AN Oh, it's been a while. Enjoy a new chapter filled with maximum mutual pining, and the foundations of even more plot. Things about to get very exciting, guys. Trust me on this one.


Claire listened to the people upstairs get ready for the day. She was still tired, one exhaustion bleeding into another until she didn't think she could move.

She heard Matt moving around the kitchen. He had come in earlier to grab his clothes, virtually silent in his quest to not disturb her. Each step had been like he was walking on feathers, carefully placing his feet to keep from disrupting a single one.

Claire had known Matt was a gentlemen from the first, but still his consideration surprised her. Everything he did was for her benefit, no questions asked.

And yet, a tiny, bitter part of her wondered how he could be so kind after treading on her heart. Or maybe that was why he was so decent now. Guilt might be his motivator for making everything about her.

Claire's stomach squirmed with shame over the thought. Matt had made the point of apologizing to her, going so far as to track her down at work to explain what had happened when he almost kissed her. That amount of effort couldn't be caused by a mildly guilty conscience. Claire just had no idea what it might be, otherwise.

The clock on the nightstand said it was almost eight, meaning Matt would leave soon. Claire forced herself out of bed and slipped into Matt's robe. She combed her fingers through her hair, hoping to undo the worst of the tangles before she left the room.

Matt stood at the stove, his back facing her. He cut a strong figure as always, his boxer's shoulders standing out even under his shirt. She watched him work, the muscles in his back shifting with every move.

His shirt didn't quite fit, she realized. It had once, but now his shoulders were too broad, his arms too bulky. That had probably happened when he started boxing. Claire watched the fabric stretch and bunch over his skin, trying to guess when he had decided prizefighting was a viable pastime.

She started slightly, realizing a moment too late that this was probably too intimate for her to see. She looked away, embarrassed.

"Good morning," she said. Matt flashed her a quick smile over his shoulder, then turned back to the stove. He loaded a plate of eggs like the day before, this time without the sausage.

"Morning."

"Aren't you having breakfast?" she asked, nodding at the single plate he had prepared.

Matt shrugged, handing it over. "I already ate."

Claire nodded and leaned against the table. She didn't know what to say to him anymore. Now that her shock was well and truly gone, all Claire could think about was how inappropriate it was for her to be there. Or maybe that was because of the visit to her family. She kept envisioning their reactions when they realized that the friend she was staying with was actually Matt.

"Are you nervous about talking to your friends today?" she asked. She glanced up from her plate in time to catch Matt sigh.

"Not nervous, just…anxious. Telling them means bringing them into this. I want them to be safe for as long as possible. Are you nervous about meeting them?"

"A little. Telling the story to my family made it all feel real. Who knows what will happen when I tell it this time."

"You won't have to," Matt said. "I'll tell them for you, if you want. That way, when we all meet, it's just to find a solution. Or options."

Claire nodded. That sense of exhaustion only grew.

Matt slipped on his suit jacket, still speaking. "Anyway, I should get going. If you need anything, I wrote the office number down," he said, pointing at a pad on the table. "Just try to rest up."

He watched her for a long moment, their faces just inches apart. Claire stared back, struck by how tired Matt looked. How tired he always looked, honestly. He might have been well-dressed and clean shaven now, but the bags under his eyes weren't just the product of a long day at work or a slew of boxing matches. They existed both in his proper home life and in the lawless boxing hall.

"Yeah, I'll try," Claire promised.

Only if you do, she wanted to add, but maybe that was a little too personal to say. They weren't close. He was a man she was friendly with, and she… She was a woman he had helped in crisis, that was now standing in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, about to eat his food. But they weren't close. They were just…very, very confusing.

Matt smiled at her, then left.

Claire ate breakfast. She had this persistent need to climb back in bed, pull the covers over her face and forget everything as Matt's smell surrounded her, but she made herself finish eating. She walked into the bedroom and resisted the call of the still-warm blankets. She pulled a new dress out of her bag and walked to the bathroom. She was not going to fall apart today.

