Working with Claire after everything is torture disguised as professional courtesy.
She's efficient, organized, everything she was before. Schedules my meetings with mechanical precision, manages my calls without ever asking if I actually want to take them, sends emails that are grammatically perfect and emotionally void.
But the warmth is gone. The easy intimacy where she'd lean against my desk while we talked through strategy, staying late because she wanted to, not because she was paid to. The small touches—her hand on my arm when I was stressed, the way she'd fix my tie before big meetings without being asked.
All of it carefully erased, replaced by professional distance that feels like punishment. I try to be equally professional but fail constantly.
Watch her across conference rooms and remember kissing her in this exact space. Smell her perfume when she leans over to point at a document and have to grip my desk to maintain composure. Hear her laugh at something Sandra says and feel the loss of that sound directed at me.
Two weeks into our new professional arrangement, she makes a mistake: schedules two client meetings at the same time, double-books my calendar in a way she never would have before. Not even when she first started and was learning my preferences. Claire doesn't make scheduling errors.
"I'm sorry," she's fixing it with efficient keystrokes, still not looking at me. "It won't happen again."
"Claire, it's fine. Everyone makes mistakes."
"I don't," her voice is tight, strained. "I'm better than this."
She stands abruptly, heads for the door. I catch the shimmer in her eyes before she can hide it.
"Hey," I'm on my feet too. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, just tired. I'll fix the schedule and send updated invites within the hour." Professional autopilot, deflecting with efficiency.
But she sways slightly, grabs the doorframe to steady herself, knuckles going white with the grip.
"Claire—"
"I said I'm okay," she's already walking away, faster than usual. "I just need coffee."
I watch her go and make a mental note to check on her later. She's working too hard, probably not sleeping, definitely running on caffeine and spite.
That evening, I find her in the break room around seven. She's staring at a cup of coffee like it personally offended her entire family, face pale, dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide anymore.
"When's the last time you ate?"
She startles, nearly drops the cup. "What?"
"Food, actual food. When did you take it?"
"Lunch, I think, maybe breakfast." She picks up the coffee, sets it down without drinking. "I'm fine."
"You're not. You look like you're about to pass out on my break room floor." I grab my coat from where I left it over a chair. "Come on, we're getting dinner."
"Lysander—"
"It’d not a request. You're pale, shaking, and you just double-booked my calendar for the first time in three years." I'm already heading for the door. "It’s time to eat."
She follows with visible reluctance, grabbing her bag but moving slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might trigger something.
We end up at a quiet Italian place near the office. The kind with low lighting and actual tablecloths, where conversations can happen without echoing. Claire slides into the booth across from me and immediately studies the menu with laser focus.
"Just get whatever you want." I'm watching her face, cataloging the exhaustion, the way her hands shake slightly holding the menu.
"I'll have the soup and water," she sets down the menu too quickly.
The waiter appears. I order her the soup she requested, then add grilled chicken and vegetables because she needs actual protein.
She barely touches any of it, pushing food around her bowl without eating; takes tiny sips of water, stares at the chicken like it's personally threatening her.
"Talk to me, please. What's going on?"
"Just adjusting to being back." She sets down her spoon with deliberate care. "The office feels different, you and everything's different."
"Are you sick?"
"No!" She looks up, defensive. "I just—I have nausea sometimes and can't handle certain foods, fish especially; even the smell makes me want to throw up."
The specificity of that statement makes something in my brain pause. File away for later examination.
"Since when?"
"A few weeks. It's fine, probably stress." She's not meeting my eyes, focusing on her water glass with intensity usually reserved for complex legal analysis.
I flag down the waiter. "What's your most expensive fish dish? I'll take two: one here, one to go."
Claire's head snaps up: "What are you doing?"
"Testing a theory."
The fish arrives ten minutes later, perfectly cooked, expensive, smelling exactly like high-end seafood should. I watch Claire's face go green, watch her press her hand to her mouth, watch her entire body recoil.
"I'm going to be sick." She's out of the booth and running for the bathroom before I can respond.
I pay the bill, grab the takeout, wait outside the ladies' room feeling like the world's biggest asshole for deliberately making her nauseous to prove a point.
She emerges five minutes later, face washed, makeup completely gone, looking younger and more vulnerable than I've seen her in months.
"You're a dick." Her voice is hoarse.
"I know, but I needed to see," I hand her the water bottle I grabbed from our table. "When were you going to tell me?"
Her eyes are filling with tears and we both know she knows exactly what I'm asking.
"Don't, just don’t," she's already walking toward the exit.
I follow her to my car, drive her home in charged silence. She's too exhausted to argue, slumped against the passenger window, one hand pressed to her stomach in a gesture that's becoming increasingly familiar.
Pull up to her building and she reaches for the door handle.
"Thank you for dinner and noticing I wasn't okay." Her voice is barely above whisper. "You can go now."
"Let me take care of you."
She unlocks her door but doesn't get out. "You don't get to do this, no need to care now after everything."
But I'm already out of the car, already walking around to help her. She's too tired to fight me, lets me guide her inside with one hand on her lower back.
I settle her on the couch, find her pajamas where she directs me, make tea she doesn't drink.
"You should go," she's curled into the corner of her couch, looking small and exhausted and absolutely wrecked.
"Not happening."
I stay and make sure she eats saltines and keeps down water. I check on her every hour when she finally falls asleep around midnight, and then wake up on her couch at 6 AM to find her watching me from the kitchen doorway.
"You needed someone," I sit up, rub my face, “and I'm not letting you go through this alone."