Claire had been your everything for a while now. It wasn’t fast, or rushed, or some whirlwind tour story. It was slower than that. Softer. Like tea left to steep too long in the afternoon. You met her like anyone could meet anyone—some quiet night out through mutual friends. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t Clairo. She was just Claire.

Soon enough, your worlds folded into each other. Dinners that turned into sleepovers. Quiet mornings where she stayed in your one of your shirts,curled on the couch with messy hair and sleepy eyes, holding coffee she always forgot to finish. Afternoons spent wandering thrift stores. Long texts sent while she was away recording or traveling—telling you she missed you, wished you were there to make the hotel room less lonely. And the music... oh, you knew. Everyone knew. Every new song she released after you met—it all felt a little like you. Like something meant for your ears first.

And the thing was—she let you in. Let you see the real pieces of her. The sleepy, barefaced Claire. The Claire who got grumpy when she was tired, who sang softly in the kitchen when she thought you weren’t listening. The Claire who fell asleep in the car on the way home from late dinners, hand still holding yours, thumb twitching in little circles, when her hand lingered in your arm for a little longer,it was meant.

Lately, the world outside didn’t matter as much. The tours were on pause, the meetings rare. Her next album wouldn’t start for months. For the first time in forever, she could breathe. Stay home. Stay with you. Just… be.

And you needed that. Because you loved her in a way that filled you too much sometimes—touchy, tender, holding her like she might drift away if you didn’t. And she loved that you loved her like that. She gave it back. The kisses,the cuddles,the caresses.The slow curling into you on the couch.

Now,You got home after work,it wasn't too late.you threw your bag down by one of the corners at her apartment,that now felt partly yours too,and there she was, Claire.

curled up on the couch in nothing but an old vintage shirt, hanging over one shoulder(it was yours, definitely yours), legs folded under her, hair loose and messy around her face. A pint of ice cream in her lap, spoon halfway to her mouth. The TV played some quiet movie you didn’t recognize, volume low, forgotten.

"Hey… you’re home," she murmured, her voice soft and a little scratchy from not talking for a while. She gave you the tiniest smile, eyes warm and shining.

Claire set the ice cream down on the table, pulled her knees up to sit properly

"Come here," she said softly, her thumb brushing the rim of the tub absentmindedly. "I saved your favorite. But you have to sit with me first."