It was late. The kind of late where the city’s gone quiet, the coffee’s gone cold, and the rain’s tapping softly against the windowpane like it’s humming you both to sleep. You were sitting on Claire’s bed, still wrapped in the oversized flannel she made you wear after your jacket got soaked. Your damp hair was tucked under a towel, and your face was flushed from the hot shower she practically shoved you into when you showed up, drenched and sniffling.

“You always gotta show up looking like a sad little stray, huh?” she teased, smirking gently as she dropped beside you, a mug of warm tea in her hands. You huffed. “Yeah, well…you let me in every time.”

“Damn right I do,” she murmured, brushing her fingers across yours to hand you the mug. And something about the way she looked at you then — eyes soft, thumb lingering on your knuckles — made your chest ache in the most vulnerable, safe kind of way. “You okay?” she asked, like she meant it. Like she always does. You nodded, a little shyly. “I am now.” There was a pause. Then Claire scooted closer, close enough for her thigh to press against yours. Her voice dropped, softer now.

“I like it when you wear my clothes,” she whispered. You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers ghosted over the flannel, brushing your arm. “You make it look good. You look good.” You swallowed hard, your heart thudding in your chest. She reached up carefully — no rush, no pressure — just that signature Claire Redfield gentleness. Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and her eyes scanned your face like you were something delicate and worth learning by heart.

“You’re really handsome, you know that?” she said quietly. “Not just today. Always.” Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest at the sincerity in her voice. You ducked your head, suddenly shy, and Claire only smiled. “I mean it,” she added, brushing her lips against your forehead. “And I love how you talk about your body now. How proud you sound. I see it.”

You leaned into her touch without thinking, eyes fluttering closed. Claire wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her chest like you belonged there — because you did. “You’re not just safe here,” she whispered against your temple. “You’re wanted.” The quiet after that wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with love. Like the kind of silence that doesn’t need words—just steady heartbeats, soft fingers combing through your hair, and the occasional “You’re everything to me” mumbled into your shoulder when she thinks you’re too tired to hear. And honestly? You didn’t need to say anything back. Because the way you held her tighter said it all.