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"I’m a software engineer," I say, unable to hide my laughter at her surprised expression. "Not what you expected?"

She shakes her head, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something close to amusement in her eyes. It warms my heart in a way that confuses me.

"I guess not."

I offer her a smile. "Don’t worry, most people are surprised when I tell them that." I say it partly because she looks embarrassed from assuming incorrectly, but also because it’s true. I look more like someone who should be a bodyguard ora bouncer than a computer nerd.

When we’re done eating, Claire stays seated until I finally stand, as if she’s been waiting for me to make the first move.

"Thank you for dinner," she says. "Can I do the dishes?"

"You don’t have to—"

"Please." There’s something about her tone that makes me think she’ll feel worse if Idon’tlet her, so I relent. She’s probably struggling, feeling like a charity case, and I only think that because it’s a feeling I know well. It’s hard to accept help when you’ve had to be stubbornly self-sufficient for so long.

I steal glances at her as she washes the dishes. Her movements are slow and deliberate, as though the act of cleaning gives her a sense of control. Like it’s something small she understands in a world of uncertainty.

When she’s finished, she starts to leave the room, but I find myself calling out, "Wait."

She stops, turning back with an expectant look.

"Uh…" Shit. I don’t actually know what I was going to say. But I don’t want her to think she needs to be confined to the bedroom the whole time she’s here. "Do you need anything? You can use the TV out here if you’d like to."

She hesitates again, then asks, "Actually, do you maybe have some paper and a pen I can use?" Her gaze doesn’t meet mine, as if she’s embarrassed for asking for anything, even as minimal as paper.

The request catches me off guard. Maybe she likes to draw or something. "Sure. Lined or blank?"

"Lined, please."

"Yeah, sure, follow me," I say, leading her to my office down the hall.

As I rummage through a drawer, I can’t help but wonder what she wants this for. To write something, I’m assuming,because if she was an artist she’d want blank paper. A letter, maybe? Is she reaching out to someone who can help her?

I shove the thoughts aside. It’s not my business.

But maybe I’ll be able to find out a little bit more about this enigma of a woman before she leaves.

CHAPTER FIVE

CLAIRE

I hesitate at the threshold of Mark's office, taking in the sight before me. Two towering bookshelves line the walls, their dark wood shelves packed with books of all sizes. I yearn to touch them, to pull them from their places and peek inside. I've never seen so many books in one place outside of the library, and never had the nerve or the time to linger at the library on the rare occasions I could sneak there.

"Can I look at these?" The words fall out before I can stop them.

"Of course."

I approach the shelves and run my finger along the spines. Some are textbooks about programming and computer science, but most appear to be fiction. Many of the covers are worn, clearly well-loved, and a pang of envy shoots through me.

Growing up, our reading material was strictly controlled.Religious texts, approved biographies of religious figures, and carefully curated educational materials were all we were allowed. Anything else was considered potentially dangerous, a gateway to sinful thoughts and worldly temptations.

I'd managed to sneak some library books here and there when I was sent into town to buy the groceries we couldn’t grow or produce ourselves, but those moments were always rushed and fearful. I never had time to explore or figure out what I liked. I just grabbed whatever I could quickly access and hide.

"You're more than welcome to borrow any of them," Mark says, interrupting my thoughts.

"Really?" Where would I even start?

He cocks his head to the side, confused by my surprise. "Yeah."