Chapter Text
Jamie hadn’t meant to stay. Truly, he hadn’t. He’d come to check on her, make sure she was alright, and then leave her to her day. But somehow he ended up at her kitchen table, laptop open, glasses sliding down his nose, while Claire scribbled notes beside him. And she didn’t ask him to go. That alone felt like a miracle. He watched her from the corner of his eye — the way she chewed her lip when she concentrated, the way she muttered anatomy terms under her breath, the way she pushed her hair behind her ear only for it to fall right back again. She was a whirlwind. A storm. A mess of brilliance and exhaustion and stubbornness. And he liked sitting in the middle of it more than he should.
When she offered him lunch — casually, mindlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world — something warm bloomed in his chest. She didn’t even realize she’d done it. She just stood there in her tiny kitchen, arguing with him about stale bread and “rustic” sandwiches, rolling her eyes when he teased her, laughing when he called her out. And Jamie thought, God, she’s letting me in.
Not with grand gestures. Not with confessions. But with toast. With banter. With the way she didn’t flinch when he stepped beside her. He’d take it. He’d take every small piece she offered.
Back at the table, he typed while she studied. Their elbows nearly touched. Their breaths fell into the same rhythm. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore — it was warm, lived‑in, comfortable. He didn’t dare break it. Every so often, she’d sigh, and he’d slide her coffee closer. Every so often, she’d mutter a question, and he’d answer without looking up. Every so often, she’d glance at him — quick, soft, unguarded — and he’d pretend not to notice. But he noticed. He noticed everything.
When her laptop chimed low battery, she panicked. She tore through her bag, muttering curses, hair falling in her face. Jamie didn’t move. He didn’t rush to fix it. Didn’t try to soothe her. Didn’t make it a moment. He simply said, “It’s on the couch, lass.”
She froze. “What?”
“Yer charger. Ye left it there.”
She blinked at him, then hurried to retrieve it. When she returned, cheeks flushed, she whispered, “Thank you.” Jamie only nodded, returning to his laptop. But inside? Inside, something shifted. Because she didn’t look embarrassed this time. She didn’t apologize for the mess or the chaos or the forgetfulness. She didn’t push him away. She just… accepted the help. Trusted it. Trusted him. And Jamie realized, She’s letting me be part of her life. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in the quiet ways that matter.
He didn’t need declarations. He didn’t need promises. He didn’t need her to say she wanted him there. She was showing him. In toast. In shared silence. In the way she didn’t flinch when he reached for her mug. In the way she relaxed beside him without noticing. Jamie looked at her — really looked — and felt something settle deep in his chest. He could wait. He could be steady. He could be the quiet place she came back to. Because she was already coming back.
Claire walked home from campus with her bag slung over one shoulder, the late afternoon sun warm on her back. Her mind drifted — not to exams, not to deadlines, not even to the chaos of her flat. But to something her professor had said in lecture. Something ridiculous. Something Jamie would absolutely lose his mind over. She smiled to herself, already imagining his reaction. I should tell Jamie about this, she thought, pulling out her phone.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. And then she froze. Because she wasn’t texting Geillis. She wasn’t texting John. She wasn’t texting anyone she’d normally share a joke with. Her instinct — her first instinct — was Jamie.
Jamie would laugh at that. Jamie would know what to say. Jamie would get it.
She stared at her phone, heart thudding softly in her chest. When had that happened?
When had he become the person she wanted to tell things to?
When had he become the one she reached for without thinking?
When had he slipped into her life so quietly, so gently, that she didn’t even notice the space he filled?
She tucked her phone back into her pocket, breath catching in her throat. She gave him a chance. Somewhere between toast and shared silence, between morning rides and quiet study sessions, she let him in. And it didn’t destroy her. It didn’t overwhelm her. It didn’t make her feel trapped or exposed or unworthy. It made her feel… safe. And he was still here. He didn't leave. Steady. Grounded. Warm in a way she hadn’t felt in years. He simply stayed. Claire stopped on the sidewalk, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could steady the flutter there.
