Chapter Text
The call ended so abruptly Jamie didn’t register it at first. One second Claire’s tear‑blurred face filled his screen, her voice shaking, her words spiraling out of control— And the next, he was staring at his own reflection in the black glass. Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that punched the air from his lungs. His stomach dropped. A cold, sharp fear sliced through him, clean and merciless. He tried calling back. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.
“God damn it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, pacing the length of his old room at Lallybroch. His heart hammered against his ribs, too fast, too loud. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at the situation. At the distance. At the helplessness clawing at him. He’d heard the shift in her voice — the way she’d gone from fragile to furious in a heartbeat, the way she’d turned the blade inward, the way she’d said—I told you not to get close to me, Jamie. I ruin everything.
He felt that like a physical blow. “No,” he whispered to the empty room. “No, Claire. Ye dinna ruin anything.” He tried calling again. Voicemail. He swore under his breath, pacing harder now, every instinct screaming at him to move, to go, to get to her. He grabbed his keys. His jacket. His phone charger.
Jenny appeared in the doorway, startled. “Jamie? What on earth—”
“I have to go,” he said, voice tight, breath uneven. “Claire’s— she’s no’ weel. She’s at the Thistle. Alone.”
Jenny’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, Jamie…”
“I canna just sit here,” he said, voice cracking. “She hung up on me. She’s hurtin’. She's blaming herself. She—” He broke off, swallowing hard.
Jenny stepped forward, squeezing his arm. “Then go. Go get her.” He nodded once — sharp, determined — and headed for the door. Fear churned in his gut. Anger burned in his chest. Helplessness clawed at his throat. But beneath all of it was something fiercer: He wasn’t letting her face this alone. Not tonight. Not ever again.
He started the car, hands shaking on the wheel, and whispered into the dark. “Hold on, Claire. I’m comin’.”
The door to Claire’s flat clicked open, and she stumbled inside with John’s arm looped firmly around her waist. They were both drunk — but Claire was gone, the kind of gone where the world tilted and her thoughts spun faster than her feet could keep up. John shut the door behind them with a soft thud. “Easy, my dear. One step at a time.”
Claire laughed — a brittle, broken sound — and kicked off her shoes, nearly tripping over them. “I’m fine,” she insisted, waving a hand in the air. “Totally fine. Perfectly—” She hiccupped.
John raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Clearly.” He guided her toward the sofa, but she pulled away, pacing instead — tight circles across the living room, hands in her hair, breath coming too fast.
“John,” she said, voice cracking. “I messed everything up.”
He sighed gently, already moving toward the kitchen. “Let me put on some coffee.”
“No! Listen to me!” she snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. “Sorry. I just… I need to talk. I need— I don’t know what I need.”
John filled the kettle, the sound of running water grounding the room. “You need something warm in your stomach. And perhaps toast. I can manage toast.”
Claire barked out a humorless laugh. “You can barely manage standing upright.”
“True,” he admitted. “But I can still manage toast.”
She kept pacing, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold her ribs together. “I warned him, John. I warned Jamie not to get close to me. I told him I was a disaster. I told him I ruin things. I told him—” Her voice broke.
John turned off the stove and crossed the room, placing steady hands on her shoulders. “Claire. Breathe.”
She shook her head violently. “I can’t! I can’t breathe because I did this. I told him not to love me and he did anyway and now— NOW—” She gestured wildly around the flat, at the mess, at herself, at the chaos she’d dragged home with her. “Look at me!” she cried. “Look at what I do! I warned him and he didn’t listen and now I’m going to lose him and it’s my fault.” Her knees buckled, and John caught her before she hit the floor, lowering her gently onto the sofa.
“Claire,” he murmured, brushing her curls back from her damp cheeks. “You haven’t lost him.”
