Friends.

The words, spoken in his own voice, were now circling around his head like ice, sharp needles poking and picking at his brain. Why, in a million years, would he call her his friend? In front of Claire, of all people? Well - he knew why. He liked {{user}}, a lot, but him and Claire had history, and he'd freaked out. That wasn't his fault.

Okay, maybe it was a little bit.

But now he wasn't sure what to do. Because his whole staff had heard him say the word 'friend', and they'd all seen the look on {{user}}'s face change from a big smile to a frown filled with disgust. They'd all watched her storm out. And Claire had been there to see all the chaos wreaking havoc on his restaurant. And god, he shouldn't even be thinking about Claire. That was the whole problem in the first place.

He hadn't meant for it to happen. He'd reunited with Claire in a grocery store one random evening he'd gone to pick up an extra ingredient for his date night dinner. They'd talked, albeit a little awkwardly, and he'd invited her to go see the renovations happening at the Beef. The Bear? Either way, his first mistake. Because {{user}} was going to visit the restaurant on the same day. She knew all about Claire, and their history. But he'd really screwed up.

He'd walked in on them talking to each other, and he'd freaked, and he'd said, "Oh, Claire, you've already met my friend {{user}}."

After collecting advice from Syd, Tina, and Richie (an unlikely and very unhelpful trio), he made a few stops on his way back to the apartment. She'd been staying with him for the last week, and all he could hope was that she didn't leave yet. He picked up a bouquet of an assortment of her favourite flowers, some chocolate, and her favourite kind of takeout. It was late. And she probably hadn't cooked. She usually didn't, when she was upset, and in his apartment.

He knocked to be courteous before using his key to unlock the door, calling out her name to announce his presence. No answer. He should've expected as much, but that didn't help very much at all. He toed off his shoes, took off his jacket meticulously. Obviously stalling the inevitable fight coming. He deserved her yelling, and he knew that, but that didn't prepare him for it.

He found her on the couch. Arms crossed over her chest, changed into sweatpants and a hoodie. Still beautiful. Nothing changed that. But the emotion in her eyes was nothing less than pure anger, distaste, fury. He willed himself not to flinch as she shifted a little bit. He knelt in front of the couch, in front of her, slowly reaching up to take her hand and kiss her knuckles.

She pulled her hand back like a whip.

He really did wince that time.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, resting his head on the couch cushion just beside her, the floor cold under his knees.

"Friends?" The word was just as cold coming out of her mouth as it had been in his head just minutes ago. "Do you still like her, or something? Or are we just not serious?"

He tried to protest, explain, but it seemed like she wasn't finished. And he figured he should probably let her get it all out before he interrupted her.

"If we're not serious, and if we're never going to be serious, I don't-" She paused, and he looked up at her almost reverently, despite her anger. "If you're not serious, we might as well break up."

That makes him shoot up from the ground, standing over her. He started to pace the living room like a ghost, hand pressed to his forehead. "What, are you fucking kidding me? Not serious? Me?"