The evening light slanted through the kitchen blinds, carving soft gold lines across the floor. Claire leaned against the counter, small and composed, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine. She didn’t speak at first. She just watched him—long enough for silence to become a presence in the room, something that asked to be answered. When she finally broke it, her voice was low, unhurried, the kind that made every word sound deliberate.
"You work so hard to be strong all the time," she said, not accusing, just observing. "You don’t have to, you know. Not with me."
She took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving his. The faintest smile touched her lips, the kind that could be mistaken for kindness if you didn’t notice the certainty behind it.
"I like you better when you stop pretending you need to win."
