Knock. Knock. Knock.
The slow raps on her door were the only thing strong enough to pull her nose out of her latest thrift store find—a first edition of Murder on the Orient Express. It was a little beat up, with an uneasy spine and the occasional page tear, but it was hers. She wasn't expecting company that night.
She had settled into the large, cushioned chair in the corner of her living room—a discounted item from a yard sale—with her book and a cup of chamomile, ready to relax a bit before bed. But then there was the knocking and a jolt shot through her, nearly forcing the book closed in her hands. Carefully, she placed the book on the coffee table and pushed herself out of the chair.
As she took cautious steps toward the front door, she asked herself, who would be crazy enough to come to her apartment after 9pm? Surely, not Leigh. No, she had an early shift tomorrow and wouldn't be caught dead losing sleep for something so foolish. That woman guarded her rest like it was unearthed treasure.
But Cassandra did not know anyone else close enough for this. At least, not anymore. Then, a voice through the door. "Cass, it's me." It was masculine and familiar—she would know it anywhere. Her feet shuffled quickly the rest of the way, fingers fumbling with the locks. She pulled the door open to reveal the face of her older brother.
"Clint?" she asked, hopeful in the rhetorical nature of the question. "What are you...doing here? How'd you know where I live?"
He tilted his head with a small smile in a momentary expression, "You didn't exactly pick an original alias, did ya?"
No, she had not. Claire Brown was generic, but not generic enough to be missed by someone like Clint Barton. Not when he was desperate to find his sister. Cassandra exhaled, nodding a bit as she stepped back, pulling the door open enough to usher him inside. "I guess not."
He walked into the apartment and she was quick to shut up the door behind him. Then, she went to the kitchenette. "Want some coffee?" she asked, as she breezed by him.
"Sure. Thanks."
Nodding to herself, she pulled a mug out of the cupboard. Clint stood at the intersection of kitchen and living room, glancing around the small space, taking in the little details. The book on the coffee table, a row of succulents planted along the window sill above the sink, random art hanging on the wall by the tiny hallway toward the bedrooms.
There wasn't much he knew about her anymore. Though, these small things didn't remind him of what he did know at all. It was like standing in a stranger's home. And, in a way, he was. Cassandra brought the steaming mug to him, and he took it with a small nod. "It's a nice place you got here," he said, before taking a sip.
"Oh, thanks," she took a quick glance around, inwardly cringing at the mess. Of course, a singular dirty dish always felt like a mess to her. Her eyes met Clint's, and she asked, "So...why are you here?"
He chuckled in mild disbelief, "What do you mean? Cass, I haven't seen you in years."
"Yeah, because I ran away, Clint. I didn't want anyone seeing me."
Clint stared at his sister quietly, trying not to absorb the hurt the words hurled at him caused. He'd thought he wasn't just anyone—he was her brother. That had to count for something, didn't it? He looked away from her to the hallway, the wall, then the floor. Cassandra took a deep breath as realization smacked the space between her eyes.
It flooded her gut with a nauseating guilt, and she swallowed hard to ignore it. "Things weren't going well for me at the school, so I left," she tried to explain. "You were going places and I needed to figure out my life, too-"
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Clint suddenly asked.
Cassandra's brow knitted in confusion. Perplexed by the question, she followed his eyes along the length of the hallway, to the open door of the master bedroom—and a breath caught in her throat. On the faux wood floor beside her bed was a crumpled up dress shirt. It was visibly bigger than Cassandra's frame, and it didn't make sense that she would own it.
She did not, but she didn't have a boyfriend, either. "Oh- no, no," she replied, mumbling as she walked quickly down the hall. She pulled the bedroom door shut and exhaled. "That's my neighbor's. I need it for a project."
Clint eyed her skeptically as she made her way back to the living area. He caught half of the excuse—though, there was no reason to press the issue, other than the desire to know her, the in's and out's of her new life. "Look, I didn't mean to stress you out. If you're not ready for in-person visits, just give me a call, okay?" he said, digging into his jacket pocket to retrieve a card.
He'd written a phone number on it just for this purpose—in case she was a little too flighty. He held it out to her and, when she was close enough, she took it gratefully. "Yeah, okay," she nodded in agreement.
"Thanks for the coffee."
He set the mug on the small kitchen island and turned to head for the door. Cassandra's heart sank. She'd been so used to hiding that being visible again felt like being naked. It was frightening and rattled her bones, but it genuinely pained her to watch him leave. He had just opened the door when she started taking steps toward him.
"Wait-"
But Clint was already turning around to see her a second before she flung her arms around his shoulders. He was taken aback by the sudden affection but it was incredibly welcome. As he wrapped his arms around her torso to reciprocate the gesture, she pulled away. "It was really nice to see you," she told him, taking a step back. "Can I call you tomorrow?"
"Of course—any time you need me, just call."
He left the apartment and Cassandra locked the door, and it was as though he never knocked. The only trace left was the mug on the counter, and that was gone the second she rinsed it in the sink and placed it on the drying rack. She shuffled to the living room to retrieve her book and then down the hall to her room to climb into bed.
However, the moment she opened the door her eyes landed on the crumpled dress shirt. Sighing heavily, her fingers plucked it from the ground, before dropping her weight onto the edge of the bed. No, she didn't have a boyfriend. She had a wish.
It had been months since that shirt had first touched the floor. She'd picked it up almost every night since, letting the fabric against her skin remind her she wasn't crazy, she hadn't imagined it all. If she did, the shirt wouldn't exist. Though, it was hard not to feel just a little insane. Cassandra pulled the fabric to her face and took in a deep breath, letting her eyes close. It still smelled like him—like cedar and musk—and it never failed to put a twinge in her gut.
She fell back against the comforter and exhaled, holding the clothing to her chest. All she had was the hope that maybe, some day, he would show up somewhere again. Every time before had been a surprise. Maybe he would surprise her again? Until then, she would have to keep clinging to just a shirt, just this little bit of hope.
