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chasholidays · 5 years

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OKAY. I drove past a roadside fruit stand at the beach labeled "Bellamy Farms" last month and immediately thought of you. Would love a beach romance with hot farmer Bellamy and hippie artist Clarke (could be holiday themed, or not!) 5-10,000 words, obviously with a meet cute & falling in love over veg. Perhaps with some Kabby and Linctavia on the side if it pleases you. TY for this gift!

oops there’s not really a meet cute here sometimes that is how the cookie crumbles etc

When Clarke Griffin is nineteen, her father dies and she drops out of college to move to the beach and become an artist.

It’s not, admittedly, the best reaction, but it’s not as if most people have a good reaction to parental death. Clarke has always done everything right, had been so sure that if she was a good kid who followed rules her life would be good. And then her dad died anyway and college is just moreschool, except that she can’t fit art classes in with her premed course load, which she doesn’t even want, and her father is dead and her mother was somehow involved in his death.

So she packs all her stuff into her car and drives down the east coast with the windows rolled down and music blaring and squats in her dad’s empty beach house for a couple of weeks, drinking cheap booze and generally feeling sorry for herself.

And then, finally, she looks around.

The beach house had been a staple of childhood summers, but it’s late fall now, the off-season, and that’s a new experience for her. It has the feel of being in a mall after closing time, or at a big event doing set up. It’s a secret place, a dress rehearsal, and being a part of that sends a thrill through her.

This is where she wants to be. This is where she belongs.

Abby is frantic when she picks up the phone. “Clarke? Where are you? Where have you been?”

“I’m in South Carolina,” she says. “And I’m going to stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

Clarke leans back. “I want the beach house, and I want however much money Dad left me, and then I won’t tell anyone what I think you had to do with him dying.”

There’s a long pause. “Clarke, you don’t have to blackmail me. And it’s not what you think. What happened to your father was–”

“A tragic accident,” she supplies. Abby said it enough. “I know. I don’t care. I’m not going back to school, I’m not coming back home. I just want the beach house and my inheritance and I’ll be set.”

“Set at what?”

It’s a good question. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

It’s not true, exactly; Clarke can’t imagine casually checking in with her mother for a long time. But Abby will probably call her back, and Clarke won’t lie to her if she’s got a plan.

All she needs is to get a plan.

The town of Arcadia, South Carolina is cute, like something out of a picture book. It’s not the actual beach town, but instead the closest inland town that people come to for non-beach reasons, and therefore the place Clarke might be able to find a job that doesn’t involve working at a restaurant, hotel, or tourist trap.

Granted, it mostly adds antique store, clothing boutique, and art gallery to her options, but all of those seem more in line with her skill set. She likes antiques and art, and she wears clothes.

She ends up getting hired at an upscale shop that sells a variety of goods made by local artists, from pottery to clothing to salvaged beach sculptures. It’s the kind of place that makes people think “this doesn’t look that hard” when they see the prices, and Clarke is no exception. She can’t sew and she doesn’t have access to clay, but she lives on the beach. She could definitely make weird seashell art.

But to her surprise, not only can she make weird seashell art, she likes it and is good at it. Commercial pieces are easy: charms to string on jewelry, small mosaics of sea creatures, just little things to remind tourists of their trips. But there are so many more things she can do, driftwood and sea glass twisting together into broad, conceptual pieces, the kind of stuff galleries might actually want someday.

It’s not a fast process, of course, but the years bleed by easily. The art community around Arcadia isn’t exactly thriving like it would be in a city, but it’s active and passionate, and Clarke slots in like she’s always been there. She dates Lincoln, the sculptor who looks like a bodybuilder, for about half a second before they decide to be friends, then Finn, an artist with a metalworker girlfriend who didn’t know he was seeing someone else, and then Lexa, who has dreams of moving to the city and making it big.

“Which city?” Clarke asks, amused.

“Does it matter? As long as I get out of here.”

The two of them stay together for a while after that, but that’s the moment Clarke knows they’re ultimately doomed. She’s twenty-four, years removes from the complete meltdown that had brought her to South Carolina in the first place, but she’s never had any desire to return to the life her mother had wanted for her. It’s a privilege, she knows, that she can afford to be out here, living in a beach-house year round, working as an artist who doesn’t actually make quite enough to support herself, but she has that privilege. She can afford to have the life she wants, and this is it.

