"Yeah."
"That was?—"
"Yeah."
She laughed, the sound shaky and bright. "Articulate as always, Callahan."
"You kissed the words out of me, Hawkins."
"Did I?"
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
Clara pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, searching his face for something. Jack let her look, let her see whatever she needed to see. He had nothing to hide. Not anymore.
Whatever she found must have been the right answer, because she smiled—soft and real and devastating—and kissed him again.
This time was different. Slower. Deeper. Less frantic question and more confident answer. Jack let himself sink into it, memorizing the way she fit against him. The little sound she made when he nipped her bottom lip. The way her fingers curled into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, the part that kept watch — the part that always kept watch — was waiting for the usual impulse. The pull-back. Theexit calculation. The voice that said:don't get comfortable.
It didn't come.
When they finally pulled apart, the bonfire had burned down to embers, painting everything in shades of red and gold. The beach was empty except for them. The ocean crashed steady and eternal behind them. Above, stars wheeled across a sky so clear it hurt.
Clara traced his jawline with her fingertips, her touch feather-light. "Ready to go?"
And Jack might've broken the laws of physics, he shot to his feet so fast, dragging Clara with him.
Her laughter rang out across the empty beach, and the sound hit him somewhere deep—the kind of wanting that wasn't just physical but something bigger and harder to name.
As future mistakes go…this one was going to leave a mark. But at least it would be worth every second.
nine
The truck ride back to the lighthouse was the longest twenty minutes of Clara's life.
Every bump in the road jolted through her. Every time Jack's hand brushed her thigh—accidentally, deliberately, she couldn't tell anymore—her breath caught and her fingers tightened on the wheel.
Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? They'd crossed some invisible line on the beach, and now they were hurtling toward something inevitable, terrifying, and absolutely necessary—like a storm about to break.
Clara kept her eyes on the road. On the familiar turns. On anything except the way Jack was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
It wasn't working. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face like a physical thing, and her body was staginga full mutiny against the part of her brain still trying to be sensible about this.
When she finally pulled into the lighthouse drive and killed the engine, the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their ragged breaths.
"Clara—" Jack started, his voice rough, edged with hunger.
She kissed him.
It was more of a face launch than some gentle exploration. She reached across the truck's bench seat and hauled him to her, crashing their mouths together with all the pent-up want she'd been holding back for two weeks.
Jack made a surprised, guttural sound in the back of his throat, then his hands were fisting in her hair, tilting her head back as he kissed her like a man starved, his tongue sweeping in to claim her with a possessiveness that sent sparks racing down her spine.
They broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling hot and fast.
"Inside," Clara managed, her voice husky, barely recognizable. "We should?—"
