The Club - Ep. 12 - The Stay

Another chapter with zero sex, so if you came for the bedroom fireworks, do yourself a favor and skip ahead to Chapter 13.

---

When Claudia left the debriefing--test results, session, all of it--the hallway was empty. Heather had already gone. She lingered a moment, hand still on the door, the words from inside clung to her like static. Then she started to walk, each step setting a steady rhythm. The steady rhythm eased the tension, at least for now. Thoughts drifted in, as they often did after too much honesty in too little time.

"You build structure around yourself. To survive."

The line followed her, not as an accusation, but as something that had always been quietly true.

Another sentence stayed close:

"You held your position. To stay untouched."

That one cut deeper. She remembered the session with Marcus--how still her body had been. How proud she'd felt, holding through every command, every strike, every breath.

But now the words clung to her: "You didn't move. Not because you trusted us. Because you didn't want to give us anything." Her pride held, but something inside her shifted. The truth in those words settled in her bones--almost physical.

She passed a narrow window. The light outside had shifted, warmer now. Her gaze stayed forward.

"You endured. You remained outside the experience."

The phrasing unsettled her. She had been present. She had felt every second. Every restraint, every trace of heat on her skin. She remembered the discipline in her jaw, the breath she held. Yet something in her agreed: being present wasn't the same as taking part.

Her hand drifted to her forearm, brushing the skin where the leather cuff had closed. The faint imprint was still there--a memory she could feel, even if it was almost gone.

She turned the corner and saw him. He stood nearby, turned slightly away from her. Tall and lean, with dark hair cropped short--a face quietly alert, not actively interested. His shirt sleeves were rolled loosely to his forearms, exposing strong wrists and steady hands.

A woman approached from the other direction, her hair still damp, face faintly flushed. She paused briefly when she reached him, fingertips touching his arm lightly.

"I enjoyed that," she said quietly.

"Me too," he replied, voice calm and steady.

"See you."

He nodded, watching her go as she turned the corner.

Claudia had slowed without realizing it. Her mind still echoed from too many things said in quiet tones. Observations that had landed quietly, but stuck.

"You didn't move. Because you didn't want to give us anything."

"You made it through--but you weren't really part of it."

She had stayed silent, at least on the outside. Yet something inside her bristled.

When he glanced up, his gaze settled on her face--neutral, curious.

Not pushing. Not inviting. Just... there.

"Claudia, right?"

She nodded. Brief. Measured.

"You new here?"

Her look wasn't unfriendly, but far from warm.

"I guess so."

He shifted his weight slightly. "I'm Tom, by the way."

She gave another small nod. Just enough.

"Let's grab a coffee," he said.

He turned without waiting. After a breath, she followed.

They crossed a narrow hallway and stepped into the kitchenette. The air was warm, quiet, and carried a faint trace of coffee and steam. A small stack of clean cups sat on the shelf. Tom moved to the machine--a classic Italian model, all chrome and weight--and handled it with quiet efficiency. Coffee grounds, portafilter, a firm twist, then the low hum of extraction.

He set two small cups on the tray.

Claudia leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, her gaze somewhere near the sink but not fixed on anything. The hum of the machine filled the silence.

"You always this quiet?" he asked without turning.

"Sometimes," she said. "It depends."

He gave a small nod and left it at that.

When the extraction finished, he handed her a cup, then took a slow sip from his own. The silence remained, companionable rather than tense.

She lifted the cup, letting the heat rest against her fingers before she drank.

They stayed in the kitchenette longer than she expected. The conversation remained brief--just a few lines, half-formed thoughts, left unnamed. But something in the quiet between them held. Enough that she followed when he moved toward the back door.

They walked in silence across the back lawn. The late light felt warm on their arms. A path curved toward a tree-lined edge of the garden, where an old bench stood in half-shadow. Tom let her reach it first. She sat without hesitation. For a moment, the silence felt easy.

Time slipped by as they sat together. The conversation found its rhythm slowly--pauses, light remarks, a comment about the gravel being uneven, a short exchange about bad coffee and even worse sleep. Claudia answered, sometimes laughed, sometimes left a silence between them. But her thoughts kept circling the conversation from earlier. The way the House had summed her up, as if all her edges could be named and measured.

Finally, she said, "They told me I seem cold."

Tom glanced over, his face open but quiet.

"I don't mind the word," Claudia went on. "It's just not the right one. I'm not cold. I'm cautious."

He nodded, looking off toward the trees. "That tracks."

She half-smiled. "And you? How do you come across?"

He considered. "Mostly as someone who doesn't talk about himself." A pause, then: "It's working."

That drew a quiet sound from her--something close to a laugh.

They stayed like that for a while longer, talking about small things until the light shifted and her cup was empty. But the feedback from The House this morning kept pressing against her thoughts, sharper now in the quiet.

She didn't plan to say more. But then the words started coming--disjointed at first.

About the things they had said. The ones she already knew. The ones that stung.

What she had answered. What she had only thought.

And Tom just listened. Attentive in the way that made her want to keep going.

"We talked about the test results today. And the session."

