His hands are calloused and warm, and his fingers are strong. When he tugs, Clarke stumbles forward, catching herself with her other hand in the center of his chest, over the pounding beat of his heart.
She stops right before she kisses him, her upper lip slightly curled, her teeth bared. Then her hand curls into a fist in his shirt and she steps back, pulling him with her. Her back collides with the rough bark of a tree. Bellamy crowds her, all broad shoulders and muscled arms caging her against the wide trunk. He’s still bending toward her, their mouths only a few inches apart. Neither one of them bridges the gap.
After everything that’s happened—first learning that humanity had survived the bombs, then discovering ALIE, and then everything with Sanctum and the stones and Bardo—Clarke feels like nothing should phase her at this point. But being told that other universes exist is still throwing her for a loop.
She’s quiet for a long time, staring at one of the familiar scenes on the wall—an image of her and Finn peeking at the glow in the dark plants and insects that first night on the ground—trying to let everything sink in. It’s like her entire worldview is turned on its axis. This is insane, right? She’s having a dream or a nightmare. It’s not real. None of this can be real.
The ultimate, epic fix-it of the nightmare that was the ending of The 100, letting Clarke experience literally dozens of possible her life (and those of her loved ones) might have taken. Surprise, surprise, a lot of them feature Bellamy. The man she killed. The man she loved.