Chapter Text
After Jamie dropped her off, she walked into her flat without looking back. She couldn’t. If she did, she'd run straight into his arms and never leave. She needed distance—space—anything to keep from swallowing up every good, steady part of him the way she ruined everything else she touches. She held herself together just long enough to close the bathroom door. The moment the hot water hit her skin, the tears came—hard, fast, unstoppable.
The water beat down on her shoulders, hot enough to sting, but she barely felt it. Steam curled around her, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the small bathroom until it felt like she was standing in a cloud. She closed her eyes. And the memories came. Not the good ones. Not the laughter or the late‑night study sessions or the stupid inside jokes. The other ones. The ones where she saw herself through the harshest possible lens. I poisoned them, she thought, pressing her palms to her face. I dragged them into my chaos.
John — steady, gentle John — who had once been so calm, so grounded. She remembered the way he used to smile easily, how he’d been a quiet anchor in every storm. And then she remembered the nights he’d sat with her while she spiraled, absorbing her darkness like a sponge until he looked tired in a way he never had before.
Frank — brilliant, driven Frank — who had always been so focused, so sure of his path. She remembered how she’d pulled him into her messes, how he’d tried to fix things that weren’t his to fix, how he’d burned himself out trying to keep her from falling apart.
And Geillis — wild, fierce, loyal Geillis — who had always danced on the edge of chaos but somehow stayed upright. Claire remembered how she’d leaned on her too hard, how Geillis had tried to drag her toward the light, only to get pulled into the shadows with her.
She let out a shaky breath, water mixing with the tears she didn’t bother wiping away. She hadn’t meant to hurt them. She hadn’t meant to change them. But she had. Her pain had seeped into them like ink in water, staining everything it touched. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the water run down her back. I led them to destruction, she thought, the guilt sharp and familiar. I broke things in them I never meant to break.
For a long moment, she stood there — suspended between who she had been and who she was trying to become. Between the girl who had dragged her friends into the dark and the woman who was finally clawing her way out of it. She didn't want to be that person anymore and those memories of her ruining them lingered like a bruise. And in the quiet of her bathroom, with the water washing over her, Claire let herself feel it — the grief, the guilt, the regret — because she knew she couldn’t move forward until she faced the truth of what she’d been running from.
I’d always dreamed of a love like the one Uncle Lamb described when he talked about my parents. The kind of love that filled a room. The kind that made other people roll their eyes because it was too much, too perfect, too real. And God help me… I could have that with Jamie. I felt it in my bones, in the quiet places of myself I never let anyone see. Jamie could be my one true love. The kind you get once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. But I’m not ready for him. I’m not ready for something that big, that honest, that terrifying. And Jamie—sweet, steady, impossibly good Jamie—deserves someone who isn’t a walking disaster. Someone who isn’t me.
My alarm blared across the bathroom counter, slicing through the steam and my thoughts. “Shit.” I scrubbed at my face. “I have class today.”
Claire made it through her morning lectures by sheer force of will. She took notes mechanically, nodded at the right times, answered a question or two, but her mind was nowhere near the cardiovascular system. It was still in Jamie’s house. Still in his arms. Still in the wreckage she’d created. When class finally ended, she shoved her notebook into her bag and tried to slip out unnoticed. No such luck.
“Claire!” Geillis sing‑songed, weaving through the crowd with her usual chaotic energy. “Party this Friday. Ye’re coming.”
Claire blinked. “A party?”
“Yes, a party,” Geillis said, rolling her eyes. “Music, drinks, questionable decisions. Ye need it.”
Claire hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll come.”
“Good girl,” Geillis purred.
Before Claire could escape, John Grey fell into step beside them, bright‑eyed and annoyingly charming. “Ladies,” he greeted, “I was thinking—Black Thistle tonight?” Claire stiffened. John didn’t notice. “They’ve got that new whisky flight. Thought we could all go.”
Geillis grinned. “I’m in.”
Frank Randall appeared out of nowhere, sliding an arm around Geillis’s shoulders. “Dinner at the Thistle? Count me in.”
John winked at Claire. “You too, Beauchamp?”
She should say no. She should go home. She should hide under her blankets and never come out. But she was tired of thinking. Tired of feeling. Tired of drowning in her own head. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
John beamed. “Brilliant.”
The four of them walked across campus together, John and Frank openly flirting with both girls—and with each other. It was ridiculous and light and exactly the kind of distraction Claire needed. John bumped her shoulder. “You look lovely today.”
Frank added, “Radiant, actually.”
Geillis snorted. “Ye two are shameless.”
John winked. “We’re equal‑opportunity charmers.” Claire managed a laugh. A real one. For a moment, she felt almost normal. Then she saw him.
Jamie sat alone on a bench under a tree, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground like he was trying to solve a problem he couldn’t quite grasp. Her heart lurched. He looked tired. And worried. And heartbreakingly gentle. Claire stopped walking.
Frank followed her gaze. “Friend of yours?”
She swallowed. “Something like that.”
Geillis smirked knowingly. “Go on then.”
