summary: Raccoon City took parts of Claire that she can never get back. She suffers prettily most days, a poster-child for how to handle survivor's guilt. Others, she torments herself with what could have been.

Or;

Claire decides to go back to finish her interrupted undergraduate degree.

content: hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, reader's pov

Claire keeps washing the same damn coffee mug.

It's been like this for the past five minutes. Claire half-heartedly scrubs at the cup, her mind somewhere far away, eyes glazed over.

That's what you picture, at least. From where you're seated, you can only see her back, her profile carved from the warm light of your apartment. It would be idyllic if you didn't know better. Stress suspends her at the kitchen sink, a string wound between her limbs that pulls her taut.

“You're gonna scrub the design off,” you warn. It takes a moment for your voice to penetrate her stupor. You picture her blinking, shaking her head slightly. Her ponytail swings gently, the image of her in your mind transposed into your kitchen.

Claire shuts the water off. She grabs a cloth to dry her mug. A new fixation. She's rubbing the damn thing hard enough that the ceramic squeals under her grip.

This is the part that takes patience.