"I'm fine." Clara set down her pen with more force than necessary. "Just having a completely normal breakdown about my deadline that's tomorrow and my brain that's decided to stop functioning. Totally fine."
Jack set down his screwdriver and crossed the room, stopping a few feet from her drafting table. Close enough to see her work, far enough to respect her space. He'd learned her boundaries over the past week and a half, which was both considerate and annoying.
"Writer's block?" he asked.
"Is that what we're calling 'complete and utter creativefailure'?"
"Yes, I believe that's the clinical term." He leaned against the wall, studying her with those hazel eyes that saw too much. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Two hours. Maybe three. Time lost all meaning around hour one."
"And how's that working out for you?"
Clara gestured at the blank panel. "Spectacularly. Can't you tell?"
Jack's mouth curved into that small smile she'd become dangerously familiar with. "You know what your problem is?"
"Please, enlighten me. I love unsolicited advice about my creative process."
"You're stuck in your head. All that energy is just sitting there, stagnant. You need to shake it loose."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Shake it loose?"
"Yeah. Physically. Get your body moving so your brain can unstick itself." He pushed off the wall. "Come on. Stand up."
"I'm not?—"
"Stand up, Clara."
Something in his tone—not commanding, but encouraging, like he genuinely believed this ridiculous ideawould work—made her comply. She stood, crossing her arms defensively.
"Okay. Now what? We do jumping jacks? Run laps around the lighthouse?"
"Now," Jack said, and proceeded to do the most ridiculous shimmy shake Clara had ever witnessed in her life.
It wasn't dancing. It was barely movement. It was just... Jack Callahan, carpenter and shipwreck survivor, shaking his entire body like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears while simultaneously impersonating a malfunctioning washing machine.
His shoulders bounced. His hips wiggled. His arms flailed with zero coordination. He looked absolutely absurd.
Clara's laugh burst out before she could stop it—surprised and genuine and loud enough to startle the seagulls outside.
"See?" Jack said, still shimmying. "It's working. You're unsticking."
"You look like you're having a seizure."
"That's the point. Can't be stuck in your head when you're too busy laughing at someone else's complete lack of rhythm." He shimmied harder, adding some kind of arm wave thatmade him look like an inflatable tube man outside a car dealership.
Clara doubled over, hands on her knees, laughing so hard her abs hurt. When was the last time she'd laughed like this? Not a polite chuckle or a sardonic snort, but actual, genuine, tears-streaming-down-her-face laughter?
She couldn't remember.
"Your turn," Jack said, still moving.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. Shake it out. I promise you'll feel better."
"I'll feel like an idiot."