She and Lexa make it another year, and then Lexa goes to Raleigh and Clarke makes a driftwood statue called “September Departure” in her honor.

After that, she can’t help feeling like maybe romance isn’t in the cards, like she might be out of options.

Both Lincoln and Raven tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“That’s the breakup talking,” Raven says. “It always feels like love is dead or some dramatic shit, but that doesn’t last forever.”

“I just feel like I’ve exhausted the local options,” Clarke says, with a sigh. “I’m running out of people to date.”

“And new people do move in,” Lincoln points out. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but the population here isn’t static. Good things could be coming.”

It feels like a prophesy, and Clarke is all primed and ready for it to come true, for Lincoln to have set her up for a meet cute with some new residents some unknown good thing.

Which means, of course, that she completely misses the good thing when she nearly walks right into it.

It’s the first farmer’s market of the summer season and Clarke is setting up. She and Lincoln have a booth together, selling their various works of art, and this is always the most stressful week. It’s the week Clarke is convinced that somehow the tourists won’t come, or won’t like beach trinkets anymore, that something will go wrong and she’ll have to admit this isn’t a real life and go back to her mother. It’s not rational that she puts so much emphasis on the opening week, especially since tourist migrations tend to vary from year-to-year, but if it was rational, it wouldn’t be a superstition.

The Blake Farm booth catches her eye because, despite what Lincoln said, new booths really aren’t that common, and a new farm is noteworthy. Especially the name, Blake Farm, which nags at her brain hard enough she actually walks into Bellamy in her distraction.

“Jesus, princess, can’t you watch where you’re going?” he grumbles. He’s carrying a large basket full of produce, so she can’t really blame him for being annoyed, but she and Bellamy also snipe at each other basically every time they come into contact, so she doubts he’d be any less short if he was empty-handed.

Her brain snaps the pieces together a second after she sees him: Bellamy Blake. Blake Farm.

“Holy shit, did you finally get your own place?”

He ducks his head, not enough to hide the pleased smile on his face. Clarke doesn’t actually hate Bellamy, not really, but it feels as if they’re perpetually on the wrong foot, as if they’re always about to get into a fight whether they want to or not. Getting into fights is just how the two of them communicate.

“Did you not hear about that?”

“I was wondering why you dropped off the face of the earth, but I thought maybe wishes really did come true.”

He snorts. “Dream on, you’re never getting rid of me.”

“Seriously, when did this happen? What happened?”

“Come to the booth if you want me to talk to you, I need to set up.”

Clarke follows him, taking in the produce already on display with a more curious eye, now that she knows it’s Bellamy’s. He’s been a regular face at the farmer’s market for as long as Clarke’s been here, but always selling for Pike’s Produce, the farm where he’s worked for since it was legal for him to work. Clarke knew he wanted a place of his own, but he also knew that it was, in his words, a stupid dream. He was better off not owning, so long as Charles paid him a good wage.

“You remember Miller?”

“Your ex Miller?” she asks, frowning. Bellamy is a couple years older than she is, but still roughly in her demographic, and while he runs with a different crowd than she does, there are only so many places to hang out. When she goes out on Saturday night, she goes to the bar where his little sister works, and he’s usually there too. He’s unavoidable.

“Yeah. He moved to Charleston to start a restaurant with his internet boyfriend.”

“I did hear about that.”

Bellamy hefts a basket up onto the table and Clarke tries not to notice the flex of his muscles. He’s in good shape. That’s just an objective fact. “I was always worried that if I started my own place, I wouldn’t have enough of a customer base to stay open. Most of the local places already have their suppliers, and I didn’t know if I could do enough business on my own. But farm-to-table is really big right now, so Miller and I went in together. He tells me what he needs, I grow it. Charles is doing his meat and dairy too, so he’s not even mad at me for leaving. He always wanted me to be able to make it on my own.”

“That’s amazing,” says Clarke, meaning it. “So you’re selling what Miller doesn’t need?”

“Yeah. It could still blow up in our faces,” he adds, shrugging. “Maybe we’ve got enough dudes selling over-priced produce here, but I figure I might as well try. If I crash and burn, I’m pretty sure Charles will take me back.”