“Oh,” she whispered to herself. Not in fear. In realization. In wonder. Jamie Fraser wasn’t crashing into her life anymore. He was already in it. And she wanted him there.
By the time evening settled over her flat, Claire was pacing. Her exam was in two days. Her notes were a mess. Her brain felt like static. And the old instinct tugged at her — sharp and familiar. Go to the Thistle. Go drown it out. Go numb it.
She grabbed her coat. Made it halfway to the door. Stopped. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, heart pounding. She didn’t want noise. She didn’t want chaos. She didn’t want to wake up tomorrow feeling worse.
She wanted… calm.
She wanted steady.
She wanted Jamie.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled out her phone and typed:
Claire: Are you busy?
She hit send and immediately regretted it. But the reply came fast.
Jamie: No, lass. What’s wrong?
Her throat tightened.
Claire: Just… stressed. Exam stuff. I’m trying not to freak out.
A beat.
Jamie: Ye want to talk about it?
She sank onto the couch, exhaling.
Claire: Not really. Just needed to not be alone in my head.
Another beat. Then…
Jamie: I can come get ye.
Her heart stuttered.
Claire: Jamie, you don’t have to—
Jamie: I ken I dinna. I want to. Let me cook ye dinner. Ye need real food, no’ toast.
She laughed — actually laughed — despite the knot in her chest.
Claire: I have food.
Jamie: Claire. Ye have mustard and a lemon.
She groaned.
Claire: Fine. Come get me.
Jamie: On my way.
She stared at the screen, warmth blooming in her chest. She hadn’t gone to the Thistle. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t spiraled alone. She’d reached for him. And he came. Just like he said he would.
Jamie moved around his kitchen with easy confidence — chopping, stirring, tasting, humming under his breath. The space was warm, filled with the smell of garlic and butter and something simmering on the stove. Claire sat on the counter beside the sink, legs swinging, textbook open in her lap. Her hair was in a messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose, wearing sweats and a baggy t‑shirt that had definitely seen better days. And she looked… comfortable.
Not performing. Not bracing. Not apologizing for the chaos of her life. Just Claire. She flipped a page and read aloud, “The hepatic portal vein carries blood from the gastrointestinal tract to the liver…”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Ye sound very official.”
“I am official,” she said, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle. “This is serious business.”
“Aye, lass. Verra serious business.” She threw a balled‑up napkin at him. He dodged easily, laughing.
He stole glances at her as he cooked — not the hungry, overwhelmed kind from before, but something steadier. Something deeper. She was perched on his counter like she belonged there. Barefoot. Relaxed. Muttering anatomy terms between bites of the apple he’d handed her on the drive over. Jamie stirred the pan, but his eyes kept drifting back to her.
The last time she’d been in his home, she’d been tense, guarded, ready to bolt at the slightest shift in the air. She’d stood in the doorway like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be there. Tonight? She was humming under her breath. Her shoulders were loose. Her knee brushed his hip when he passed by, and she didn’t flinch — she didn’t even notice. She was comfortable. With him. In his space. In a way that made something warm and fierce settle in his chest.
Claire flipped another page. “Jamie, what’s the difference between the jejunum and the ileum?”
He raised a brow. “Ye’re askin’ the wrong man, Sassenach.”
“Guess.”
“The… spelling?”
She snorted. “Wow. Brilliant. Truly insightful.”
“Aye, weel, I’m no’ the one goin’ to be a doctor.”
She nudged his arm with her foot. “You could at least pretend to help.”
“I am helpin’,” he said, turning back to the stove. “I’m feedin’ ye. That’s half the battle.” She smiled down at her book, cheeks warming. He saw it. He felt it. And he didn’t say a word.
Jamie plated the food and set it beside her. She slid off the counter without hesitation, landing lightly on her feet, brushing past him with a soft, unconscious touch to his arm. No panic. No apology. No tension. Just ease. Just trust. Just… them.