She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t know if I can make it through losing him, John. I don’t think I can.” Her voice was small. Terrified. Honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
John sat beside her, pulling her into a careful, steady embrace. “You’re not losing him. You’re overwhelmed. You’re frightened. And you’re drunk as a lord.” She let out a wet, broken laugh against his shoulder. He continued, softer now. “Jamie is a good man. A patient man. And he cares for you deeply. One bad night won’t undo that.”
Claire squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her temples. “But what if it does? What if this is the thing that proves I’m too much?”
John held her tighter. “Then he’s a fool. And I don’t believe he is.” The kettle whistled in the kitchen, shrill and insistent. John sighed. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll get the coffee.”
Claire nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand, breath still shaky. As John stood, she whispered, barely audible, “I don’t want to lose him.”
He paused, looking back at her with a softness that steadied the room. “Then we’ll make sure you don’t.”
Jamie reached Claire’s building just after one in the morning, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He didn’t bother knocking — he used the key she’d given him weeks ago, the one she’d pressed into his hand with a shy smile and a quiet, “Just in case.” Tonight, “just in case” felt like a lifeline. He pushed the door open. The flat was dim, lit only by the flickering TV. The smell of coffee and burnt toast hung in the air. John was passed out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, snoring like a chainsaw. But Claire— Claire was on the floor. Sprawled on her back, one shoe off, her hair a tangled mess, her cheeks blotchy from crying. An empty mug lay beside her, tipped over. Her phone was still clutched in her hand. Jamie’s breath caught.
“Claire,” he whispered, crossing the room in three long strides. “Christ, lass…” He knelt beside her, brushing her hair back from her face. She jolted awake, eyes wild, disoriented. When she saw him, she flinched.
“Oh God,” she groaned, covering her face with her arm. “No. No, no, no. Why are you here? You're suppose to be at Lallybroch. With your family.”
Jamie swallowed hard. “Because ye hung up on me. Because ye were hurtin’. Because I was worrit sick.”
She pushed herself upright, swaying. “I told you not to come.”
“Aye,” he said softly, “and I ignored ye.”
She glared at him — but it wasn’t anger at him. It was anger at herself. Shame. Fear. The old wounds clawing their way back to the surface. “You shouldn’t be here,” she snapped, voice cracking. “You should be with your family. You should be able to visit them without having to rush home to save your daft girlfriend.”
Jamie froze. The words hit him like a blow. “Sassenach…” he said gently, “ye’re no’ daft. And I’m no’ here to save ye. I’m here because I wanted...nae needed tae see ye safe.”
She shook her head violently, tears spilling again. “Don’t say that. Don’t— don’t be kind to me right now. I can’t— I can’t handle it.” Jamie reached for her hand. She jerked away.
“Claire,” he whispered, voice breaking, “please let me help.”
“I don’t deserve it,” she choked out. “I don’t deserve you. I told you I ruin everything I touch. I told you— I told you not to get close to me.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened, not in anger at her — but at the pain she was drowning in. He moved closer, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “Claire Beauchamp,” he said softly, “ye dinna ruin things. Ye’re hurt. Ye’re scared. And ye’re drunk as a skunk. But ye’re no' alone.”
"I'm not drunk" She laughed — a broken, bitter sound. “I’m a mess.”
“Aye,” he said, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle, “but ye’re my mess.”
Her breath hitched. She looked at him — really looked — and for a moment, the fight drained out of her. The exhaustion, the fear, the shame… all of it flickered across her face. Then she whispered, voice trembling: “I’m so tired, Jamie.”
He gathered her gently into his arms. “I ken, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “I ken. Let me carry some of it, aye?” She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away. And for tonight, that was enough. He guided her down the hallway with one arm around her waist, her steps uneven and heavy. She leaned into him, not out of affection but because the room kept tilting, her body fighting to stay upright. “Easy, lass,” he murmured, nudging her bedroom door open with his foot. “Let’s get ye to bed.”
Claire groaned, rubbing her forehead. “I hate this. I hate me.”