Tom didn't answer, but she noticed the way his shoulders shifted--still, but attentive.

"I let him do everything," she said. "And I didn't move."

Her voice stayed calm, almost matter-of-fact. She wasn't describing the session for him, just laying out the facts, as if she needed to hear them herself.

Tom didn't ask what "everything" meant. He didn't blink, didn't shift to fill the silence. just continued listening, steady and present.

There was something in him that reminded her of Marcus. Not in the way he looked, or even how he moved, but in the way he held space. The absence of nervousness. The way his body didn't adjust to fill silence.

She found herself watching his hands again. Imagining what those hands might allow. Or demand. What they might do with the instruments she had seen.

"I think I scare people," she said. "Not by what I do. Just... by not offering anything."

Tom let the words stand, without reaching for comfort.

He turned his mug slightly, watching the rim with his thumb.

"I don't know enough of you," he said. "You're maybe hard to read."

That didn't sting. But it didn't slide off either.

"I see," she said.

Her hands had tensed slightly on the ceramic.

He leaned back again. Gave her space.

"I've done that too," he added. "But I usually notice it too late."

She didn't answer. But this time, she stayed with him.

After a while, he said, "What would your friend say? Heather, right?"

Claudia's mouth twitched--something between a smirk and a breath she didn't fully let go.

"She'd probably say I'm impossible. That I need a plan for everything. That I don't let people in unless they pass some invisible test."

Tom didn't reply, but something in his posture settled, as if the image made perfect sense.

Claudia looked down at her mug, then added--quieter, not bitter:

"Right now... she probably wouldn't say much at all."

Tom didn't ask why.

But maybe he didn't need to.

Claudia traced the rim of her mug once, slowly.

"She saw something in me. Before I did. And I think... I pushed back harder than I meant to."

She stopped there.

The words weren't heavy. Just unfinished.

Tom let the air settle.

Eventually, she exhaled. The kind of breath that belongs to the end of a long day.

"I'm tired," she said. "My brain's still spinning. But I don't want to think anymore."

Tom looked toward the house.

"Wanna watch something dumb?"

She turned her head.

"Like what?"

"No idea. Something with a plot. Maybe two."

She stood slowly, brushing her hands off on her pants. "Fine. But no robots."

They ended up in Tom's room--he had the better screen, more streaming services. It hadn't needed much discussion.

They spent too long picking a movie--scrolling, vetoing, suggesting worse.

Eventually, Tom insisted: "This one's a must-see."

Claudia didn't argue. But twenty minutes in, the plot still hadn't revealed itself. But that wasn't the point. She just didn't want to be alone in her head tonight.

The pizza boxes sat open on the low table, two slices missing, a third cooling slowly in Claudia's hand.

The room was dim, the screen a little too bright, the volume a little too low.

She shifted slightly, more from something quieter than discomfort.

Then, without looking over, she said:

"Would it bother you if I leaned on you?"

Tom glanced at her, just briefly.

He gave a small smile. "No. Come here."

She moved closer, careful in the way of someone unused to asking. Her shoulder touched his. Then her body followed, slow and quiet, until her head rested lightly against his chest.

Tom stayed silent. He made no move to adjust--only softened a little under her weight.

They remained that way.

The silence gave her room to rest. She felt no urge to break it.

The movie had started drifting into the background.

Claudia hadn't moved in a while. Then she shifted, turned slightly toward him.

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

Her voice was quiet. No tension. Just tired.

She stood, undid her jeans, and stepped out of them in one motion.

Her T-shirt stayed on. She folded the pants slowly, placed them on the chair, and crossed the room to the bed.

Tom reached for the remote and turned off the screen.

The room fell quiet in a way that felt natural.

Then he got up and disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned, she was already under the blanket, lying on her side, facing away. He wore a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt, soft with wear. He slid in behind her. Close, but not touching.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then she shifted, slow and certain, until her back touched his chest and her body settled into his. The contact felt quiet, instinctive--neither invitation nor test, just something her body needed more than space.

She reached for his wrist and drew his arm across her, settling it where it felt right. Just to know he was there. Quiet. Steady. To bring her through the night. She lay still for a long time, her body aware of his presence, relaxed against him. The day had offered too many mirrors; now she longed for a pause from reflection.

Yet a subtle alertness remained inside her, a thought still unfinished. It wasn't jealousy or curiosity. Just a need to know what kind of presence she had let that close.

Eventually, her voice reached him, soft in the dark.

"Did you sleep with many women?"

He hesitated. Not long--but just enough for her to notice.

"Yes," he said. Then, after a pause: "Each one was different."

She didn't react right away.

"And me?"

He took a moment. Then he shifted--barely--just enough for her to sense it.

"You are," he said. "In a way that stays."

She leaned into him, more fully now, until her back rested firm against his chest. Her hand found his and stayed there--not gripping, just holding. He didn't move. He simply stayed.

As the weight of the day faded, one thought moved through her--soft as the room around them.

Maybe learning something about herself never brought real fear. The frightening part was always the silence afterward.

Tonight, she didn't have to meet it alone.

Slowly, she let herself fall asleep.