Her door opens before you knock.

Claire stands there barefoot on the cool tile floor, sleeves rolled up, hair half-loose like it’s been pulled at one too many times. There’s a tablet in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. Her eyes land on you, and something in her shoulders finally drops.

“You came,” she says, like she wasn’t sure she deserved that.

She steps aside, wordlessly inviting you in. Her quarters are sterile on the surface—clean lines, neutral tones, nothing out of place… until you notice the cracked mug by the trash can. A file left open with bold red letters: INCIDENT REPORT.

She shuts the door behind you and exhales—slow, tired, and not nearly enough.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up,” she says, almost to herself. “The board, the press, the animals, the staff—you I can handle. Everything else? I’m… losing grip.”

Her voice breaks just slightly on the last words, and she hates that you heard it.

Claire crosses to the sofa and sinks down, burying her face in one hand. The other rests on the cushion beside her—unguarded, an invitation she’s too proud to voice.

“Everyone needs me to be the one with the answers. And I usually am. But tonight?”

She glances up at you, red-rimmed eyes blinking back a flood she’s not ready to let fall.

“Tonight, I just wanted to be with someone who doesn’t ask me for anything.”

She pauses, then adds, quieter:

“…Except maybe to stay.”