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Bellamy had always been the kind of man people gravitated toward without understanding why. He wasn’t loud—though he could be—but it was his undeniable presence. Strong shoulders, quick grin, the kind of confidence that felt like a spark waiting to catch flame. He thrived on movement, quick decisions, and proving himself capable in whatever room he walked into. People expected him to be brash, and often he was, but beneath the fire he carried an earnestness, a deep need to care for those he let close.
Clarke, on the other hand, was different. She was cool, composed, a strategist. If Bellamy was all impulse, Clarke was calculation. She thought before she spoke, measuring her words with precision, sometimes too sharp, sometimes too detached. People either admired her aloofness or mistook it for arrogance, but those who earned her trust found her startlingly warm. She had this way of listening that made you feel like your thoughts mattered.
They met in the most inconvenient way possible—at a project orientation at the Arcadia where neither wanted to be partnered up, and yet there they were, forced into the same team.
From the start, sparks flew. Not the romantic kind. The competitive kind.
“Your outline is… fine,” Clarke said that first day, sliding the papers back across the table, “but it’s all over the place. You’re trying too hard to make it flashy.”
Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “And your version is what? Boring enough to put everyone to sleep?”
“It’s called substance,” she shot back, lips twitching though she didn’t smile.
By the end of that first week, their teammates had stopped trying to intervene. It was like watching two storms circle each other, all lightning and thunder but never enough destruction to tear anything apart. And, annoyingly, their work was brilliant. His passion pushed her careful plans into motion, and her structure sharpened his raw energy into something undeniable.
---
By week three, the rest of the group had crowned them unofficial leaders. Bellamy, the charismatic fire-starter. Clarke, the meticulous strategist. Together, they were unstoppable.
But unstoppable didn’t mean easy.
“God, do you ever stop arguing?” their teammate Wells groaned one afternoon after yet another debate over presentation flow.
“I’m not arguing,” Bellamy said. “I’m explaining why her way is too stiff.”
Clarke didn’t miss a beat. “And I’m reminding him that style without foundation is useless.”
Murphy threw his hands in the air. “You two should just get married already.”
The table erupted in laughter. Bellamy rolled his eyes, but Clarke… she felt a strange twist in her stomach, one she quickly shoved down. Marriage? Ridiculous.
---
The tension shifted somewhere around the fourth week. Neither of them could pinpoint it, but there was a night after work when the group spilled into a bar called Mount Weather, and Clarke—normally measured, reserved—let herself have one too many glasses of wine. She laughed too loud at Bellamy's impression of their boss, leaned a little too close when she teased him about his handwriting.
And then it was just them, in the middle of the noise, eyes locked. He looked at her with this disarming intensity, as if she was the only one in the room.
“You know,” he said, voice lower, “I like it when you’re not so serious.”
Something fluttered in her chest, something she refused to name.
---
By the seventh week, Clarke found herself confiding in him in ways that startled her. Long conversations after meetings about everything from politics to old childhood dreams. He made her feel… seen. He didn’t just listen—he challenged her, prodded, argued, but in a way that lit her mind on fire.
And yet, just as quickly, she recoiled. It was dangerous to feel this close to anyone. Bellamy was reckless, emotional, a storm. She was steady, guarded, careful. The thought of unraveling in front of him terrified her. So, she pulled back, retreating behind her walls.
Bellamy noticed. He always noticed. But instead of pressing, he gave her space, simmering in his own frustration.
---
The breaking point came during another group night out, when teasing turned to Gina, one of their colleagues who openly flirted with Bellamy. The others nudged him, waggled eyebrows, joked about chemistry between them.
To everyone’s surprise, Clarke felt a sting. Irrational, unwelcome. Jealousy.
She masked it quickly, rationalizing it as irritation. Of course she wasn’t jealous. She barely tolerated him. And yet… the idea of him with someone else unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Later that night, perhaps emboldened by alcohol again, she muttered as they walked back with the group, “You don’t actually like her, do you?”
Bellamy blinked, amused. “Why, jealous?”
Her cheeks flared, and she shoved him lightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But the look he gave her—half-teasing, half-serious—lingered in her mind long after she fell asleep.
---
The push and pull became their rhythm. Bellamy, impulsive and bold, pursued connection openly, while Clarke, cautious and proud, fought it every step of the way. They collided in arguments, in laughter, in glances that lasted a beat too long. And though neither admitted it out loud, they both knew: whatever this was, it wasn’t fleeting.
It was a lasting collision.