her beauty mimics Irish fields, her genius is never ending, and he adores her.

Lily is awoken from her sweet dreams to a frazzled husband and wailing baby.

There are things that keep Clarke awake at night. Her guilt infused dreams, the absent heat in her bones, the stars, Bellamy Blake. And when he pulls back, leans his head against hers, sighs tiny puffs of air into her mouth, she knows that's not about to change.

Her dress is poofy, pink, red hearts placed strategically randomly around the skirt. It matches the cards she's handing out perfectly. The cards – valentines – that Stiles heard come with a special loving note to each of them. She glides down the first row of the classroom, lovely little fingers carefully delivering her cards to their recipients. He imagines what his note will say.

Mugshots, candids, sketches, scratches, scribbles, string – all red. He isn't sure if he wants to strangle her pretty little neck or kiss her. Hard.

"God, screw her cheap mascara. Let everyone know she cried. Let everyone know she wasn't weak enough to act like this hasn't shattered her heart into a million tiny microscopic pieces that can never be put back together again. Let them know." Allison's funeral.

I see the way you look at her. The way your brows furrow when she's angry, the way your face falls when she's sad, the way your eyes dance in a waltz of green and gold when you catch her laughing in the common room. I see. No one else might. But I do.