Clara followed Jonas out, her chest heavy, her mind whirling with a single, overwhelming thought.
He carried so much. And she wanted, needed, to help him carry it.
In the car, silence stretched. Jonas’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. Finally, he exhaled, his voice low. “Thank you.”
Clara turned, her pulse racing. “For what?”
“For coming. For… not correcting me.” His lips quirked faintly. “For letting me call you mine.”
Her breath caught. And though she knew she should tell him it was only pretend, that it meant nothing… she couldn’t. Because it had meant everything. “Why did you say it?”
He looked at her then, his heart bleeding through those expressive eyes. “Because it might be the only chance I’ll ever get to tell her, and one day I hope it’s the truth.”
Chapter 28
The driveback blurred into stretches of motorway and sodium-lit streets. Jonas barely noticed the way the headlights smeared across the windscreen, or the muted sound of the radio left on low. He drove in silence, every mile taking him further from his mother’s fragile smile and deeper into the knot in his chest.
She’d remembered him. God, she’d remembered him. For one perfect hour, she’d been the mother of his childhood again, warm, sharp, loving, alive. And then, just as quickly, the light had gone out in her eyes.What’s your name again?The words cut through him like broken glass.
He’d smiled, reassured her, but inside, it had shredded something. He thought he’d prepared himself for it; the books all said to expect this, that the forgetting came in waves, but knowing it in theory was nothing like living it. Every story she remembered and shared, he’d felt like if he could just relive more of those moments he could save her, but he couldn’t.
Clara’s hand had been in his mother’s, steady, gentle. She’d smiled like she belonged there. Like she was part of them, had always been.
And Jonas, weak fool that he was, had wanted it to be true. Fuck, more than his next breath, he’d wanted that.
Back at the compound, the corridors seemed longer than usual, the low hum of servers and overhead pipes pressing against his skin. Clara walked beside him, quiet but watchful. He could feel her attention, like heat at the side of his face.
At her door, he stopped, trying to arrange his features into something resembling control.
“You’re not all right,” she said softly. Not accusing. Just truth.
His throat tightened. “She knew me today. And then she didn’t. Every time, it’s less. One day, there’ll be nothing. And she’ll never see…” He stopped, breath sharp. “She’ll never see me as more than her boy. Never see me fall in love or start a family. She deserved that.”
The admission left him raw, stripped to the bone.
Clara stepped closer, her eyes wide, her voice a whisper as her fingers feathered over his jaw. “Jonas… what do you need?”
The answer slipped out before he could stop it. “I need to hold you.”
Her breath caught. Then she opened the door and drew him in without hesitation.
The room was dim, shadows soft around the edges. She didn’t say anything more, just reached for his shirt, fingers steady as she worked the buttons. Jonas stood rigid, fighting the urge to back away, to apologise. But he let her do it, let her peel away the fabric until his chest was bare. Her fingertips lingered on the scars scattered across his skin, not flinching, not asking.
She slipped out of her dress, left in simple underwear, pale in the lamplight. For a moment, he shut his eyes, shame and desire tangling tight in his gut. But then she took his hand, warm and sure, and led him to the bed.
She slid in first, tugging the duvet back, and shucked his jeans before he followed, awkward in his bulk, his too-long limbs, the weight of him that always felt like too much. But she made space. Always, she made space.
Clara pulled him down until his head rested against her chest. Her arms wrapped around him, firm and gentle at once, and he clutched at her like a drowning man finally reaching shore.
The scent of her filled his head; soap and something faintly floral, grounding him, steadying him. The steady rhythm of her heart thudded against his cheek, an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to relax fully, his body melting into hers. The tension bled out of his shoulders; out of the fists he’d carried clenched for so long.
“You’re safe,” she whispered, her fingers combing through his hair. “With me, you’re safe.”
The words sliced straight through his defences. His chest ached, his eyes burned, but he pressed his face against her and let the warmth soak in. He didn’t trust himself to speak, didn’t trust his voice not to crack, didn’t trust that if he opened his mouth, everything he’d been holding back wouldn’t spill out.
And still… with Clara’s arms around him, he believed her.
