"That's not why I do these things," I cut in.
"I know," she repeated, more gently this time."Look, it would just make me feel better if I can make sure it's okay.Will you let me do that?"
I gave her another long look, my mind a battlefield of reasons to refuse.I should say no.I knew this.But there was something about her...
"All right," I finally agreed.
She led the way into her office, the space small but cozy.A soft glow from a desk lamp lit the room, casting shadows that danced on the walls.It smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
"Have a seat," she said, motioning to a chair opposite her desk.
I lowered myself into the chair, feeling its creak beneath my weight.She took her place behind the desk, shuffling some papers before looking up at me with those eyes that seemed to see too much.
"I appreciate you doing this," she began, her voice steady but warm."I know it's not easy for you."
I shrugged, trying to downplay the discomfort gnawing at me."Like I said, it's not a big deal."
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk."It is to me."
I met her gaze, feeling a strange mix of irritation and something softer that I couldn't quite place."Why?"
"Because people matter," she replied simply."And so do you."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.For a moment, neither of us spoke.
She opened her bottom drawer and pulled out a first aid kit, her movements deliberate and calm.I watched as she grabbed a pair of tweezers; the metal glinting in the soft light.
"Can I see your hand?"she asked, her voice gentle but firm.
I hesitated for a moment, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange comfort her presence brought.Reluctantly, I extended my hand toward her.
Her fingers wrapped around mine, warm and soft.The contrast was startling against the rough calluses of my own skin.I looked away, unable to meet her eyes.My hands had done things—ruthless things.They'd taken lives without hesitation or regret.
She worked quietly, her touch careful and precise.As she extracted a small splinter from my palm, I couldn't help but marvel at the gentleness in her actions.It felt foreign, almost undeserved.
"You really don't have to do this," I muttered, my voice gruff.
"I want to," she replied simply, not looking up from her task.
Her words hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt a strange tightness in my chest.This woman, with her soft hands and kind eyes, had no idea what sort of man I was—what I'd done.
I'd never regretted killing; it was part of the job, part of surviving.But sitting there, with Claire tending to my wounds with such care, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was an imposter in this small town.A wolf among sheep.
"Done," she announced softly, releasing my hand.
I looked down at my palm, now free of the splinter."Thanks," I said gruffly.
She smiled then, a small but genuine expression that seemed to light up the room."You're welcome."
I flexed my hand experimentally, feeling the lingering warmth from her touch.
“Oh, wait,” Claire said, reaching into the first aid kit once more.She pulled out a bandaid and carefully wrapped it around my finger, her touch deliberate and gentle.I watched her, transfixed by the way she moved, the concentration in her eyes.
From how close she was, I could count the freckles on her face.Twenty-eight on one side, I thought.And twenty-seven on the other.The realization was oddly comforting, like a small piece of order in an otherwise chaotic world.
She pulled away, a light blush spreading across her cheeks as she threw away the trash.She avoided my gaze for a moment, busying herself with tidying up the first aid kit.
"All done," she said softly, finally looking up at me with a small smile.
