Page 15 of Anchor
“I know you didn’t eat,” Reid said as if reading it from her silence. “You never touched your plate.”
She exhaled, not quite a sigh. “Yes. Okay. Yeah.”
He nodded once, not smug, just efficient. “Let’s hit Frita Batidos.”
That surprised her. “That’s still open?”
“Late on weekends. I’ve got the app. We’ll order ahead, take it back to your place.”
She didn’t argue. The thought of sitting somewhere, even half empty, even anonymous, was too much. But warm food, something spicy, something real in the quiet aftermath of too many crystal glasses and unreadable stares? That, she could manage.
She leaned her head lightly against the cool glass, her voice barely above the engine’s hum. “Thanks.”
Reid merged onto the main road with a fluid confidence, one hand already pulling his phone into reach. A few taps. The glow of the screen on his face. A low voice: “Plantains or fries?”
Claire hesitated, then, almost without thinking: “Both.”
And for the first time all night, she saw his reflection tilt slightly in the window enough to register as a smile.
CLAIRE’S APARTMENT – 0210 HOURS
By the time they found street parking, the bag of food had filled the SUV with the scent of spiced beef and grilled citrus. Claire opened her door into the thick night air, her heels in her hand again.
Reid circled to the sidewalk without asking, grabbing the food and locking up behind them. She didn’t wait for him, just started up the narrow stairs, barefoot, her dress whispering against her legs as she climbed.
No elevator. No doorman. Just three narrow flights of creaking steps and a cracked hallway bulb that always flickered once before lighting fully.
She heard him behind her, footsteps steady, unhurried. Not crowding but there.
At her door, she fished out her keys with practiced fingers. The lock always caught slightly before giving. She leaned her weight into it just enough, and it gave way with its usual groan. She stepped inside and flipped the switch.
The light in the living room came on, yellow and tired. A small space. Clean, but lived-in. Books sat on the window ledge. A hoodie rested over the back of a secondhand chair. Blankets that didn’t match were folded near the radiator.
She didn’t bother making excuses for it. He didn’t look like he needed any.
Claire set her heels down by the wall and headed to the tiny galley kitchen. Reid followed, setting the bag down on the small circular table tucked between two mismatched stools. The food made the room smell like a real place again, like late-night kitchens and cheap dates and something warm that didn’t come from a tray carried by waiters in black jackets.
He pulled out a stool but didn’t sit. Not yet. He watched her. Not intrusively. Just... present.
She unwrapped the food, hands steady. She handed him a fry without asking, and they ate in silence, passing sauces and napkins like a language neither of them had used in a while.
Halfway through the burger, she looked up and caught him watching her again. “You always this quiet?” She wiped her thumb on the edge of the wrapper.
“Only when I don’t trust what I might say.” His voice was calm, even, but something in it traced her skin, making her pulse tick upward without her knowing why.
She leaned back, chewing slower now, as if the food needed more time to land. “And now?”
“I’m still deciding.”
Her lips parted slightly, not in surprise but in awareness. She got up and crossed the room to the window. No skyline here, just a view of taillights and tired brick buildings. A neon OPEN sign across the street still buzzed like it hadn’t been touched in twenty years.
“I’m not fragile,” she said quietly, one hand resting on the frame.
“I know.”
“You’re treating me like I might break.”
“I’m treating you like someone who just got discarded in public by her mother, interrogated by people paid to smile too tightly, and then chaperoned by two men with earpieces like she’s a goddamn state secret.”
