Chapter 8 #2
She laughed and bumped his shoulder playfully. "It's kinda cliche, right? Small town festivals, the cozy hominess of it all? Like does this really exist? But here it does."
"No, I like it. Feels good to know that places like this do exist. I've traveled a lot of places and not everywhere is lucky enough to keep this kind of heart."
She nodded. "Beacon's End definitely has heart."
He chuckled, and Clara leaned into him — easy, automatic, like her body had decided something her brain hadn't announced yet.
His arm was warm where her shoulder pressed against it.
The bonfire crackled. The guitar had given way to singing, loose and off-key, the kind nobody minded because nobody was performing.
His hands were still. His chest was quiet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat somewhere this long without his legs wanting to move.
That should've been a warning. It didn't feel like one.
"Clara—"
"Jack, there you are!" Maeve appeared with the inevitability of a tidal wave, two red cups in hand. "I brought you both the good cider. The stuff Tim's dad makes in his basement. Don't tell anyone—it's technically illegal."
She handed them the cups and disappeared before Jack could respond, swept up by someone asking about oyster shucking rules.
Clara laughed. "Be careful," she warned, "this stuff will put hair on your chest."
"How can I resist with that kind of warning hanging in the air?" he teased, taking an exploratory sip of the cider—which was strong enough to explain why it was illegal—and gasped against the assault on his mouth. "Jesus…you weren't kidding."
She laughed and took a tiny sip of hers. "I would never lie to you about something that serious."
They laughed and joked about Tim's cider doubling as paint stripper and Jack caught himself between moments, losing himself in the sound of Clara's laughter. It struck him as a tragedy that some dipshit in her past had made her feel self-conscious about something as beautiful as her joy.
He wanted to know more but also, he didn't.
Because if he knew more about the man who'd hurt her, he'd have to fight the urge to find the son-of-a-bitch and teach him some manners, which wasn't his place.
But the urge to know more about this incredible woman was getting harder to fight.
Clara caught his gaze, her green eyes softening. "Having fun?"
"Too much fun," he admitted.
Clara stilled but she lightly teased, "Probably a hazard for someone like you."
He forced a chuckle. "Something like that."
To her credit, Clara didn't push him for clarification or make him defend himself. She just accepted it — accepted him — and turned back to the fire. Which should've felt like relief.
Instead it sat in his gut like a question he didn't know how to answer.
The festival wound down gradually. Families with small children left first, kids drowsy on shoulders. Then the older crowd, citing early mornings and creaky joints. The bonfire burned lower, embers glowing red in the darkness.
Clara didn't move. Neither did Jack.
They'd been sitting close all night—shoulders touching, hands occasionally brushing, existing in that charged space between friends and something more. But now, with most of the crowd gone and the fire dying to coals, the air between them felt different. Heavy with possibility. Electric with want.
"We should probably head back," Clara said, making no move to stand.
"Probably."
"It's late."
"It is."
Neither of them moved.
Jack was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. Her shoulder against his arm. Her thigh pressed against his leg. The way she'd tucked her hand into his somewhere around hour two and hadn't let go since.
He was aware of the way she smelled—salt and smoke and something sweet that might have been her shampoo. The way firelight caught the red in her hair, turning it copper and gold. The way she'd laughed tonight, open and genuine, like she'd forgotten to be guarded.
His pulse was doing something it shouldn't. His hand had tightened around hers without him deciding to. His whole body had turned toward her like a compass needle finding north, and the conscious part of his brain was only just now catching up to what the rest of him already knew.
"Jack?" Clara's voice was quiet, nearly lost under the sound of waves.
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to kiss me?"
His heart kicked against his ribs. He licked his lips. "If I say something like, 'As desperately as my lungs need oxygen' I'll sound like an idiot so I'll just say, 'You have no fucking idea…' and hope that conveys the same answer."
She grinned up at him. "Then, do it, you big idiot."
The light couldn't get any greener but suddenly, Jack felt all the nervousness of a teen boy with his first crush.
What if their head tilts don't line up and he accidentally kisses her upper lip?
What if their noses bang into each other in some cruel misalignment and they give each other the immediate 'ick'?
Ahhh, fuck it, just go for it and let the chips fall where they may.
Jack turned to face her fully, bringing his free hand up to cup her jaw. Her skin was warm from the fire, soft under his palm.
The kiss was gentle at first. Tentative. Her lips soft against his, questioning, like she was testing whether this was real or just another thing that would disappear when she opened her eyes.
Jack answered by pulling her closer, his hand sliding from her jaw to tangle in her hair. She tasted like illegal cider and smoke and something indefinably Clara—salt and sweetness and the kind of brave that came from choosing to try even when you were terrified.
Clara made a small sound in the back of her throat and pressed closer, her free hand coming up to grip his shirt. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, like they were both trying to communicate everything they'd been holding back for two weeks through touch alone.
Jack's other hand found her waist, fingers spreading across her ribs, feeling her heartbeat racing under his palm. She was warm and real and kissing him like he was oxygen and she'd been drowning.
He knew the feeling.
They broke apart when breathing became necessary, foreheads pressed together, both of them gasping slightly. Clara's hand was still fisted in his shirt. Jack's fingers were still tangled in her hair.
"Wow," Clara breathed.
"Yeah."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
She laughed, the sound shaky and bright. "Articulate as always, Callahan."
"You kissed the words out of me, Hawkins."
"Did I?"
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
Clara pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, searching his face for something. Jack let her look, let her see whatever she needed to see. He had nothing to hide. Not anymore.
Whatever she found must have been the right answer, because she smiled—soft and real and devastating—and kissed him again.
This time was different. Slower. Deeper.
Less frantic question and more confident answer.
Jack let himself sink into it, memorizing the way she fit against him.
The little sound she made when he nipped her bottom lip.
The way her fingers curled into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, the part that kept watch — the part that always kept watch — was waiting for the usual impulse. The pull-back. The exit calculation. The voice that said: don't get comfortable.
It didn't come.
When they finally pulled apart, the bonfire had burned down to embers, painting everything in shades of red and gold. The beach was empty except for them. The ocean crashed steady and eternal behind them. Above, stars wheeled across a sky so clear it hurt.
Clara traced his jawline with her fingertips, her touch feather-light. "Ready to go?"
And Jack might've broken the laws of physics, he shot to his feet so fast, dragging Clara with him.
Her laughter rang out across the empty beach, and the sound hit him somewhere deep—the kind of wanting that wasn't just physical but something bigger and harder to name.
As future mistakes go…this one was going to leave a mark. But at least it would be worth every second.