Claire took her time washing off and cleaning her hair, hoping to use up as much time as possible. The less dead space in her day, the better she would be. Claire might have told herself that she had used up her moment of hysteria just after Mr. Solano's murder, but her body didn't quite believe it. If she could just distract herself from the murky, lethargic terror looming over her, she should be fine.

Claire brushed then pinned her hair, slipped into her dress, and pulled on a pair of stockings. She buckled her shoes and walked into the living room. Normalcy, that was what she needed.

Matt's home was already spotless, so Claire couldn't distract herself by cleaning. She rinsed off her dishes from breakfast, though she didn't really feel that counted. Claire glanced around the apartment, dismissing the books, the radio—

Matt's shirt. If one didn't fit, what were the chances the others didn't? It would be slight, but still, if it meant wiling away some time...but that might be invasive. If noticing his shirt didn't fit was too intimate—but this wasn't her ogling him. It was a thoughtful gesture.

Claire slipped to his closet and examined his shirts. She measured them, unsurprised to find a variety of sizes. She couldn't do much about the ones too tight in the shoulder, but there were some that had been bought in a larger size to accommodate his newfound bulk. At the very least, she could take those in around the waist. She pulled a shirt from the hanger, then grabbed her sewing kit.

Claire walked back to the kitchen and draped his shirt over the table. She tried not to feel self-conscious as she pin-fit the shirt to something closer to Matt's measurements (thankfully, she had plenty of reference from the numerous times he had been without his shirt in the boxing hall). She furrowed her eyebrows, mind wandering.

She was going to meet Matt's friends tomorrow. They were going to discuss her options. It sounded great on paper, but there was a fundamental problem: Claire knew practically nothing. She could recite her story, but beyond explaining her own horror, it wasn't very informative.

Claire grimaced as she threaded her needle. What she did know about the situation implicated the majority of Manhattan—white men with native New York accents. And then she would be useless. Which wasn't surprising, considering how she had stopped thinking completely when it all happened. If Matt hadn't been there, Claire probably would have stayed until the police arrived hours later. Claire was in no way this shining asset that she and Matt kept pretending she was.

Mr. Solano had done an expert job of hiding his connection with the thugs, whatever it may have been. Maybe that was why he'd been so agitated the last few days, she realized. He had been jittery and short-tempered all week. Maybe he knew he was in trouble, maybe he was trying to do…something.

Claire sighed in frustration as she cut her thread. Again, she couldn't theorize much more than she already had. The only time he had told her anything was when she'd been sitting beside him—

She sucked in a breath. He had told her something. It wasn't much, but he had definitely told her to check the desk drawer. And then the beginnings of a request, though she had been too panicked to let him finished. That was so stupid of her. She should have let him finish. It had been the man's last chance to explain, and she had screamed over him.

Claire ground her knuckles into her forehead. That couldn't be helped now. Instead she had to focus on the one clue they had. She had to tell Matt, maybe they could investigate. If they went back to the tailor's shop, maybe they might find something that would help them piece together answers. Anything would be a godsend, at this point.

Claire resisted the urge to check the clock. Of course Matt wouldn't be home for hours. She just had to wait, be patient…

Claire whittled away the time. She finished altering Matt's shirt, swept up her clippings, then checked the dress she had borrowed to see if it had dried. She made lunch, read a book she had started the day before, and made a short list of things she wanted to tell Matt's friends. She also wondered how she and Matt were supposed to explain their relationship. His friends might know he bare-knuckle boxed, but she doubted he would have mentioned her. Explaining why he had been there to save her would shine an uncomfortable amount of light on what feelings might or might not exist between them.

Claire was yet again tending to dinner when Matt came home. She smiled at him as he came through the door.

"Have a good day?" she asked.

"Yeah. Karen and Foggy are determined to help."

"Oh." Claire drew in a breath to steady herself, then nodded. "What did they say?"

"That they'd help, no question," he told her, a slight smile on his face.

"Even if it is a mob thing?"