Jamie watched her settle at his small kitchen table, tucking one leg under herself, glasses slipping again as she reached for her fork. And he realized: This was the moment he’d hoped for. Not the dramatic confessions. Not the intensity. Not the push‑pull chaos.
This.
Claire in his home, relaxed and unguarded. Claire letting him cook for her. Claire quoting textbook terms while he stirred a pot. Claire choosing him over the noise of the Thistle. Claire letting herself be safe here. Jamie took the seat across from her, heart full in a way he didn’t dare name yet. She didn’t notice the shift. But he did. And he cherished it.
Claire dug in like she hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. “This is incredible,” she said around a mouthful.
Jamie smirked. “Aye, weel, it’s no’ toast.”
She kicked him lightly under the table. “I’ll have you know my toast is excellent.”
“Stale,” he corrected.
“Rustic,” she shot back. He laughed — that warm, low rumble that made her stomach flutter — and she felt herself relax even more.
They talked about everything and nothing, Jamie’s disastrous attempt at making sourdough, the goat on his family farm who kept escaping, and the fact that Claire still didn’t know how to poach an egg.
It was easy.
It was warm.
It was normal.
Claire didn’t realize how much she needed normal.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen. Frank. She ignored it. Jamie didn’t comment, just kept eating. The phone buzzed again. She sighed. “He never calls twice unless something’s wrong.” Jamie nodded, giving her space. The phone buzzed a third time — this time, a FaceTime request. Claire groaned. “Oh God. This can’t be good.” She answered.
Frank’s face filled the camera — flushed, sweaty, grinning like an idiot. Music blared behind him. Lights flashed. John appeared over his shoulder, waving wildly. “CLAIRE BEAR!”
John shouted. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Claire winced. “I’m busy.”
Frank leaned closer, squinting. “Busy? It’s Thursday! We’re at the Thistle! Come dance!”
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
John pouted dramatically. “Pleeeeeease? We already ordered shots!”
“Not happening. Not tonight.” She shook her head with certainty but she was smiling just the same.
Frank suddenly froze, eyes narrowing. “Wait… where are you? That’s not your flat.”
Claire’s stomach dropped. John leaned in, squinting at the screen. “Is that… a kitchen? A nice kitchen?”
Frank gasped. “Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, are you at a MAN’S house?”
Claire’s soul left her body. John shrieked. “OH MY GOD SHE’S AT A MAN’S HOUSE.”
Frank clutched his chest. “Who is he? Is he hot? Is he tall? Is he—”
Jamie, who had been quietly sipping his tea, moved into the frame, lifted a hand in a polite little wave. Both men screamed. “JAMIE?!”
Frank yelled. “YOU’RE WITH JAMIE?!”
John nearly fell off his barstool. “THE REDHEAD? THE HOT ONE? THE ONE WHO CARRIED YOU THAT ONE TIME?”
Claire covered her face with her hand. “I hate all of you.”
Frank leaned so close his nose smushed against the camera. “Claire. Are you on a DATE?”
“No!” she snapped.
Jamie coughed softly. “We’re havin’ dinner.”
John screamed again. “SHE’S ON A DATE.”
Claire hissed, “I’m hanging up now.”
“NO—WAIT—BRING HIM TO THE THISTLE—”
She ended the call. Silence. Claire stared at her phone, mortified. Jamie took a slow sip of water. “Yer friends are… lively.”
She groaned. “They’re idiots.”
“Aye,” he said gently, “but they care for ye.”
She looked up at him — cheeks flushed, heart racing, embarrassed beyond belief. Jamie smiled softly. “Dinna fash, Claire. I’m no’ scared off.” And just like that, the tension broke. Claire exhaled, a laugh slipping out despite herself. She wasn’t scared off either.
Claire rinsed the last plate and handed it to Jamie, who dried it with a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Their elbows brushed now and then, neither of them pulling away. The kitchen was warm, lit only by the overhead light and the soft glow from the stove. When the final dish was put away, Jamie leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely.