She has to smile. “You can be a little excited. It’s exciting. Don’t jump straight to what could go wrong.”

“Thats rich, coming from you. You’re convinced if you don’t sell enough dolphin moasiacs by noon your entire business is in jeopardy.”

He’s not wrong. “So I’m speaking from experience. Don’t be like me, Bellamy.”

“Trying not to be.”

She smiles; the retort is automatic, and it’s kind of cute. Just a little. “So, any recommendations?”

“For what, exactly?”

“Something I can buy from you that will taste good that doesn’t require cooking.”

“The cherry tomatoes are pretty good. Sweet. I just eat them like candy.”

Clarke examines the cartons, arranged in neat lines on the table and overflowing with bright red fruit. Bellamy picks up a tomato and offers it to her, and when she pops it into her mouth and bites down, it feels like sunshine exploding into her mouth.

“That’s amazing.”

He looks smug, but she can see the pride lurking behind his eyes. “I know.”

“I’ll take two cartons.”

“My first customer,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Definitely not your last.”

She takes the tomatoes back to her own table and finds a piece of paper, writes Try a Blake Farm tomato!! on it and tapes it to the front of the tablecloth, next to the display of rings.

Lincoln does a double take when he sees it, then shakes his head. “So, that’s still happening.”

“They’re good tomatoes.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“So, you like wood, right?”

Clarke blinks at Bellamy, who’s come to lean against the bar next to her. His sister, who’s behind the bar working on Clarke’s drink, doesn’t look any more impressed with the statement than Clarke is.

“Your pickup lines need some serious work, Bell.”

“It’s not a pickup line, O,” he shoots back, and then returns his attention to Clarke. “Do you know where the farm is?”

“Not really.” It’s been about a month since she found out Bellamy’s farm existed and she’s gotten almost no new information about it since then. “I tried googling you, but your web presence needs work.”

“I know, Miller’s boyfriend is working on it. It’s not like there’s much to see yet.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I got the old Sinclair place, and they had some trees I needed to clear out. I know it’s not driftwood, but I thought you might want to take a look and see if you could use anything.”

The offer is both completely logical and totally unexpected, one of those things that’s good for both of them but still, well, Bellamy helping her out. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.

“I could definitely come look,” she says. “Lincoln might want some too.”

“Yeah, you can bring him,” Bellamy says, with a shrug. “Maybe when O is around.”

To Clarke’s surprise, Octavia goes beet red, the most embarrassed Clarke has ever seen her. She’s probably a bit young for Lincoln, in an absolute sense, but she’s twenty-three and more than capable of making her own choices, and the two of them might actually be good together. Lincoln’s been single for a while.

“Shut up, Bell.”

“Are you helping out on the farm, Octavia?” Clarke asks, mostly in the hopes that ignoring the Lincoln thing will put Octavia at ease and let her get more information about it later, when her guard is down. Or from Bellamy.

“I’m living there since Bell sold our old place, and he says I can either help out or pay rent, so I’m helping out.”

“Which is a way better deal for you than it is for me.”

“You say that now, but someday I’m going to move out and you’re going to be so sad you have to actually hire people.”

“I’m definitely going to be sad when I have to deal with staff, yeah. You don’t have to come look at the wood,” he adds, to Clarke. “I can just get rid of it. But I figured I’d check in with you first.”

“No, that would be great. I like doing beach stuff but I’ve been thinking of branching out, and this might be a good way to start.”

“No pun intended?” he teases, and at her blank look, elaborates, “Branching out? Because it’s a tree.”

Octavia groans. “Jesus, Bell.”

“Definitely no pun intended,” she says, trying and failing to not be endeared. Bellamy is not only really attractive, but he’s also got this aura of coolness, so it took Clarke to realize that, under all that, he’s a hopeless dork.

She likes him a lot better now that she knows that.

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck, which doesn’t help her situation. “Well, uh, do you have my number? Since our web presence sucks.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Give me your phone and I’ll put it in for you.”

“If this was you picking her up it would be pretty smooth,” Octavia observes, probably vengeance for the Lincoln comment. Clarke can never decide if stuff like that makes her happy or sad to be an only child, but it definitely makes her aware of being an only child.

