Chapter 10
ten
Jack woke to golden light streaming through Clara's bedroom window and the weight of a woman draped across his chest like he was furniture she'd claimed.
Clara's head was tucked under his chin, one hand splayed across his ribs, her leg hooked over his thigh in a way that suggested she'd burrowed into him during the night and had no plans to leave.
Her breathing was deep and even—the kind of sleep that came after being thoroughly, comprehensively satisfied.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jack didn't want to move.
No itch to check his phone. No mental inventory of escape routes. No familiar restlessness that usually started before dawn, whispering that wherever he was, he'd been there too long.
Just warmth. Quiet. Clara's heartbeat thumping steadily against his side.
Huh.
So this was what contentment felt like. He'd forgotten.
Jack let himself lie there, studying the ceiling of Clara's bedroom—the plaster cracked in a spiderweb pattern he'd been meaning to patch, the old iron light fixture he could probably restore if he had the right parts.
His brain defaulted to repair mode even in the aftermath of the best night he'd had in years, which was either professional dedication or a personality disorder. Possibly both.
Clara stirred. Made a small sound against his chest—half sigh, half grumble—and her fingers curled against his skin.
"Morning," he said quietly.
"Mmph." She didn't open her eyes. "What time is it?"
"No idea. Early. Sun's barely up."
"Then why are you awake?" She said this like consciousness before dawn was a moral failing.
"Force of habit."
"Terrible habit. Stop it." She pressed her face deeper into his chest, her hair tickling his chin. "Sleeping now."
Jack smiled at the ceiling. Clara Hawkins: prickly, sharp-tongued, capable of eviscerating a man with a single raised eyebrow—and apparently a grumpy, incoherent mess before coffee. He filed that information away like a treasure.
"I could make coffee," he offered.
"That would require you to move."
"Yes, that's generally how coffee gets made."
"Unacceptable." Her arm tightened around him. "You're warm. Coffee isn't warm. Well—it is. But you're here and the coffee is all the way over there and I'm not doing math this early."
"That's barely math."
"Shh." She patted his chest without opening her eyes. "Less talking. More being a pillow."
Jack closed his eyes and let himself be a pillow.
This was dangerous territory. He knew that. The part of his brain that had kept him moving for seven years—the part that monitored every connection for signs of permanence, that kept one bag mentally packed at all times—was flashing warnings like a dashboard light.
But the rest of him, the bigger part, the part that could feel Clara's warmth and her trust and the way she'd folded herself into him like he was safe—that part told the dashboard to shut up.
Not today. Today he was just going to be here.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he felt was Clara's fingers tracing the scar on his ribs. Light. Exploratory. The touch of someone mapping something they intended to memorize.
Jack kept his eyes closed, not wanting to break whatever this was.
Her fingers moved from the scar to his sternum, tracing a slow line down the center of his chest. Then across to his collarbone. Then back down, following the lines of muscle with the careful attention of an artist studying form.
Which, he supposed, was exactly what she was.
"You're awake," Clara said. Not a question.
"How'd you know?"
"Your breathing changed. And you're smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're definitely smiling."
He opened his eyes. Clara was propped on one elbow, looking down at him with her hair a wild red mess and pillow creases pressed into her cheek. She looked sleepy and soft and completely unguarded, and the sight of her hit him somewhere deep.
"Okay," he admitted. "I'm smiling."
"Why?"
"Because you're drawing on me with your finger and it's—" He searched for the right word. "Nice."
"Nice?" Her eyebrow arched. "I give you nice?"
"What do you want me to say? It's seven in the morning. My vocabulary hasn't loaded yet."
"Hmm." She traced a circle around his navel, her touch feather-light and deliberate. "Maybe I should help it load."
Jack's stomach muscles clenched under her fingertip. "That's... heading in a direction."
"Is it?" Innocent. Completely, transparently innocent, which meant it was calculated.
Her fingers drifted lower. Traced the line of hair below his navel with a slowness that was definitely intentional. Jack's body responded before his brain finished cataloging what was happening—heat pooling, skin tightening, his hand finding her hip on instinct.
"Clara."
"Jack."
"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."
