The night wrapped itself around the city like a thick velvet cloak, heavy with the scent of rain. Claire Grace stood in the doorway of Lucas Zeller's bedroom, her damp hair clinging stubbornly to her neck, glistening like threads of silk under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She looked delicate—vulnerable even—but there was always that unspoken resilience in her posture, like a reed that bends but never breaks.
Without a word, Lucas crossed the room, retrieving a towel from his bathroom. He didn't ask if she needed it; he simply draped it over her head, a little gruffly, but the care in his movements betrayed him. His hands, steady and deliberate, worked through her hair with a quiet tenderness that made her heart skip a beat.
"You always do this," he muttered, frowning. "Push yourself too hard and then act surprised when you get sick. Wasn't it the same last time?"
Claire tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Actually, I'm usually healthy. Colds don't catch me easily. It's just…bad luck, I guess."
"Bad luck?" Lucas raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Walking around with wet hair in winter is more than bad luck. It's asking for trouble."
She laughed softly, the sound light and breezy, like wind chimes in a storm. "Noted, doctor. Next time, I'll use a shower cap or something."
Lucas shook his head but said nothing, tossing the towel aside as she ran her fingers through her damp locks. She turned toward the door, thinking the moment had passed.
"Claire."
His voice was low, steady, and it stopped her mid-step. She turned back, her curious eyes meeting his.
"What is it?"
"Come here," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Her brows knit together in mild confusion, but she obliged, stepping closer until they were inches apart. Without another word, Lucas reached into a drawer, pulling out a hairdryer. He gestured to the edge of his bed.
"Sit."
Claire blinked, then laughed, the sound soft and disarming. "Are you always this bossy?"
"Only when someone's too stubborn to take care of themselves," he replied, plugging in the dryer.
The warm hum of the machine filled the room as Lucas worked through her hair with practiced precision. His fingers, long and deft, brushed against her scalp, sending gentle waves of heat and comfort coursing through her. Claire let her shoulders relax, leaning slightly into his touch.
"This feels…nice," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lucas didn't respond, but the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips.
The moment was broken when Claire suddenly sat up, her eyes widening in realization. "Oh no! I forgot something!"
Lucas raised an eyebrow, pulling back. "What now?"
"I made us a late-night snack! It's probably cold by now…" Her words tumbled out in a rush, her expression a mix of guilt and urgency.
Lucas chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax. I checked it earlier when I brought you in. It's still warm."
Her relief was palpable. "You checked? Why didn't you say something?"
"Because you were half-asleep," he replied simply.
Claire grabbed his hand without thinking, dragging him toward the kitchen. The sight of her wearing his oversized slippers, which flopped comically with each step, was almost enough to make him laugh out loud.
By the time they reached the dining area, her excitement was contagious. "I made hot pot! Chinese-style broth—you're going to love it." She beamed, practically bouncing on her toes.
Lucas sat down, watching as she leaned into him, her arm hooking casually around his.
"Claire," he said flatly, eyeing her arm. "How am I supposed to eat like this?"
She grinned, her face impossibly close to his. "Want me to feed you?"
His ears turned a faint shade of red as he looked away. "Eat your own food," he muttered, reaching for his chopsticks.
Her laughter filled the room, light and unguarded, but it faded as her expression turned more serious. "Lucas, about earlier…"
He froze, sensing where this was going.
"I don't want you to misunderstand," she said softly. "Yuto Miyazawa and I were just chatting. That's all."
Lucas's chopsticks hovered mid-air. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I don't want you to feel uneasy," she replied, her voice steady. "You're my boyfriend. I don't want you to doubt me."
For a moment, he said nothing, the words settling heavily in the space between them. Finally, he let out a dry laugh. "I'm the one who let you go. Why would I feel uneasy?"
"Lucas…"
Her next words hit him like a quiet storm.
"I like you. A lot."
His breath caught. For once, Lucas Zeller, the man who always had a sharp retort, found himself speechless.
"Don't just throw those words around," he managed, his voice quieter now.
"Why not?" she asked, her gaze unwavering. "I mean it."
He looked away, his thoughts a tangled mess. "There's a difference between liking someone and…whatever this is."
She shrugged, unbothered by his hesitation. "All I know is that I like you. Isn't that enough?"
Stretching her arms with a yawn, she announced, "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
Lucas barely nodded, his mind still spinning.
Moments later, as he entered his bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. There, curled up on his bed like a stubborn cat, was Claire. Her back was to him, her breathing steady and soft.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Predictable.