Jamie’s heart clenched. “Dinna say that.”
She didn’t answer — just swayed where she stood, eyes half‑closed. He helped her sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt to unbuckle her shoes. She watched him through heavy lashes, her expression shifting — softening, warming, turning into something he recognized and dreaded. “Jamie…” she whispered, reaching out to brush her fingers through his hair.
He caught her wrist gently. “Claire. Ye’re drunk.”
“I know,” she said, leaning forward, her breath warm against his cheek. “But you’re here. And you’re… you. And I...I need you Jamie.”
He swallowed hard. “Aye. And that’s exactly why we’re no’ doin’ this now.”
She huffed, frustrated, tugging at the strap of her dress. “Help me with this.”
He hesitated — then nodded, but carefully, respectfully. He turned her around, unzipping the back just enough for her to slip out of it herself. He kept his eyes on the wall, jaw tight, breath steady. Claire, however, was not steady. She twisted back toward him, dress slipping off one shoulder, eyes dark and unfocused. “Jamie… come here.”
He stepped back immediately. “Claire. No.”
She frowned, hurt flashing across her face. “You don’t want me?”
Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. “God, lass… ye’ve no idea how much I want ye. But not like this. Not when ye’re hurtin’. Not when ye’re drunk.”
She pushed at his chest — weakly, clumsily. “You see!! I ruin everything. Even this.”
Jamie caught her hands, holding them gently but firmly. “Ye’re no’ ruinin’ anything. I’m just no’ takin’ advantage of ye.”
She blinked, tears welling again. “I’m so stupid.”
“Ye’re exhausted,” he corrected softly. “And scared. And drunk as a newborn foal.”
She let out a broken laugh, then sagged forward, forehead pressing into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, steady and warm, letting her cry without saying a word. When her sobs quieted, he eased her back onto the pillows, pulling the blanket over her. “I’m stayin’ right here,” he said, settling into the chair beside her bed. “Ye’re safe, Claire.”
Her eyes fluttered, heavy with sleep. “Don’t leave.”
“I willna.”
She reached out blindly, fingers brushing his sleeve. He took her hand, holding it gently. Within minutes, she was asleep — breathing uneven, lashes damp, hair a wild halo on the pillow. Jamie watched her, heart aching with love and fear and something fierce and protective. He whispered into the quiet room: “I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, mo chridhe. No' tonight. No' ever.”
Claire woke to sunlight stabbing through her curtains and a pounding behind her eyes that felt like someone was chiseling her skull from the inside. She groaned, rolling onto her side— And froze. Jamie was asleep beside her. Fully clothed. On top of the blankets. One arm draped loosely across the mattress, as if he’d fallen asleep sitting up and slid sideways sometime in the night. Her breath caught. Oh God. Flashes hit her like shards of glass:
Her conversation with Geillis
Jamie’s voice on the phone, tight with fear.
Her slurring, crying, hanging up on him.
John trying to comfort her.
Her meltdown as John made her coffee and toast.
Jamie showing up at her flat.
Her trying to seduce him.
Her hands on him.
His gentle, steady refusal.
His arms around her as she cried.
Him helping her into bed.
Her begging him not to leave.
Claire’s stomach twisted violently. What have I done? She sat up too fast, head spinning. Shame crawled up her throat, hot and suffocating. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear the thought of him waking up and seeing her like this — hungover, blotchy, pathetic. She swung her legs out of bed, moving quietly, carefully. Jamie didn’t stir. His face was soft in sleep, worry still etched faintly between his brows. He’d stayed. He’d stayed all night. Even after everything. That only made the shame worse.
Claire slipped into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth until her gums stung. She avoided her reflection — she didn’t want to see the girl who’d fallen apart, who’d pushed herself on him, who’d said things she couldn’t take back. Her hands shook as she pulled on clean clothes. She grabbed her bag. Her keys. Her phone. She paused in the doorway of her bedroom, looking at him one last time. Jamie Fraser, asleep in her bed because she’d been too drunk and too broken to be left alone. Her chest tightened painfully. He deserves better than this. Better than me.