Frank leaned in and kissed her cheek. “See you tonight.”
John kissed the other cheek. “Don’t be late.”
Geillis kissed her forehead dramatically. “Try not to combust.”
Claire rolled her eyes, but her chest tightened. She said goodbye, watching them wander off in a flurry of laughter and flirtation. Then she turned toward Jamie. Her feet felt heavy. Her stomach twisted. Her pulse hammered. She walked toward him anyway. Hesitant. Uncertain. Terrified.
Jamie looked up just in time to see it. John kissing Claire’s cheek. Frank kissing the other. Geillis pressing a dramatic kiss to her forehead. All three of them laughing, flirting, touching her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Something hot and sour twisted in his stomach. He forced his expression neutral, jaw tightening just enough to betray him. He had no right to feel anything. No claim. No place. But seeing her surrounded like that — adored, wanted, touched — made something primal in him bristle. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the ground, but his heart was pounding. Then he heard her footsteps. Slow. Hesitant. Careful. He looked up again. Claire stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, eyes guarded.
“You shouldn’t be here, Jamie,” she said quietly. Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just tired. Defensive. Afraid.
Jamie swallowed hard. “I canna help it.” She blinked. “I cannae stop thinkin’ about ye,” he admitted, voice low, raw. “No for a moment.”
For a split second — barely a breath — Claire softened. Her shoulders loosened, her eyes warmed, her mouth parted like she might say something gentle. But then she remembered. Remembered waking up in Jamie's arms. The panic. The kiss. The way she’d run. The way she’d hurt him. Her spine straightened. Her jaw set. Her resolve snapped back into place like armor. “Jamie,” she said, voice steadier now, “you really shouldn’t be here.” The softness vanished from her face, replaced by that brittle determination she used like a shield. Jamie saw it happen. Saw her pull away emotionally even as she stood right in front of him. And it broke something in him — but he didn’t move.
He didn’t leave. He just looked at her, eyes full of everything she was trying so desperately to run from. Jamie rose from the bench the moment Claire reached him, falling into step beside her without asking. He didn’t crowd her, didn’t touch her, just walked with her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Claire tried to focus on the sidewalk, on her bag strap, on anything except the way his presence made her chest tighten. They talked about nothing — classes, the weather, the ridiculousness of campus parking — and for a moment she almost forgot the storm between them. Then it hit her.
She stopped mid‑sentence and blinked at him. “Wait. Jamie… where’s your car?”
Jamie blinked, then let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Weel… I left it back on campus, I wanted to walk wit ye.”
Claire stared at him. “You walked all the way here and left your car?”
“Aye.”
“To follow me?”
He flushed slightly. “To talk to ye.”
Despite herself, Claire laughed — a small, startled sound. Jamie’s answering smile was warm enough to melt her resolve if she wasn’t careful. But she was careful. Too careful. She stopped walking, turning to face him. “Jamie… I should go. I have things to do.”
He nodded slowly but didn’t step back. “Let me buy ye dinner then.”
Her stomach twisted. “I can’t.”
“Why no’?”
“I’m meeting my friends,” she said quickly. “For dinner. At the Thistle.”
Jamie’s expression flickered — just for a second — something tight and wounded crossing his face before he smoothed it away. “Oh,” he said softly. “Aye. I see.” Claire swallowed hard. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t feel guilty. She shouldn’t want to stay. But she did. And that was the problem.
Jamie shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual and failing miserably. “Weel… I hope ye have a good time then.” Claire nodded, but her chest ached. Because she knew exactly what she was doing. And she hated herself for it.
Jamie watched Claire disappear into her building, the door clicking shut behind her like a final punctuation mark. He stood there for a long moment, hands in his pockets, breathing in the cold air as if it might steady him. It didn’t. He turned and began the long walk back to campus. His boots hit the pavement in slow, heavy steps. The world around him moved — students laughing, cars passing, leaves rustling — but he felt strangely separate from it all, like he was walking underwater.
Every moment from the morning replayed in his mind. Claire laughing with her friends. Claire letting John and the others kiss her so naturally. Claire softening when she saw him. Claire hardening again just as quickly. Claire telling him he shouldn’t be there. Claire telling him she was meeting them for dinner. Claire pulling away. Again. And again. And again. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even jealous, not really. He was… worried. Worried about the way she looked at him like she was bracing for impact. Worried about the way she talked about herself like she was something broken. Worried about the way she kept running even when she clearly didn’t want to.
He sat on a low stone wall, elbows on his knees, and let out a long breath. “Claire,” he murmured to himself, “what are ye doin’ to yourself, lass?” He wished he knew how to help her. He wished she’d let him. He wished she could see herself the way he saw her — brilliant, fierce, stubborn, and so much stronger than she believed. But she didn’t. Not yet. Jamie stood again, shoulders squaring with quiet resolve. He wasn’t giving up on her. Not because she pushed. Not because she panicked. Not because she believed she was unworthy. He’d walk beside her as long as she’d let him. Even if the path was long. Even if it hurt. Even if she didn’t believe she deserved it.