The old Clara—the one who'd survived Sam—would've taken it. Would've grabbed that lifeline and used it to keep him at arm's length where it was safe.
But this Clara—the one who'd held Jack's hand through a storm, who'd listened to him talk about his brother with a voice full of grief—couldn't quite make herself do it.
"Um, so thank you," she said, fumbling for the right words. "For last night. For trusting me with that personal stuff."
Jack's shoulders tensed. He set down the spatula carefully. "Yeah. Well. You were there. Seemed like the right time to trauma-dump on an unsuspecting victim."
More jokes. But Clara didn't want to make light of what he'd shared. "I'm serious, Jack."
He slowly turned, something in his expression raw and vulnerable. "I, uh, don't usually... talk about that stuff. About Joel. About why I—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "You know. Do what I do."
"I get it."
"So why'd you let me ramble on for an hour about my dead brother instead of telling me to shut up and go back to bed?"
Clara shrugged. "My Gran always said when people are willing to share, the least we can do is listen."
"Your Gran sounds like a wise woman."
"She was."
She also would've told her to stop nursing her heartbreak over Sam and get back to living but Clara didn't feel like sharing that particular wisdom.
Jack leaned against the counter, his expression shifting to respect. "Most people try to fix it when you share something heavy. But you just... let me say it. Let it bewhat it was."
"Sometimes that's all you can do."
"Yeah." His voice was rough. "Yeah, I guess so."
They stood there in the morning light, pancakes forgotten, coffee cooling, the weight of last night's honesty settling around them like a shared secret.
"Wow, okay, so I think that's enough honest conversation about personal shit, wouldn't you agree?" Clara announced with a cheery smile.
Jack laughed, appreciating the segue. "I guess now the secret's out of the bag that I'm a complete disaster masquerading as a functional adult."
"Join the club. We have t-shirts."
He laughed—surprised and genuine—and the tension broke like a storm passing. But something remained. Something that felt like the beginning of trust, fragile and new and terrifying.
Jack came to the table with two plates, and they ate in companionable silence while morning light streamed through the windows.
It felt domestic. Normal. Like something they'd done a hundred times instead of just a handful.
Like something that could become a routine if she let it.
And that thought—that tiny, dangerous possibility—cracked something open in Clara's chest that she'd kept locked for three years.
He trusted you. Maybe you could trust him back.
The thought was immediately followed by a familiar voice. Sam's voice, dripping with false concern:
"Clare-bear, I'm just trying to help you be your best."
Clara's stomach clenched. She set down her fork, the pancakes suddenly tasteless.
Because that was the problem, wasn't it? Sam had seemed trustworthy too. Helpful. Kind. Genuinely interested in her work and her dreams and building something together.
Until he wasn't.