She slipped out of the flat as quietly as she could, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The cold morning air hit her like a slap. She welcomed it. She needed something sharp, something real, something to cut through the fog in her head. Her thoughts spiraled faster with every step. He’s going to leave. He should leave. I made a fool of myself. I pushed him. I crossed a line. He’ll think I’m unstable. He’ll think I’m dangerous. He’ll think I’m just like before. She wrapped her arms around herself, walking faster. She didn’t deserve him. Didn’t deserve his steadiness. Didn’t deserve the way he’d held her last night, gentle and patient and heartbreakingly kind. She remembered the way she’d tried to pull him into bed, slurring his name, desperate and hurting. Her cheeks burned.
God, what must he think of me? The thought had been looping in her head since dawn, relentless and punishing. Claire reached campus far earlier than she needed to, the winter air biting at her cheeks as she sank onto a cold metal bench outside her lecture hall. She folded forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her stomach churned. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Every breath felt like it scraped.
She didn’t know what she feared more: Jamie waking up and finding her gone… or Jamie waking up and deciding not to come after her. Both possibilities hollowed her out in different ways. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but the memories of last night kept flashing — the bar, the shots, the phone call, the way her voice had cracked into something sharp and cruel because she’d been terrified and drunk and drowning in her own head. She hated herself for it. Hated the way she always seemed to sabotage the things she loved most.
A group of students walked past, laughing, their backpacks bouncing. Claire flinched at the sound, feeling suddenly, painfully out of place — like she was watching life happen from behind glass. She needed to get a grip. She needed to stop spiraling. She needed… something. Her gaze drifted across the courtyard, landing on the small brick building tucked beside the library — the one she’d passed a hundred times without ever going inside. Campus Counseling & Wellness Center.
Her chest tightened. She’d thought about it before. She’d told herself she didn’t need it. She’d told herself she could handle things on her own. But last night had proved something she didn’t want to admit: She wasn’t handling it. Not really. Not anymore. Claire swallowed hard, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Get up,” she whispered to herself. “Just… get up.” Her legs felt heavy as she stood, but she forced herself to move — one step, then another — toward the building she’d avoided for months.
She didn’t know what she would say. She didn’t know how to start. She didn’t know if it would help. But she knew one thing with absolute clarity: If she didn’t try… she might lose Jamie. And worse — she might lose herself. So she walked toward the door. And for the first time in a long time, she chose to ask for help.
Jamie woke with a start, the morning light already too bright. For a moment he didn’t know where he was — Claire’s bed, her soft sheets, the faint scent of her shampoo on the pillow beside him. Then he realized the bed was empty. Cold. Claire was gone. His stomach dropped. “Claire?” he called softly, pushing himself upright. Silence.
He checked the bathroom. The kitchen. The living room. Nothing. Her shoes were gone. Her bag was gone. Her coat was gone. Jamie’s pulse kicked hard. She’d left. She’d left without him. After last night. He grabbed his phone and called her. Straight to voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. A third time. Nothing. Fear clawed at his ribs. He wanted to run out the door, find her, hold her, tell her she wasn’t alone — but he had a virtual meeting for work in less than an hour. One he absolutely could not miss.
He swore under his breath. John was gone too — blanket tossed on the couch, a glass of water half‑drunk on the table. No note. No sign of Claire. Jamie scrubbed a hand over his face, heart pounding. “All right,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll wait. She’ll come home. She has to.” He set up his laptop at her kitchen table, angling the camera so the mess of last night wasn’t visible. His hands shook as he typed in the meeting link. He kept his phone beside him. Volume on full. Screen facing up. Waiting.
