Close enough that her breath caught.
"See?" Jack said, slightly breathless. "Unsticking."
"You're stupid."
"And you're smiling."
He was right. She was smiling—a real, genuine, face-aching smile that felt foreign after three years of carefully controlledexpressions.
The music shifted to something slower. Jack didn't let go. Just adjusted his grip, pulling her a little closer, swaying now instead of spinning.
Clara should step back. Should make a joke and retreat to her drafting table. Should remember that this was temporary, that Jack was leaving, that letting herself feel this—whatever this was—would only make it hurt more when he left.
Should.
Instead, she let herself sway. Let her forehead rest against his shoulder. Let his warmth seep into her bones in a way that felt dangerous and necessary in equal measure.
"When's the last time you danced?" Jack asked, his voice low near her ear.
"I don't know. Years. Before..." She trailed off.
"Before?"
"Before Sam." The name tasted bitter. "He didn't like it when I was silly. Said it was immature. That I needed to act my age."
Jack's hand tightened on her waist. "That's bullshit."
"Is it?" Clara pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "I mean, he had a point. I was almost thirty. Making upvoices for birds, dancing in the kitchen like a teenager?—"
"Being joyful," Jack interrupted. "You were being joyful. And he made you feel bad about it."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because that's exactly what Sam had done. Systematically dismantled every piece of joy she'd expressed until she'd learned to keep it all locked away. Until being serious and controlled and professional had become her default setting, and she'd forgotten there was any other way to exist.
"I used to be brave," Clara said quietly. "Carefree. I'd try new things, take risks, make mistakes and laugh about them. I was..." She struggled for the word. "Lighter. I don't know when I stopped being that person."
"You didn't stop. You just buried her." Jack's thumb traced small circles on her waist through her shirt. "She's still in there. I've seen her—she yells at seagulls and rescues idiots from the sea and just shimmied so badly it was actually kind of beautiful."
Clara's throat tightened. "That's not the same thing."
"Why not? You're still showing up. Still being yourself even when it scares you." He paused. "You just don't trust it yet."
"What if I can't?"
"What if you can?"
The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been.
Clara had spent three years walling herself up. Three years convincing herself that being alone was safer than being seen. Three years believing that if she just stayed small and controlled and carefully ordered, nothing could hurt her again.
But Jack—ridiculous, temporary Jack with his shimmy shakes and warm hazel eyes—was suggesting that maybe safety wasn't the goal. Maybe living was.
The music ended. Neither of them moved.
"Try your panel now," Jack said finally, stepping back but keeping one hand linked with hers. "I bet the unsticking worked."
Clara looked at her drafting table, then back at Jack. At this man who'd shown up broken and almost-drowned and had somehow made her lighthouse feel less like a refuge and more like a home.
