the gods. He angered his teacher, the god of medicine and healing, and Zeus saved him by turning him into a beautiful peony. Violets have about ten different myths associated with them..."

As he rambled on, pointing at different flowers, Clarke's mind flew to her mother's garden. Abby would probably disapprove of her date tonight, and that thought made Clarke step a little closer to Bellamy.

"You really know your Greek mythology, huh?" she asks, when he stops between flower beds. He smiled, and shrugged, a gesture like he wasn't anything special. Which, she could already tell, wasn't true.

As they walk down the stairs and enter the bar, Clarke absently twirls the violets between her fingers. The night is going wonderfully for a first date, a blind date at that.

The smoky room is intimate with wine bottles filled with dripping candles on the tables, the only other light coming from a beam of light on the tiny platform which housed the band. Bellamy leads them towards a booth in the back, sliding into one side, clearly giving her room for her choice. Which makes up her mind for her; she slides in next to him on the weather-beaten wood bench, leaning into his side.

As the musicians near the end of their set, they slow down the tempo of the music, and a flamenco dancer comes into the room. The guitarist plucks at the strings of his guitar and the dancer's movements are measured and unhurried, her arms rising up and twisting as she moves about the room. The tempo of the music picks up and it becomes much more sensual as the dancer stretches out her body, arching her back, every movement intentional and beautiful.

"It's breathtaking," Clarke whispers, mesmerized by the way the dancer moves. She takes a sip of her sangria, and feels Bellamy's eyes on her.

When she glances up at him, his eyes are smoldering, and she flushes at the intensity in them. His beautiful smile pops up and she feels herself spiraling out of the calm and collected control she always has.

"It's pretty hot in here, right?" Bellamy asks raising his voice so Clarke can hear him over the music. She can see sweat beading on his brow, but she knows he doesn't just mean it like that, and all she can do is nod in agreement. Bellamy helps her stand up and they go to retrieve their things.

Clarke trails behind Bellamy as he leads the way up the stairs and back into the flower shop, their fingers lacing together. As they near the door, Bellamy pulls back suddenly, hissing, and Clarke looks down to see that he caught his finger on one of the bushes.

"And there's another reason for not giving you a rose," he mutters, inspecting his finger once they're outside, "thorns."

The night air is cool, and her head should be cooler too, but Clarke is amazed to find that none of the heat from inside the cantina has gone. She can't believe how attracted she is to this man —a man she barely knows, a man she wanted to know.

Carefully, she reaches for his injured hand. His hands are almost comically larger than her own, but something about holding it feels right.

"Thorns protect the rose, Bellamy," she says, after a moment.

She can feel his eyes on her again, and when she looks up to meet them, he's smiling that same smile again: wide, unhurried, beautiful.

They walk down the concrete steps of the florist and wander for a while, not needing anymore words. When they reach a crossroads, Bellamy clears his throat.

"My apartment's to the left," he says, unspoken words speaking volumes.

Clarke looks up at him, blue eyes meeting brown, and she squeezes the fingers in her own lightly, smiling before she rests her head on his shoulder and speaking softly. "Left it is, then."