Of course, as soon as she tells Lincoln about this, he’s definitely going to start dropping hints that it Means Something, so maybe this isn’t an experience she’s totally missed out on. Friends can be nosy assholes too.

Still, it’s a good offer, and one she’s interested in, so she hands over her phone and lets Bellamy give her his number, texts him back so he has hers too.

After almost six years of knowing each other, they can finally get in touch if the need to. There’s a milestone.

“Bellamy has some lumber he thinks we might want,” she tells Lincoln, when she gets back to their table.

“Huh,” says Raven, “I thought he was just hitting on you.”

“Nope, definitely not.” It’s safe to say that now, when he can’t hear. “He just wanted to give us first dibs on supplies.”

“Which is lumber?”

“Yeah, whatever he cut down on the farm to make room for–whatever else he wants on the farm. I said we’d go out there some afternoon soon to check it out.”

“Sorry, you’re going to Bellamy’s farm to check out his wood?” Raven asks. “Just to summarize.”

“With Lincoln.”

“You act like that helps, but Lincoln’s bi too. You’re both into Bellamy’s wood.”

“We’re not sure we’re into Bellamy’s wood,” Lincoln corrects. “That’s why we’re going to the farm. To examine the wood and see if we want it.”

“I can’t wait until he starts growing carrots and cucumbers, this will never get old,” Clarke remarks, dry, but Raven actually looks at her hard.

“Seriously, how come you’ve never gone for Bellamy?”

“I didn’t want hooking up with guys you’ve already slept with to be a thing of mine.” It’s only half a joke. “Come on, half of our conversations end in fights, how would we date?”

“You seem to be getting along pretty well these days,” Lincoln says.

“That’s because he’s been busy with the farm he didn’t even tell me he bought.”

“He didn’t tell me either,” says Raven. “I just knew because Mr. Sinclair mentioned it last time I saw him. I didn’t know you guys didn’t know, I figured it was common knowledge.”

“Octavia told me, but she swore me to secrecy,” Lincoln puts in. “I think he was trying to keep it quiet in case something went wrong. Luna said the sign wasn’t even up until after he went to the farmer’s market.”

It makes Clarke feel a little better, which in turn makes her feel worse, because she doesn’t want to have any feelings about Bellamy, or his farm, or his life in general. She has no interest in justifying why she’s never dated him because the whole premise is flawed. She couldn’t date Bellamy even if she did want to. It’s not a thing.

“I just don’t think he’s my type,” she finally says. “Obviously he’s hot, don’t get me wrong. But that’s not enough. I dated Lincoln because he was hot and look how that turned out.”

“We broke up amicably and now we’re best friends,” Lincoln says, dry. “How awful.”

She has to smile. “You know what I mean.”

Neither of them agrees, but they shut up about it. She’ll take it.

Lincoln texts an hour before they’re supposed to go out to the farm to say something came up, so he’ll just go out on his own later. Clarke wants to call it out as the bullshit it so clearly is, but that’s not actually a productive use of her time. She still has to go see Bellamy, unless she cancels too, and then it’s a whole thing.

She can just go check out Bellamy’s wood on her own. No big deal.

Before this, Clarke had known that Mr. Sinclair had died and left the farm to his son–also Mr. Sinclair–who taught physics and autoshop at the high school, which was why he was friends with Raven, who was definitely the star pupil in both classes. Mr. Sinclair the younger had a house of his own and no desire to keep up a property the size of the family farm, even if it hadn’t been a working farm for many years. It’s not the largest property in the area, but it’s well located and well maintained, probably perfect for a young farmer just starting out.

It’s also not on any of Clarke’s regular routes, so she hasn’t seen it in a while. If anyone had asked her, she would have said it was still on the market, but it’s not like she was paying much attention. And even though she came here at nineteen, she’s aware of not being a native. She doesn’t have the complicated network of contacts most people do, especially since the beach house is kind of isolated, away from where most of the actual residents live. She’s alone a lot, and she doesn’t mind, but driving past the new Blake Farm, this place she didn’t even know about, she can’t help regretting it.

She doesn’t know what she would have done if she knew about this sooner, but she wishes she’d had the option to try doing it.

There’s no one in sight when she parks, so she just gets to wander around, looking at the barn, the house, the rows of crops. She wouldn’t have been able to describe what it looked like before, but she knows it looks better now, the fields full and green, the house repainted, everything bright and clean and new.

