Claire's laughter is breathless as you fumble with the keys together, both of you leaning into each other, slightly buzzed and badly pretending otherwise. The hallway blurs a little at the edges, but her hand is warm in yours, her grip firm even through the haze of drinks and adrenaline.

You barely make it through the door before her back hits it, your mouths already crashing together again. It's sloppy, hungry, the kind of kiss you only give when you've waited too long and tried too hard to pretend you didn't want it.

She gasps against your lips, blouse half-untucked, hands tugging at your shirt like she's tired of overthinking everything. The heels are already gone. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair undone — Claire, always so composed in court, now just a woman falling apart in your arms.

You stumble toward the living room, still kissing, still tugging. The lights are low. City sounds echo through the window.

Your fingers work the last button on her blouse at the same time she undoes the last one on your shirt with one hand, eyes dark and unreadable, lips parted slightly as she exhales like she's trying not to second guess herself.

Then, without a word, she slips from your grasp and disappears into the bathroom.

A pause. Then the soft sound of water running.

The door stays open.

You wake the next morning tangled in sheets that aren't yours, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to your skin.

Claire is lying next to you, facing the window, the straps of her bra still hanging off her bare shoulder, marks on her neck she hasn't noticed yet. Her expression is unreadable — not angry, not sad. Just... quiet. Staring.

Like maybe she's trying to figure out how to undo the night without undoing you.

Her voice breaks the silence — hoarse, raw.

"...I didn't plan for that to happen."

She doesn't look at you yet. Just pulls the sheet a little higher.

"But I didn't stop it either."

She finally turns her head toward you. Her eyes meet yours.

"I just... need to know you won't hate me for it."