Matt's expression turned a little worn as he hung up his coat. "Foggy and I are lawyers. We know just how bad this could be. And Karen…well, she's seen her fair share of the wrong side of the law."

He walked into the kitchen, pausing by the table. Claire frowned at him.

"How so?" Claire asked, intrigued by this mystery secretary.

"She…led an interesting life before we met," he began. "Karen recently decided to turn a new leaf."

"How ugly is this leaf?" she pressed.

"Not too ugly, all things considered." Matt paused, looking like he was weighing practicality against confidentiality. "Karen…was raised in the family business of crime."

"Okay," Claire repeated. She should have been at least a little taken aback by this, she knew that, but every new strange revelation was just another drop in her already full bucket. She probably would have accepted anything at this point. "That's…helpful, I think?"

Matt laughed and leaned against the table. "It would take God Himself to keep her from doing everything she can to make sure you get justice. Trust me. The ends justify the means, for her."

Claire nodded, then let out a slow breath. This was looking a little more manageable. If her hunch panned out as well, maybe they might even be able to make a plan, rather than just hide.

Claire held off explaining her realization under after they had eaten. She made small talk and agreed that they should go grocery shopping. When Matt said that tomorrow after the meeting would be best, Claire steeled herself.

"Actually…actually, I think tonight might be better."

"Tonight? Why?"

"I…I was thinking about what I'd tell Karen and Foggy, and I remembered that Mr. Solano was trying to tell me something. I'm not sure, but I think it was about all of this."

"Alright." Something closed off in Matt's face, a wariness appearing that said he was creating some distance in case he needed to disagree.

"He told me something was in the desk drawer," Claire said, plunging on. "I can't even guess what, but if we find it, it may help."

"When did he say that?" Matt asked. He was full on frowning now, though she couldn't tell if he was simply trying to remember or if he didn't like where she was headed. "I only heard him stutter a few words."

"He only said 'desk drawer'," Claire admitted. "But he wouldn't have told me if it wasn't important."

"So you want to go there and endanger yourself on a theory?" Matt stood, picking up his dishes to put them in the sink.

"Yes." Claire looked Matt in the eye. "I know it'll probably be blocked off by the police, but if we go tonight, no one will see us. And if the mob is covering this up like we think, they will want as few people looking at and thinking about it as possible."

"Claire, that's insane. You can't go, especially not back to the crime you witnessed. Anyone could be waiting—"

"Matt," Claire said, putting her hands flat on the table, "I'm going."

"No," he said. He turned away to put his dishes in the sink. When he faced her again, his mouth was set. "Let me go instead. If you get hurt—"

"This is something I need to do," Claire insisted. She pushed to her feet, jaw locked. "I can't let you go out there for me."

"I can protect myself."

"Not from a gun! Not from killers! I will never forgive myself if you die because I'm too afraid to go."

"This isn't about—"

"Matt, listen to me." Claire grabbed his hand on impulse, needing him to understand. She stared up at him, refusing to let himself shy away again. His face was pale, and the slightest bits of scruff were coming in, making him look a little more like the rugged brawler she was used to. "I know you're trying to protect me, but this is my life. It may be really scary right now, but I deserve the right to sort it out myself. Help me, Matt. I can't do this alone. But I can't not do it, either."

Matt's mouth was pressed into a tight line that said he dearly wanted to argue with her. Claire waited, staring him down.

"What happens if we both go and get killed?" he asked. His voice was quiet, but also blunt bordering on harsh. Claire's grip on his hands tightened from anxiety.

"Then—that's the risk we run. But—"

"Claire," Matt sighed, almost growling in frustration. "No. I can't let that happen. If we both die out there, then what's the point? We'll never figure out what actually happened to Solano, and Foggy and Karen will be left in the dark."

"They—"

"But they'll pick it up," he continued, cutting her off. "I know they will. They'll follow it through, possibly to the end. But I'd like to be there with them when it happens, rather than make them do it alone because we were too bullheaded to think this through."

