"Shh." She patted his chest without opening her eyes. "Less talking. More being a pillow."
Jack closed his eyes and let himself be a pillow.
This was dangerous territory. He knew that. The part of his brain that had kept him moving for seven years—the part that monitored every connection for signs of permanence, that kept one bag mentally packed at all times—was flashing warnings like a dashboard light.
But the rest of him, the bigger part, the part that could feel Clara's warmth and her trust and the wayshe'd folded herself into him like he was safe—that part told the dashboard to shut up.
Not today. Today he was just going to be here.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he felt was Clara's fingers tracing the scar on his ribs. Light. Exploratory. The touch of someone mapping something they intended to memorize.
Jack kept his eyes closed, not wanting to break whatever this was.
Her fingers moved from the scar to his sternum, tracing a slow line down the center of his chest. Then across to his collarbone. Then back down, following the lines of muscle with the careful attention of an artist studying form.
Which, he supposed, was exactly what she was.
"You're awake," Clara said. Not a question.
"How'd you know?"
"Your breathing changed. And you're smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You'redefinitely smiling."
He opened his eyes. Clara was propped on one elbow, looking down at him with her hair a wild red mess and pillow creases pressed into her cheek. She looked sleepy and soft and completely unguarded, and the sight of her hit him somewhere deep.
"Okay," he admitted. "I'm smiling."
"Why?"
"Because you're drawing on me with your finger and it's—" He searched for the right word. "Nice."
"Nice?" Her eyebrow arched. "I give you nice?"
"What do you want me to say? It's seven in the morning. My vocabulary hasn't loaded yet."
"Hmm." She traced a circle around his navel, her touch feather-light and deliberate. "Maybe I should help it load."
Jack's stomach muscles clenched under her fingertip. "That's... heading in a direction."
"Is it?" Innocent. Completely, transparently innocent, which meant it was calculated.
Her fingers drifted lower. Traced the line of hair below his navel with a slowness that was definitely intentional. Jack's body responded before his brain finished cataloging what was happening—heat pooling, skin tightening, his hand finding her hip on instinct.
"Clara."
"Jack."
"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."
"Bold of you to assume I want you to be responsible." She kissed his chest. Then his sternum. Then lower, her lips following the path her fingers had mapped, warm and unhurried.
The thing about last night was that it had been urgent. Frantic. Two people who'd been circling each other for weeks finally crashing together with the force of something that couldn't be held back anymore. Beautiful, yes. Intense, absolutely. But fast—like they were both afraid the window would close if they didn't dive through it immediately.
This was different.
