Shipwrecked sailors finding home.
That felt pointed.
"Every year," Clara mused quietly, just for him. "Same speech. Same bonfire. Same toast. Somehow, it never gets old."
"Do you believe it? The founding story?"
Clara chuckled. "I don't know. I used to when I was a kid. Seemed sacrilegious not to believe. But now that I'm older? I haven't decided."
"Maybe it doesn't matter if it's true or not," he said. "Sometimes a little lore is a great bonding agent."
"Can't disagree about that." She smiled up at him, firelight dancing across her face. "Come on. We need to stake out a good spot before all the marshmallows are gone."
They found a place close enough to the fire for warmth but far enough back to avoid the worst of the smoke. Clara sat in the sand, and Jack settled beside her, shoulders touching in a way that felt both casual and deliberate.
Around them, Beacon's End celebrated. Kids roasted marshmallows with varying degrees of success. Adults told stories that got louder and less accurate with each retelling. Someone started playing guitar, and voicesrose in a song Jack didn't know but hummed along to anyway.
Clara leaned against his shoulder, warm and solid and real.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"I didn't have anywhere else to be," he teased. "Besides, I had to see how my craftsmanship held up. My rep was on the line, you know."
She laughed and bumped his shoulder playfully. "It's kinda cliche, right? Small town festivals, the cozy hominess of it all? Like does this really exist? But here it does."
"No, I like it. Feels good to know that places like this do exist. I've traveled a lot of places and not everywhere is lucky enough to keep this kind of heart."
She nodded. "Beacon's End definitely has heart."
He chuckled, and Clara leaned into him — easy, automatic, like her body had decided something her brain hadn't announced yet. His arm was warm where her shoulder pressed against it. The bonfire crackled. The guitar had given way to singing, loose and off-key, the kind nobody minded because nobody was performing.
His hands were still. His chest was quiet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat somewhere this long without his legs wanting to move.
That should've been a warning. It didn't feel like one.
"Clara—"
"Jack, there you are!" Maeve appeared with the inevitability of a tidal wave, two red cups in hand. "I brought you both the good cider. The stuff Tim's dad makes in his basement. Don't tell anyone—it's technically illegal."
She handed them the cups and disappeared before Jack could respond, swept up by someone asking about oyster shucking rules.
Clara laughed. "Be careful," she warned, "this stuff will put hair on your chest."
"How can I resist with that kind of warning hanging in the air?" he teased, taking an exploratory sip of the cider—which was strong enough to explain why it was illegal—and gasped against the assault on his mouth. "Jesus…you weren't kidding."
She laughed and took a tiny sip of hers. "I would never lie to you about something that serious."
They laughed and joked about Tim's cider doubling as paint stripper and Jack caught himself between moments, losing himself in the sound of Clara's laughter. It struck him as a tragedy that some dipshit in her past had made her feel self-conscious about something as beautiful as her joy.
He wanted to know more but also, he didn't.
Because if he knew more about the man who'd hurt her, he'd have to fight the urge to find the son-of-a-bitch and teach him some manners, which wasn't his place.
But the urge to know more about this incredible woman was getting harder to fight.
Clara caught his gaze, her green eyes softening. "Having fun?"
"Too much fun," he admitted.