“Hey,” says Bellamy, jolting her attention from the rows of tomatoes. “Sorry, I heard you come in but I was in the barn.”

She turns and it actually takes her a second to recover from just seeing him. Bellamy is always attractive, obviously and easily, a fact of life. Bellamy looks good; that’s how it is. But he’s usually a kind of buttoned-up guy, especially for someone who ostensibly lives on the beach. He rocks this kind of nerdy professor look, and it’s jarring to see him in jeans and a tank top, a bandanna pushing his hair off his forehead. The only thing missing is his glasses, which would definitely complete the look for her, but she assumes they’re not practical.

And, honestly, she probably couldn’t deal with all of that. It’s just as well he doesn’t have the glasses on top of his huge arms and broad chest and freckles popping off of his skin.

She shakes herself out of it. “No problem. I was just looking around. Lincoln had to cancel,” she adds. “He got a lead on some material he wanted up in North Carolina. So it’s just me.”

“Cool. You want the tour?”

“Sure.”

He shrugs on a light flannel shirt, which pretty much confirms that he’s not going to get less hot during this visit. His shoulders are covered, but he looks like the cover of a romance novel with the unbuttoned flannel and glistening skin. “Okay, so–the barn. I don’t actually need the barn.”

“No?”

“No animals yet.”

“Right, you said Pike was doing the animal produce.”

He nods, holding the barn door open for her. “This is my office for now, until I figure out if I can afford to keep livestock. I just want to grab keys and my glasses, and then I’ll take you around the fields and to the lumber.”

Clarke doesn’t jump him when he finds the glasses, but it’s a close thing. She wouldn’t have said she was avoiding Bellamy, but she’s seen more of him in the last couple weeks since he got the farm than she probably has in the last year before this, and the high concentration of interaction is a lot. Especially since they’ve been getting along.

She should pick a fight, just to remind herself why a literal roll in the hay isn’t an option.

Instead, she just lets him drive her around the farm, explaining what he’s doing now and what he’s still planning to do, pointing out crops that are coming in, doing well, doing poorly, rattling off names of weird hipster vegetables Clarke’s never even heard of.

“You really love this, huh,” she observes.

He glances over at her. “And?”

“It’s just nice. I know a lot of people feel kind of stuck here, like Lexa did. I’m glad this is where you want to be.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind if I left town.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“You too.” He clears his throat. “I honestly never thought you’d stick around. I remember when you showed up and it just felt like–”

“Rich girl burnout?”

“No offense.”

“None taken. If I wasn’t a spoiled rich girl, I probably wouldn’t be here. I couldn’t have afforded to throw everything away. But–” She huffs. “This is going to make me sound like an asshole.”

“I already think you’re an asshole, so go ahead.”

His voice is warm, and she smiles. “I think I needed to be away from pressure. School was just–I was the top of my class, always, because if I wasn’t then I thought I was losing. And I think I would have burned myself out and made myself miserable. It was already starting to happen in college, when I wasn’t the biggest fish in the pond anymore. If I wasn’t the best, I didn’t know what to be.”

“So you’re the biggest fish out here?” He doesn’t sound offended.

“No, I got out of the pond. I’m a total failure judged by any of the standards I used to have, but I’m happy.”

He laughs. “Okay, yeah. I can see how that would make you sound like an asshole. But it’s nice having you here. And it’s not as if you’re not successful. Your art actually sells. I’m pretty sure Lexa’s going to be back with her tail between her legs in a couple years, but if you wanted to leave–”

“I don’t think I could make stuff like this if I left,” she admits. “I think I need to be out here.”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen anyone capture the ocean like you do, it’s amazing.” Before Clarke quite has time to process that–Bellamy has seen her art, Bellamy has opinions on her art, Bellamy thinks her art is amazing–he coughs, this awkward clearing of his throat like he realizes it’s kind of a lot too. “This place is clearly good for you.”

He’s not the first person to say it, or something like it. But it means something else, coming from him.

“Yeah,” she says. “I like to think so.”