"Bold of you to assume I want you to be responsible." She kissed his chest. Then his sternum. Then lower, her lips following the path her fingers had mapped, warm and unhurried.
The thing about last night was that it had been urgent.
Frantic. Two people who'd been circling each other for weeks finally crashing together with the force of something that couldn't be held back anymore.
Beautiful, yes. Intense, absolutely. But fast—like they were both afraid the window would close if they didn't dive through it immediately.
This was different.
This was slow. Lazy. Morning sun on tangled sheets, no rush, no urgency, just the quiet luxury of having time and choosing to spend it like this.
Clara explored him with the patience of someone who had nowhere else to be, and Jack let her, his fingers threading through her hair, his breath going ragged as her mouth moved lower.
"Wait—" he managed, catching her shoulders.
She looked up, a question in her eyes.
"Come here." He pulled her up, rolling them so she was beneath him, her surprised laugh muffled against his mouth when he kissed her. Morning breath and all. Neither of them cared.
"Smooth," she murmured against his lips.
"I have my moments."
"You had several moments last night, if I recall."
"Was that a review? I feel like that was a review."
"Three and a half stars," she said, straight-faced. "Would recommend with reservations."
"Three and a half?" Jack pulled back in mock offense. "That's generous for someone who screamed my name loud enough to scare the seagulls."
Clara's cheeks flushed. "I did not scream."
"The seagulls disagree."
"The seagulls can mind their own business."
Jack kissed her again, swallowing her laughter, and this time the kiss deepened into something warmer, slower, the playfulness bleeding into genuine want.
His hand found the hem of his shirt—the one she'd stolen at some point during the night—and slid beneath it, his palm skating up the warm curve of her waist.
Clara arched into his touch, her breath catching in that way he was already learning to crave.
"Condom?" he murmured.
"Nightstand. Still there from last night."
"Efficient."
"Forward-thinking."
He reached for the box without breaking the kiss—fumbled it, knocked it off the nightstand, swore into her mouth while she laughed so hard her whole body shook beneath him.
"Your coordination is truly inspiring," Clara gasped.
"It's your fault. You're distracting."
"I'm literally lying here."
"Exactly. Distracting." He retrieved the box from the floor, managed the condom without disaster this time—improvement—and settled back between her thighs, bracing on his forearms.
They looked at each other. Morning light caught the gold in Clara's hair, the green of her eyes, the fading marks on her neck from last night.
She looked up at him with an expression that was open and trusting and slightly terrified, like she knew exactly what she was feeling and hadn't decided yet whether to be happy or scared about it.
Jack knew the feeling.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi."
He entered her slowly. No urgency this time. Just a gradual, careful press that made them both exhale, foreheads touching, sharing breath. Clara's eyes fluttered closed, her hands sliding up his back, fingers spreading across his shoulder blades.
"Okay?" he asked.
"More than okay." She opened her eyes. "Stay right there for a second."
He stayed. Let her adjust. Watched the tension in her face melt into something softer, pleasure replacing the last traces of hesitation.
"Okay," she breathed. "Now move."
He did. Slow, rolling thrusts that built like a tide—unhurried, steady, the kind of rhythm that was about connection rather than release. Clara moved with him, her hips meeting his in a lazy counterpoint, her nails drawing light lines down his back that made his skin prickle.
It was achingly, almost unbearably intimate. Last night had been a wildfire—all heat and consumption and desperate need. This was something else entirely. A slow burn. A conversation conducted in breath and touch and the quiet sounds they made against each other's skin.
Clara's hand cupped his face, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. He turned his head, pressed a kiss to her palm, and felt her body tighten around him in response—a tremor that rippled through both of them.
"Jack—" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I know." He did. Could feel it building in her, in himself, that slow crest approaching like a wave gathering height.
He shifted the angle slightly, drew her leg higher on his hip, and Clara's head dropped back against the pillow, a sound escaping her that was half moan, half something more vulnerable—surprised, almost, like she hadn't expected tenderness to feel this intense.
Jack buried his face in her neck and let go of trying to control anything. Just moved with her, against her, inside her, until the line between them blurred and there was nothing but warmth and friction and the quiet, devastating intimacy of being completely present with another person.