Claire glared at him, dying to protest but also understanding his point. She was also exquisitely aware that they were still holding hands. More than that, Matt was holding hers in a death grip, equally desperate to persuade her to his way of thinking. She fought the urge to look down and draw attention to it, quietly terrified that he would grow self-conscious and move away.

She stole a couple more seconds of closeness before she made herself speak.

"Then what?" she demanded. "What will we do?"

"Tell Foggy and Karen," he said simply. "They need to know everything. And then…we could see what they think about this."

"Then we go. Together," she emphasized. She squeezed his hands, heart sailing at his reluctant nod.

"Yes. We'll go—if they think it's worth it." From the defeat in Matt's voice, Claire had the feeling at least one of them would lean in her favor.

"Thank you," she whispered, "thank you so much." She beamed at him, lacing her fingers through his.

Claire knew the exact moment Matt felt he should pull back. There was the slightest softness in his eyes, almost tragic in its tenderness. Then he blinked it away. Matt stared at their hands for a long moment, then slowly let them go.

She let it happen. She knew she had already taken far more than was fair, and she had no right to be bitter she couldn't have more.

And she wasn't. Even as Matt stepped away, sliding out of the near nonexistent space between them, Claire didn't feel the silken hurt of before. She was sad, of course, but Claire knew there was something more to this than he let on.

She gave them a few seconds, then asked, "We can still go to the market, right?" She silently thanked God her voice didn't shake.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Yeah, let's go now, then. If you're done eating, that is."

"Yes, I'm done."

Claire walked past Matt to get her coat. She closed her eyes as she slipped them on. Even though the greater part of society and Matt himself had said they couldn't be together, even though she was knotted and twisted and confused over the state of things between them, even though she knew this was the least appropriate time to even consider them being together…the tiniest bit of hope fluttered in her chest. The timing, the location, the situation, and the color were all wrong, but she couldn't help but notice those few moments when Matt had chosen to hold her close.


Matt had told the truth when he said he didn't care if people saw Claire leaving his apartment. Things were too serious for him to be concerned about image. And he certainly wouldn't be the first person in the building to be interested in someone of another color. The thing he dreaded were the comments Claire would receive.

They reached the market without incident, though. Matt was quietly thankful he hadn't gone out of his way to make friends with anyone, else he would have to explain Claire's presence, which would have been uncomfortable at best.

Claire's eyes wandered the buildings as they walked. She seemed intrigued by the brickwork and cars, as though she could see the Irish oozing out of them.

"There's no music," she said at one point. "Why doesn't anyone play music?"

Matt recalled the songs that had filled the streets of Spanish Harlem, from the drums to the trumpets to the voices. In Hell's Kitchen, the occasional radio could be heard, but mostly it was the grumble of a work day winding down. All of Harlem had been buzzing with one thing or another. Hell's Kitchen felt tired in comparison. Everything was drab and grey—the laundry hanging in the alleys, the people trundling along the sidewalk, cars rattling down the road. There was no color, no excitement, no music.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Guess we're just not that interesting."

Claire laughed and shook her head. They walked past another building before Claire sighed. "I can't get over how different Hell's Kitchen is from Harlem. Even the English-speaking neighborhoods just feel…different. It's all one city, but it feels like a totally different world."

"How so?"

"Just in the little things," she said, waiting for a car to pass before crossing the road. "It's like the air is different. In Harlem, it's like you can hear the same names whispered all over. Mama Stokes, she's the big one. Her and her nephew, Cottonmouth, they run things. They keep things in line because the police don't care about the Latino and black neighborhoods."

"How do they do that?" Matt asked, tilting his head. Hell's Kitchen had its fair share of street gangs (they had been common as penny candy before the war, but Germany had either scared them to God or hardened them into proper criminals), but none were strong enough to actually run the area.

Claire gave a slight smile. "I don't know, honestly. It's always struck me as funny. Everyone knows Mama Stokes is the person you go to if you've got a problem, but we also know Cottonmouth will bloody some faces if he needs to. Of course, she taught him everything he knows. But it's kind of glamorous, you know? They run this club that's always lit up, has all these well-dressed people coming and going…"

"Think about joining them?" Matt asked, eyebrow raised.