“Ye want to stay for a dram? Maybe a movie?” he asked, voice gentle, no pressure behind it.
Claire hesitated for half a heartbeat… then nodded. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d like that.” Jamie’s smile was small but unmistakably pleased.
They settled onto his couch, a blanket tossed over Claire’s legs, a small glass of whisky in her hand. Jamie sat beside her, close but not crowding, his arm resting along the back of the couch. The movie played — something light, something easy — and Claire relaxed into the cushions, her body unwinding after a long, exhausting day. Halfway through, she shifted, leaning just slightly into Jamie’s side. He didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Didn’t make it a moment. He simply let her rest there. Her head found his shoulder. Her breath evened out. Her glass slipped from her hand, and Jamie caught it before it spilled. He looked down at her — glasses askew, hair falling from her bun, lips parted in sleep — and felt something warm settle deep in his chest.
She trusted him. Fully. Without hesitation.
When the credits rolled, Claire was still asleep, soft and peaceful against him. Jamie shifted carefully, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She murmured something unintelligible but didn’t wake. He carried her to his bedroom — the same room where she’d once stood stiff and uncertain — and laid her gently on the bed. She curled instinctively toward the pillow, sighing softly. Jamie hesitated.
He could sleep on the couch. He could leave her be. He could keep his distance. But then Claire reached out in her sleep — fingers brushing the empty space beside her, searching. And Jamie understood. He slipped under the covers beside her, careful and slow, leaving space between them. But Claire didn’t leave space. Still asleep, she shifted back toward him, her body finding his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand curled into his shirt. Her forehead rested against his chest. Jamie froze for a moment — not out of discomfort, but out of awe.
Then he exhaled, soft and steady, and wrapped an arm around her waist. Not pulling. Not claiming. Just holding. Just being there. Claire breathed out, a small, content sound, and nestled closer. Jamie closed his eyes. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know what she’d say when she woke. But right now? Right now she trusted him enough to sleep in his arms. And he held her like she was something precious. Because to him, she was.
Claire woke slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing through warm water. The first thing she felt was heat — steady, solid, comforting. The second was breath against the back of her neck. The third was an arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close.
Jamie.
Her heart fluttered, soft and immediate. She didn’t tense. She didn’t panic. She didn’t overthink. She simply… smiled. A real smile. The kind that reached her eyes even though they were still closed. She snuggled back into him instinctively, her body fitting against his like it had been waiting for this exact shape, this exact warmth. Jamie stirred behind her, his arm tightening just a fraction. She felt him wake — the slow inhale, the shift of his chest against her back, the soft sound he made when he realized she was still there.
“Morning, Sassenach,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. She turned in his arms, and he was already smiling at her — that quiet, tender smile that made her feel seen in a way that was almost overwhelming. And she lost all control.
They leaned in at the same time — no hesitation, no second‑guessing. Their lips met softly at first, a gentle brush, a question. Claire answered it. She deepened the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Jamie responded instantly, one hand sliding up her back, the other cupping her cheek with a tenderness that made her chest ache. Her breath hitched. His did too.
She kissed him again — slower, firmer — and Jamie made a low sound in his throat that sent a shiver through her. Her hands roamed up his shoulders, over the warm line of his neck, into his hair. She wanted more — God, she wanted more — but she held herself back, restraining the instinct to lose herself completely.
Jamie felt it.
He always felt her.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his forehead resting against hers, breath warm on her lips. “Claire,” he whispered, voice thick, “ye dinna have to hold back wi’ me.” Her eyes flicked to his, searching, questioning, wanting. Jamie saw it — the hesitation, the fear, the desire she was trying so hard to contain. He brushed his thumb along her jaw, slow and reassuring. Then he pulled her closer. Not demanding. Not rushing. Just inviting. Her breath caught.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
Jamie’s answer was immediate, steady, certain. “Aye. Come here.” And she did — letting herself be drawn into him, into the warmth of his chest, into the safety of his arms, into a kiss that felt like the beginning of something she’d been afraid to want.