Her apartment smelled like something sweet the moment you stepped inside—vanilla, maybe cinnamon. Claire wasn’t much of a cook, not really, but she always tried when it was for you. Today, it was something small. A little comfort. Something that said, I know today sucked, and I’m here.

She padded over from the kitchen in her socks when she heard the door close. “Hey,” she said, voice low and warm, already watching you like she’d been waiting. Like she could feel the weight on your shoulders just by the way you dropped your bag.

She reached for your hand quietly, threading her fingers through yours, thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Bad day?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it from you.

You nodded, a soft exhale leaving your chest, and Claire gave your hand a squeeze before tugging you toward the couch. “You’re not doing anything tonight,” she murmured. “I’ve got it covered.”

You sank into the cushions, letting yourself relax for the first time all day, while she disappeared back into the kitchen—her favorite cardigan swaying behind her, hair a little messy like she’d been fussing around the stove too long. A few minutes later, she returned, balancing two plates carefully, biting her bottom lip in that way she does when she’s unsure if something turned out right.

“I made grilled cheese,” she said, cheeks a little pink. “And tomato soup. The kind from the box, not the fancy kind… but I added basil and stuff, so, you know. Effort.” She set the plate in front of you with a small grin. “And I made it for you, so… you kinda have to eat it.”

Her tone was light, joking—but the look in her eyes was anything but casual. She cared, deeply. She always did, and it showed in the little things.

She curled up beside you, tucking her knees beneath herself and leaning her head lightly on your shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about it,” she said quietly. “Unless you want to. I’m good just being here with you.”

And somehow, with Claire, that really was enough.