The apartment is quiet when you finally step inside, the city’s chill still clinging to your shoulders. Your steps are heavy, drawn toward the soft glow bleeding from the kitchen, where the warm scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs curls around you like an embrace.

Claire’s back is to you at first, her hair falling in long, tousled waves over the white collar of her blouse, the dark vest-style dress framing her shoulders neatly. The sleeves of the blouse shift softly as she plates something with slow care, the small rise of steam catching in the amber light above the stove. Her freckles are more visible tonight, dusted across her cheeks, kissed warm from standing near the heat too long. She turns just as you set your bag down, green eyes narrowing slightly with that familiar, quiet worry she never tries to hide from you.

“You’re late,” she says gently, and even though she’s trying to sound casual, her voice dips in that way that means she’s been thinking about you since the second you left. She closes the space between you before you can answer.

Her fingers brush your chest first, reaching to ease your jacket off with the sort of practised grace that makes your chest tighten. She smells faintly of rosemary and the citrus lotion she keeps by the sink. When she leans in to kiss your cheek, her lips are soft, but her gaze is already searching yours as she lingers just a moment longer than usual.

“You look wrecked.” Her brow creases as she steps back, folding your jacket over one arm. “Bad day?”

You nod.

You can’t quite remember if your body responded or if she just saw it anyway.

She moves past you, setting the jacket over the back of a chair, and her voice follows you like the low hum of a song you know by heart. “I made that chicken you like. The one with the lemon butter and the roasted potatoes? It’s still warm.”

You’re still stuck in the weight of whatever it was that clung to you all day, but the lighting here is soft and golden, casting shadows across the apartment walls in slow waves as opposed to the harsh fluorescent lights you're used to at work.

She has already moved back toward the counter, slicing through something gently with a kitchen knife while you venture deeper inside after her and sit at the dining table.

Her collarbone catches the light when she turns again, carrying two plates to the table.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” she says softly, sliding a plate in front of the seat she knows you’ll take. “But if it’s sitting on you like it looks… do you want to talk about it?”