The night was cool, quiet - the kind of quiet that only settles in after a city finally exhales and lets go of the day.
Claire walked, hands tucked loosely into her jacket pockets, her steps a bit lighter, a touch slower than they needed to be. Above, the streetlights hummed softly, spilling long pools of amber light onto the pavement. Now and then, she'd catch her reflection in a darkened shop window and laugh - quietly, to herself - at nothing in particular.
It had been a good night.
She and her friends had done their usual post-work meet-up at that little bar a few blocks from her apartment, the one with the mismatched chairs and drinks strong enough to soften the world's edges. They'd talked too loud, laughed too hard, stayed far too long. And Claire hadn't minded a bit.
The warm buzz of it lingered in her chest as she walked, cheeks flushed from the cold, the wine, and the easy, careless joy of the evening. Her hair was a little messy, a strand or two escaping from behind her ear, but she didn't bother fixing it. Tonight, she didn't care.
Humming something tuneless, she approached the crosswalk, glancing left, then right - mostly left - and stepped off the curb.
She didn't see the headlights.
Not until they were right there.
The sudden roar of an engine - loud, sharp, a blade cutting through the stillness - jolted her. Claire's eyes widened, and instinct took over before her brain could catch up. She threw herself sideways, hands slamming hard against the rough pavement, knees following a split second later. The car swept past - close, too close - the rush of wind whipping her hair across her face.
For a moment, everything froze.
Claire stayed put, palms flat on the ground, heart hammering so loud she could hear it in her ears. Slowly, she pushed herself up. Hands stinging. Knees aching. But she was fine. Okay.
And she was furious.
Scrambling to her feet, she brushed dirt off her jacket with irritated swipes, whipping her head toward the car, now stopped a few feet ahead. Sleek, dark, expensive-looking, its engine still idling as if it had all the time in the world.
Claire did not.
"Are you serious right now?!" she yelled, her voice slicing through the quiet with a force that surprised even her. She stormed toward the car, one hand gesturing wildly, the other clenched at her side. "Do you even see people when you're driving?! I could've - I was literally right there! What kind of - do you even have a license?!"
Fully warmed up now, adrenaline mixing dangerously with the wine still buzzing in her blood, the words just kept spilling out - loud, messy, completely unfiltered.
"I mean, seriously! Who drives like that?! This is a road, not a - not a racetrack or something! You should be - you should be ashamed!"
The driver's door opened.
Claire didn't stop. She was on a roll, arms crossed now, chin lifted, eyes blazing - well, as much as they could blaze when everything was slightly out of focus and the streetlight kept swaying in a way she was pretty sure streetlights weren't supposed to.
And then he stepped out.
Long black hair, still tied back. A dark jacket over a simple shirt. And those eyes - that deep, quiet blue - catching the streetlamp's light, looking at her with an expression somewhere between surprise and barely contained amusement.
Kennedy Walker.
Claire's mouth, fully open and ready to deliver the next line of her passionate monologue, just... stopped.
She blinked.
Then blinked again.
The anger didn't disappear exactly - it just sort of... dissolved, like sugar in warm water, melting away the instant she registered who she was looking at. And in its place came something else entirely. Something bright, a little wobbly, and completely, embarrassingly obvious.
A smile. A big one. The kind she couldn't have stopped even if she'd tried.
"Oh," she said, her voice softer now - surprised, almost delighted. "It's you."
Kennedy let out a breath - half laugh, half sigh of relief - and ran a hand through the loose strands of hair that had fallen forward when he leaned out of the car.
"Claire?" he said, stepping closer, brow creasing with concern even as the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Are you okay? I didn't - I didn't see you, I'm so sorry, I - "
"You're fine," she said, waving her hand dismissively - a little too fast, a little too loosely. She swayed, just slightly, on her feet. "I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm - we're fine."
Kennedy's eyes narrowed. He looked at her - really looked at her. At the flush on her cheeks that was a little too warm to be from the cold. At the way she was standing, just a beat off-balance, like the ground beneath her was doing something interesting. At the smile that was still plastered on her face like it had moved in and wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.
He tilted his head.
"Claire," he said, slowly, carefully. "Are you - Oh my God. You're drunk right now."
Claire's eyes widened. She straightened up - or tried to - and pressed a hand to her chest in a gesture of such exaggerated offense it was almost theatrical.
"I am not," she said, with all the conviction and dignity she could muster. Which, at this particular moment, was not a lot.
Kennedy stared at her.
She stared back.
