But lying here in Jack's arms, warm and sated and happier than she'd been in years, Clara couldn't quite make herself care about the danger.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she was just going to let herself be happy.
Even if it couldn't last.
Even if it was temporary.
Even if her heart was going to shatter when he left.
Just for tonight, Clara was going to pretend this was real.
And maybe that was enough.
ten
Jack woke to golden light streaming through Clara's bedroom window and the weight of a woman draped across his chest like he was furniture she'd claimed.
Clara's head was tucked under his chin, one hand splayed across his ribs, her leg hooked over his thigh in a way that suggested she'd burrowed into him during the night and had no plans to leave. Her breathing was deep and even—the kind of sleep that came after being thoroughly, comprehensively satisfied.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jack didn't want to move.
No itch to check his phone. No mental inventory of escape routes. No familiar restlessness that usually started before dawn, whispering that wherever he was, he'd been there too long.
Just warmth. Quiet. Clara's heartbeat thumping steadily against his side.
Huh.
So this was what contentment felt like. He'd forgotten.
Jack let himself lie there, studying the ceiling of Clara's bedroom—the plaster cracked in a spiderweb pattern he'd been meaning to patch, the old iron light fixture he could probably restore if he had the right parts. His brain defaulted to repair mode even in the aftermath of the best night he'd had in years, which was either professional dedication or a personality disorder. Possibly both.
Clara stirred. Made a small sound against his chest—half sigh, half grumble—and her fingers curled against his skin.
"Morning," he said quietly.
"Mmph." She didn't open her eyes. "What time is it?"
"No idea. Early. Sun's barely up."
"Then why are you awake?" She said this like consciousness before dawn was a moral failing.
"Force of habit."
"Terrible habit. Stop it." She pressed her face deeper into his chest, her hair tickling his chin. "Sleeping now."
Jack smiled at the ceiling. Clara Hawkins: prickly, sharp-tongued, capable of eviscerating a man with a single raised eyebrow—and apparently a grumpy, incoherent mess before coffee. He filed that information away like a treasure.
"I could make coffee," he offered.
"That would require you to move."
"Yes, that's generally how coffee gets made."
"Unacceptable." Her arm tightened around him. "You're warm. Coffee isn't warm. Well—it is. But you're here and the coffee is all the way over there and I'm not doing math this early."
"That's barely math."