"No, not yet," Claire laughed. "I'm fine just where I am."

Matt smiled with her for a moment, then asked, "So is it a good different or a bad one?"

"I don't know," she mused. "Just different. I used to think Sweeney's boxing hall was it, that was your world. But that's really not."

Matt grinned, shaking his head. For how crooked Sweeney's treatment of the boxers was, Matt almost wished that was true. Things were simple there. Either a person won or lost, their blood and pain was worth something or it wasn't. There was no question about what was right or appropriate there.

And yet, Matt was still committing himself to this strange twilight world with Claire. No matter how 'free' he had been in the four walls of the boxing hall, he had still not been able to shake the depravity clinging to his skin.

And yet, Matt hadn't really felt like a monster since he had almost kissed her.

"Do you have any family here?" Claire asked.

Matt looked at her in surprise. "Uhm, no."

"In the area, or at all?"

"At all. That I know of, at least," he confessed. "I never really knew my mother's family, and my dad was an only child."

"How long has you family been here?"

"My grandma came over from Ireland and met my grandad. He died before I was born and she when I was a kid."

Claire's face pulled in a look bordering on sadness, concern and sorrow mixing so prettily on her face. "That sounds so lonely. I mean, you saw my family. We're all packed in on top of each other."

Mat smiled, recalling the unquestioning comfort they had all given each other in the face of Claire's tragedy. He had had something like that back in France—soldiers stacked together for lack of space, for warmth, for reassurance. There hadn't been any warmth in that misery, though. The stilted silence between rounds and the cacophony of gunfire hadn't left much time for deep seated comradery.

No, he had wanted solitude after the crushing dark of the trench. His small apartment had been precious relief after the chaos of his days. At least for the first few years. Now…solitude had become habit.

"My parents both came here when they were younger," Claire continued, oblivious to the dark memories in Matt's head. "They had family here, but they were both born in the islands."

"Islands? They're not from the same place?"

"My dad was Afro Cuban," she explained. "My mom's Puerto Rican. That caused a lot of trouble with my family. You could think the world was going to end, to hear my mama tell it."

Matt furrowed his eyebrows, not sure if he understood. Claire chuckled to herself, the worries of the last few days lost as she remembered stories from her childhood.

"My mom's family were all light, light, light. They couldn't believe my mama would go choose someone so dark. She really only got away with it because she was her daddy's favorite. My uncles were all so relieved when Maribel came out as light as she did."

Matt laughed in surprise. He was more than well acquainted with the rules between white people and everyone else, but he had never expected the concept to cause separation between the rest of humanity.

They reached the market, and Claire took a purposeful step toward a stall before hesitating.

"What did you come here to get?" Claire asked. "I was going to buy enough for the week, but then I realized it's your house, so…"

"Go ahead," Matt told her. "I won't interfere."

She flashed him a quick smile, one so grateful it made his heart break.

Claire bustled through the market in search of the mysterious ingredients she needed. Neither one of them was surprised at the lack of spices and peppers she wanted, but she was satisfied with her haul from the butcher and grocery vendors.

Matt watched the vendors as they interacted with Claire. They all watched her expectantly after she made her selections, then cast a puzzled look at Matt when he produced a wallet. He tried not to notice the quality of their looks, the slightly raised eyebrows.

He had been telling the truth when he said he didn't care if people saw Claire, had been telling the truth when he told himself that he was not the only person to interact with people outside his own race. But he would be a fool if he pretended that his more traditional neighborhood wouldn't be shocked at his freely associating with a Hispanic woman. It wasn't like in the gin joints and dance halls, where it was too dimly lit and too doused with whiskey for any clear distinction to be made between skin color.

Although, he supposed that while they might have received less looks in those places, they certainly would have caused more suggestive assumptions.

Matt sighed through his nose. Buying vegetables was not supposed to be one of the more difficult things in his week.