And then - as if the ground had simply given up on her - Claire's balance tipped, and she stumbled forward. Before she could overthink it, her hands instinctively reached his chest, fingers gliding softly over the fabric of his jacket. In an instant, she was right there - closer than she'd ever dared to be, gazing up at him with eyes that were bright, slightly unfocused, and utterly vulnerable.
She tilted her head, scrutinizing his face as if seeing it for the first time. Perhaps, in a way, she was.
Then, slowly and deliberately, with a seriousness that belied the situation, she reached up.
Her hand hovered for a moment before gently poking his cheek.
Kennedy blinked, surprised.
Claire then poked his nose.
A tiny, delighted giggle escaped her lips - a sound so genuine and filled with happiness that it seemed to come from a different person than the one who had been yelling at him just moments before. She looked him directly in the eyes, without hesitation or shame, and said in the softest, most sincere voice, "You're such a cutie."
Kennedy froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stood there, completely still, with Claire's hand resting lightly on his nose and that warm, tilted, slightly tipsy smile directed at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then, he laughed.
It wasn't a polite or cautious laugh, but a genuine one - quiet, warm, and a little surprised, as if it had been involuntarily drawn out of him. He shook his head, amusement crinkling the corners of his blue eyes, and gently, carefully, wrapped his hands around hers.
"Okay," he said, his voice low and soft, still chuckling slightly. "Okay, yeah. You are definitely drunk."
Claire hummed in response, a vague and contented sound, as if she'd just heard the perfect thing.
Kennedy studied her for another moment before glancing back at his car, then back at her, and making a decision.
"Come on," he said, gently guiding her towards the passenger side with a steady hand at her elbow. "I'm taking you home."
"Mmmhm," Claire responded, nodding enthusiastically as he opened the door for her. She slid into the seat with more grace than he expected, though she paused to stare at the dashboard as if it had personally offended her before seemingly forgetting all about it.
Kennedy closed the door, exhaled slowly, and got back behind the wheel.
"Alright," he said, pulling back onto the road. "So, where do you live?"
Claire looked at him and pointed confidently and decisively out the window.
"That way," she said.
Kennedy glanced in the direction she was pointing. It was a wall.
He looked back at her.
She returned his gaze, completely unfazed, her finger still extended as if providing the most accurate directions imaginable.
"Claire," he said gently, "that's a building."
"Yeah," she said, nodding slowly, as if it were perfectly reasonable. "But my apartment is behind it."
Kennedy pressed his lips together tightly to suppress a laugh. He took a breath, composed himself, and nodded with all the seriousness the situation demanded.
"Behind the building," he repeated. "Got it."
They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence - well, quiet on Kennedy's part. Claire, meanwhile, spent most of the time leaning her head against the window, watching the streetlights blur past like slow-moving stars, occasionally murmuring something that didn't quite connect to anything.
Then, out of the blue, she sat up.
"Oh, turn left," she said, pointing again. "Here. No, wait. There."
Kennedy turned left.
"No," Claire said, squinting out the window. "No, no, no. Go back. It was the other one."
He turned back.
"That one," she said, pointing at a narrow street that looked almost identical to the one they had just passed.
Kennedy turned.
"...actually, maybe not that one," Claire murmured, tilting her head as she peered into the darkness. She looked at him again, and that big, unashamed smile returned. "You're being so patient with me."
"I have nowhere else to be," he said, and for some reason, the way he said it - quietly, easily, and without a hint of complaint - made the atmosphere between them feel a little warmer than before.
They eventually found her apartment building - a modest, cozy-looking place tucked away on a quieter street, with a small light glowing above the entrance like a welcome sign. Claire perked up the instant she saw it, clapping her hands together softly, like a child spotting something wonderful.
"There it is," she said, with the pride of someone who had just discovered a new continent.
Kennedy parked, got out, and went around to open her door. Claire stepped out, a little unsteady and slow, and looked up at him again. The cool night air brushed her face, and for a moment, something flickered in her expression - something quieter, almost clear.
She looked at him the way someone looks at a person they're not quite ready to understand yet.
"Thank you," she said softly, genuinely. "For...yeah, this."
Kennedy looked at her - at her messy hair, flushed cheeks, and the smile that had stayed with her throughout the night - and felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Something small, new, and unexpectedly warm.
"Get home safe, Claire," he said gently.
She nodded, gave him one last little wave - a wobbly, happy gesture - and turned, making her way towards the entrance with careful, deliberate steps.
Kennedy watched her go.
And this time, he was the one who lingered, standing there long after she had disappeared, thinking about the way she had poked his cheek, the way she had looked at him, and how the night had unfolded so differently than he had anticipated.