"Next week," Claire said. "And if Harbor Night eats you, text. I'll assume the bat cave, not the void."
"Deal."
They hugged again—longer by a breath. Isaiah's hand rested briefly between her shoulder blades, warm. Claire smelled tea and rain jacket and the faint ghost of clinic soap that never fully left him. When they parted, he smiled that flirtatious, careful smile from the first night, now tempered by weeks of choosing.
"For the record," he said, "he still has excellent judgment."
Claire glanced down at Nash, who had chosen that moment to sit on Isaiah's shoe as if claiming a continent. "He's a politician."
"He's a golden," Isaiah said. "Same thing."
They didn't say boyfriend. They didn't say forever. Claire walked home with a leash in one hand and a held-open week in the other. Isaiah drove Birdie back to Amina's with the radio low and his middle name still unrequested, which felt, for now, like the right size of unfinished.
On Claire's kitchen counter, a box of Cheerios stood where Priya had left it as a joke. Claire looked at it, huffed a laugh, and put it on the top shelf where small paws couldn't turn breakfast into prophecy.
Her phone buzzed once more before sleep.
Isaiah: Got home. Not a void. Tuesday already looks far and also not far enough.
Claire: Same. Vaccine schedule done. Rain check open. That's enough sentence for tonight.
Isaiah: Enough sentence. Goodnight, Claire.
Claire: Goodnight, Isaiah.
In the dark, Nash sighed the deep sigh of a puppy who had lived several dramas and intended to live more. Claire stared at the ceiling and felt the city beyond the window—wet sometimes, sharp sometimes, full of clinics and parks and people learning the cost of excellent judgment.
She was still not fully dating him in the way that would satisfy a form.
She was still not apart from him in the way that would satisfy fear.
She was, instead, awake inside a choice that remained open on purpose—like a door left unlocked not because no one valued safety, but because both of them had decided that some arrivals should stay unforced.
Outside, rain began again, soft as a footnote.
Claire smiled into it, embarrassed and hopeful and awake, and let the sound keep her company until sleep finally arrived—not as an ending, but as a pause between one careful Tuesday and the next.