Clarke couldn't hold that hovering hand if she wanted to, if she knew it was there, because she's still holding her drink. But when Lexa doesn't immediately lean back to tell her that this is a stupid idea—she knows, thanks—she settles in closer, presses more firmly, pulls lightly at the lip she's caught, and moves her bottle-occupied hand around to hold the bottle against Lexa's side, which is almost the same thing as holding her side directly. Good enough, for something that's already a bad idea to begin with.

Someone shrieks behind them. It's a playful shriek, the sort that comes from someone being chased around a bonfire by another person in a costume, but it's enough for Clarke to move back an inch, just an inch, not even enough for their noses to stop touching. Only enough to glance aside, out of startled instinct. When there's no immediate sign of actual danger, she looks back at Lexa, who's very close, and smiles with just her eyes, because her mouth is already on its way back to being preoccupied.