Clarke doesn’t set out to make the branches she took from Bellamy into any kind of gesture or statement. She picked the pieces she liked, these gnarled branches she thinks she can work with, leaves she could preserve in some way, maybe. Bellamy hauled them into his truck, drove her back to her car, and helped her load them, and Clarke left feeling only a little at loose ends.

But as soon as she’s home and really looking at the pieces, all she can see is him. These aren’t old, dried out logs, carried to her by the sea from god knows where. These are Bellamy’s trees from Bellamy’s farm, and when she looks at them, she can’t imagine turning them into anything but what they already are: Blake Farm and Bellamy, his dream finally come true.

So she runs with it. It’s not as abstract as some of her pieces, but Clarke’s past the point in her life where she thinks inscrutability is artistically superior in and of itself. She makes the pieces she wants to make, and it’s easy to just fall into making this one. Clarke goes into a kind of trance when she’s inspired, really inspired; she can make a big, impressive piece more quickly than a bunch of her tourist souvenirs, for all they’re easier, just because she wants the real piece so much more.

She finishes off the Blake Farm piece the morning of the farmer’s market, which is kind of a mixed blessing. Because it is for Bellamy, wholly and undeniably. She couldn’t give it to the boutique to sell or try to get it put on display anywhere, but it feels just as impossible to go up to him and tell him she made him a gift. He’d given her the wood without any expectation of getting it back, and she doesn’t know how to tell him he inspired her without it being a big deal. Because it is a big deal, at least to her.

She’s definitely kind of in love with him. It’s probably been a long time coming.

Lincoln texts her to ask where she is while she’s loading the thing into her car, and she says she’s on her way, but he can take as much of the table as he wants. It’s probably going to be a couple minutes, one way or another.

Clarke usually visits Bellamy’s stall before the market has opened. She picks up some berries or tomatoes to put on her table, since free stuff gets people’s attention, and then she doesn’t see him again until the end of the market. It’s easier than leaving her stuff unattended and fighting her way through crowds, and it feels more causal too. She’s not going out of her way.

Which means this is her first time actually seeing him in action, Octavia at his side, one of her own mosaics on display on the corner of his table with a sign directing fans to her table.

Apparently they’ve got a weird thing going, and she didn’t even realize.

“I didn’t know you were doing advertising for me,” she tells Bellamy. He’s looking at his phone, so he missed her coming in, the ideal scenario. She should be able to get out what she wanted to say.

He startles but recovers, smiling a little. “You’re advertising for me, I figured I should return the favor.” He clears his throat. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it. Thought you might be sick.”

“I don’t think I’m selling. But I could use your help with something, if your sister can watch your booth for a minute.”

“Yeah, of course. O, I’ll be back.”

He probably won’t think it’s weird. They’re his branches, it only makes sense that his farm would inspire her. He might try to pay her. He might not even like it. But I made a mosaic of your farm with your branches as a frame isn’t really an unambiguous gesture, and if she plays it cool, he might not even realize it’s a thing. This is what artists do, right? Totally normal.

“I figured you’d want to see what I did with the stuff I got from you.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback. “You already used it?”

“I was inspired.” She opens up the back of the car, not letting herself ask him to close his eyes or making it a big presentation, but she doesn’t have to. Bellamy stops dead, staring, and Clarke tries to see it through his eyes, the sea glass and shells, the leaves coated to keep them fresh, the branches surrounding a scene of blues and greens and golds.

His farm, rendered in whatever made her think of him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted it, I thought I should give you first dibs, but–”

He kisses her, this quick shock of contact that just lasts a second before he seems to realize what he’s done and he pulls back, eyes wide behind his glasses. He really is, well–Bellamy. A constant background presence in her life that she wants to make much more prominent.

Someone she’s, somehow, very fond of.

“Sorry,” he says, searching her face like he’s trying to figure out if he should be saying that. “It seemed like the right response.”

Clarke winds her arms around his neck. “It was,” she says, and kisses him again.

They don’t make it back to their stalls for a long time.

When Clarke Griffin is twenty-six, her boyfriend proposes and she leaves her beach house to move to his farm instead. They convert the barn into a studio and she spends her mornings helping on the farms, her afternoons working on her art, and her nights with Bellamy, always with Bellamy.

It’s not the life she imagined, when she was young, or even when she came to Arcadia for the first time. But somehow, it’s exactly what she wanted.

#wildcard47

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