Claire comes out of the shower

[If claire is below 5]

You've cleared the plates, rinsed them, and, after some deliberation, put the Scrabble tiles back in their bag by letter instead of leaving them in a heap, which seems like the sort of thing a good roommate would do. The water has been running down the hall for a while. Then it stops, and a door opens, and Claire appears in the kitchen doorway a few minutes later.

She's dressed. Jeans, a soft grey sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and her hair twisted into a damp, slightly lopsided knot that's already dripping onto her shoulder. She looks like she's about to go out, which, you realize, is a little funny, since it's past ten.

"What?" she says, catching your look.

"Nothing. I thought you might come out in pajamas."

"Weird to think about. But yeah, that would have been more convinient. But a pyjama, in front of a gentleman like yourself?" She pretends to be scandalized. "Please. My grandmother would rise from the grave. I only walk around in pajamas for people I've known for at least a month."

"Fair enough. I'll earn it."

"You've got time." She tugs at the sweater cuff, still dripping a little. "And I'm sorry about the shower thing. That came out stranger in my head than it did in the air."

"It was a perfectly clear sentence. Mostly in French. I caught about half of it."

"Which half?"

"The half about the shower."

"Ah." She winces, then laughs. "Right. Good. Let's keep it that way."

She fills the kettle without asking whether you want tea, which you do, and you end up on the couch in the living room, a careful cushion's width between you, mugs in hand. Outside, the city has gone quiet, and the apartment has the hush of a place meant for many more people than are in it.

"So," Claire says, tucking her feet under her. "Verdict on today. I'd like it for the record."

"The record?"

"I'm collecting data. It's for a project." She grins into her mug. "What was the best part?"

You think about it honestly. "Dinner. Though I want to be clear that I'm including the Scrabble humiliation."

"That's honest. And a little tragic." She considers. "Mine was the part where you said you'd rather go home than see anyone else. I didn't expect that."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I assumed you'd be out and about all the time, with the whole city to explore. It's strange, with the apartment this empty. You get used to your own company." She looks at the mug in her hands. "I'm glad you came back with me. That's all."

"Me too." You say it more simply than you expected to. "I realize we've been living here for weeks and I don't actually know much about you. I know you're from Montreal, you make a very good pie and you beat me at Scrabble. That's about it."

"That's a pretty decent summary, honestly." She smiles. "But yes. We should fix that. We've been mostly passing each other in the hall like two ships."

"Ships that cook for each other."

"One ship cooks. The other does dishes."

"Shirtless," you say, before you can stop yourself, and she snorts into her tea.

"I'll hold you to that. When I know you better." She tilts her head. "Tell me one thing I wouldn't guess about you. And I'll tell you one about me."

"You go first."

"Fine. I'm terrified of birds. Pigeons especially. Vienna has been an ordeal."

"That's genuinely upsetting."

"I know. Your turn."

You tell her about New Zealand, the stretch of coast you grew up near before Geneva swallowed your teenage years, and she listens with her chin on her knee, asking quiet questions, never once glancing at her phone. By the time the tea has gone cold, it's nearly midnight, and neither of you has noticed.

"I should sleep," she says finally, uncurling with a small, apologetic stretch. "I'm useless in the mornings otherwise."

"You're not useless. You made eggs on a Tuesday."

"Under duress." She stands, and for a moment seems about to say something else. Instead she smiles, soft and unguarded. "Thanks for tonight, John. I mean it."

"Thank you for the pie."

"You're welcome. Bonne nuit." She pauses in the hallway, one hand on the doorframe. "We'll do this again soon. Properly. With a rematch."

"I'd like that."

"Good. Sleep well."

The door clicks shut down the hall, and you sit for a while longer in the quiet, warm apartment, listening to the old pipes tick as they cool, and thinking that it is, after all, starting to feel like somewhere you live.