Claire was pleased as they walked back to the apartment. The streetlights clicked on, bathing them in warm light. Her eyes were shadowed under the brim of her hat, but they were livelier than they had been a couple days before. Progress, just like he'd hoped.

"Thank you for this," Claire said. He glanced at her, not sure what she meant. "I thought I'd go screwy staying inside any more. I know we just went out yesterday, but…each day feels like forever."

Matt's mouth quirked as he nodded. "It's okay, Claire. Always."

Claire stopped walking. He looked back at her, frowning slightly. Her expression had abruptly turned serious, bordering on confused. Her voice had turned quieter when she spoke.

"Honestly, though, Matt. Why do you do it? You have no idea what's going to happen, and yet you're giving me everything. Why are you doing this, Matt?"

He shrugged, his smile slipping slightly. Why wouldn't he help her? Pulling Claire out of the shop had been purely gut instinct, saving someone from an undoubtedly horrid situation. Matt honestly would have done it for anyone.

Letting her stay, though, that had been a little less instinct and a little more… Well. Matt had already decided love was off the table, which only left lust and other ugly things, which he knew wasn't (entirely) the case. Claire was worth so much more than that.

"It was the right thing to do," he said, praying she didn't see the half-lie in his face.

"But—" She bit down on the word, pressing her lips tight as she looked away. "Why, Matt? I can't repay you in any way for this. I can't make this worth everything you've given me."

"This isn't something you have to pay me back for."

Claire looked back at him, eyebrows drawn. There was an intensity in her face now, completely different from the fiery determination that had flared in his kitchen just a little while ago. Then, Matt had been ready to shake her by her shoulders, demand why she was refusing to stay home and stay safe. Now he was both charmed and cornered by her honesty, uncertain which way he could move to keep from exposing himself even more.

"Thank you, Matt," she said, pushing as much meaning into the words as she could. "I guess that's what I'm trying to say. It's not just a quick acknowledgement or anything. I truly appreciate everything you've done."

He forced a smile and bobbed his head toward this apartment building. "It's my choice, Claire. If, uhm, you're ready, let's go."

"Yeah. Let's go home," she said.

Matt grimaced after she turned her back, cursing himself. Why couldn't he have a proper conversation with her? Why couldn't he simply lay out exactly what he was thinking and feeling in this dirty, empty street, why couldn't he just clear the air and tell her that this could not last? Why couldn't he just say that he was too much of a heaving wreck to properly love someone, that he truly did adore her passion and care and goodness, but that was the exact reason why he had to stay away?

Why couldn't he explain to himself the reason he insisted on holding her at an arm's length, but within the confines of his own home?

Neither one of them said much as they walked back to his apartment. Matt couldn't even begin to guess what she was thinking about. The little glances he stole of her didn't tell him much; her hat brim was in the way, revealing only the edge of her cheek and her slightly pursed mouth.

There were only a few inches between them. A part of Matt wondered even now if it would really be so bad if he crossed that gap. Some part of her was interested in him, even after the glorious disaster that had been the last few days. He could feel it sometimes, crackling the air when they both lingered for just a moment too long. Matt might have been ready to shake her bodily in the kitchen, but he also had been ready to kiss the scowl from her face.

He shook his head. That was the devil speaking, it always was.

Just a little longer, he told himself. She's here just a little longer.

Only problem was, he didn't know if he was reassuring himself that he didn't have that much farther to go, or if it was a lament that soon she could leave. And he didn't know which would be worse.


The Harlem Renaissance was a cultural revolution centered in black communities in Harlem, emphasizing art, literature, and music. Cultural icons such as Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, and Langston Hughes all established themselves during this time. These changes were felt throughout New York to varying degrees. Claire, living in Harlem, would be impacted more strongly in her every day life than most, even though she lives in the Hispanic part of Harlem. Matt, in Hell's Kitchen, would feel some, but more if he sought it out. More trendy, liberal parts of the neighborhood, such as those containing dance halls or catering toward the younger flapper and dandy images as mentioned in the chapter, would be the majority of this influence.