Page 29 of Anchor
“They were beige sadness,” she countered, dropping the set into the cart. “This is your intervention.”
Reid said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched—barely.
Later, in front of throw blankets, Claire draped one over her shoulders like a cape and stared him down. “This doesn’t scream ‘operator.’ It whispers ‘person with a couch.’”
He arched a brow. “Operators don’t need blankets.”
“You do. You get cold.”
Reid didn’t answer. But the way she said it—casual, certain—lodged somewhere under his ribs.
By checkout, the cart looked like a soft goods armory: pillows, cutlery, a rug, a coffee press she insisted on, and a random potted plant she dropped in like a grenade.
Reid stared at it. “That’s alive.”
“It is,” Claire said sweetly. “So you’ll have company.”
Back at the apartment,they hauled everything up, laughing more than they should’ve. The rug got jammed in the elevator, Claire nearly lost a pillow in the hall, and Reid caught himself grinning at the absurdity of it all.
Bags spilled into the bare living room. Claire dropped to the floor with takeout, cross-legged on the new rug. Reid insisted on rearranging the couch first—“functional first”—but gave in when she shot him that look.
They ate off their laps. She stole a shrimp from his stir fry without warning.
“That was mine,” he said flatly.
“Not anymore,” she replied, smug as hell.
Later, he tried to line up the throw pillows with military precision. She lobbed one at his head.
“You’re impossible,” she laughed, breathless.
“You bought them.”
The apartment looked different already—less bunker, more lived-in. The plant sat on the sill like it belonged, though Reid muttered about “liability for neglect,” which nearly made her choke on her drink.
As the sky dimmed gold into gray, dessert cartons emptied and laughter faded. Claire drew her knees up, arms wrapped around them.
“It feels like the world’s going to knock any second,” she murmured.
Reid glanced at her, calm. “Not tonight. We walk in on our own terms.”
She nodded, but the worry crept in anyway. All this—this warmth—felt too temporary. Too easy to break.
By 17:42, it was time.
She stood and brushed crumbs from her jeans. Reid vacuumed the floor, already shifting back into precision. He pulled his suit from the garment bag. The room stilled.
Claire ducked into the bedroom. Her black dress was simple, professional—armor, really. She redid her makeup, hands trembling just enough to notice. Outside, the shower ran briefly, then stopped.
When Reid emerged, the change was stark. Suit sharp, posture tighter. Authority back in place.
“You clean up fast,” she said, voice thinner than before.
“Hazard of the job.”
She turned, adjusted her dress, and slipped on her low heels. His gaze passed over her once—measured, not lingering—but it left her skin prickling.
“You’re ready,” he said.