Claire sat in the waiting room with her coat still on, fingers twisted in the sleeves like she was bracing for impact. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. The fluorescent lights buzzed. A poster about “Healthy Coping Strategies” stared at her with cartoonish optimism she absolutely did not feel. When the door opened, she nearly jumped. “Claire Beauchamp?” the therapist said gently.
Claire stood too fast. “Yes. Hi. Sorry. Yes.” She immediately hated how breathless she sounded.
The therapist smiled — warm, steady, unbothered. “I’m Dr. Patel. Come on in.” Claire followed her into the small office, which was somehow both cozy and intimidating. Soft lighting. A plant that looked alive on purpose. A box of tissues placed strategically but not too strategically. She sat on the couch. Perched, really. Like a bird ready to bolt. Dr. Patel settled into her chair. “I’m glad you came in today.”
Claire let out a strangled laugh. “Well. ‘Glad’ may be… generous.”
Dr. Patel nodded, unfazed. “It can be uncomfortable. First sessions usually are.”
Claire stared at her hands. “I don’t really… do this. Talk to people. About things.”
“That’s alright,” Dr. Patel said. “We can start wherever you’re comfortable.”
Claire snorted. “Comfortable. Right.” A beat of silence stretched. Claire’s throat tightened. She could feel the tears threatening again, and she blinked hard, willing them back.
Dr. Patel’s voice softened. “What brought you in today?”
Claire opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—” She swallowed. “I messed up. With someone I care about. And I… I don’t know how to stop doing that.”
Dr. Patel nodded slowly. “You’re afraid you’ve hurt someone important to you.”
Claire’s laugh cracked in the middle. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything. Again. And I don’t know why I keep doing it. I don’t know why I can’t just be… normal.” Her voice wavered. She looked away, blinking fast. Dr. Patel didn’t rush her. Didn’t fill the silence. Just waited — calm, patient, steady — until Claire’s breathing evened out enough to continue. “I warned him,” Claire whispered. “I told him not to get close to me. I told him I break things. And then last night I… proved it.”
Dr. Patel leaned forward slightly. “It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of shame. And fear.”
Claire’s eyes burned. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“And you’re here,” Dr. Patel said gently, “because you don’t want to lose yourself either.”
Claire’s breath hitched. For the first time since the spiral began, she let herself sink back into the couch — not relaxed, not comfortable, but no longer ready to run. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think that’s why.”
Dr. Patel offered a small, reassuring smile. “Then we’ll start there.”
Jamie barely heard a word of the meeting. His eyes kept flicking to the door, to his phone, to the clock. She should’ve been home by now. Class ended hours ago. He refreshed his messages. Nothing. He called again the moment the meeting ended. Straight to voicemail. His chest tightened painfully. “Claire, please,” he whispered to the empty flat. “Just answer.”
He paced the living room, running a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to grab his keys and tear across the city. But he didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know if she was safe. Didn’t know if she was alone. He called again. Nothing. Fear turned into something sharper — frustration, helplessness, heartbreak.
Claire twisted a tissue between her fingers, shredding it slowly. “I didn’t mean to push him away,” she said. “Not really. I just… panicked.”
Dr. Patel nodded, her expression open and patient. “What were you afraid would happen?”
Claire let out a shaky breath. “That he’d leave. That he’d wake up one day and realize I’m too much. Too messy. Too… broken.” She swallowed hard. “So I tried to beat him to it.”
“By pushing him away first.”
Claire nodded, eyes fixed on her hands. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But it’s like—every time I get close to someone, something in me starts screaming that it’s only a matter of time before I lose them.”
Dr. Patel’s voice softened. “Has that happened before? Losing people you were close to?” Claire’s throat tightened. She nodded once, stiffly. “Tell me about that,” Dr. Patel said gently.
Claire stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking. “My parents died when I was young. Car accident. One minute they were there, and then… they weren’t.” Her voice wavered. “I don’t remember everything. Just flashes. The funeral. The quiet. The way everyone looked at me like I was made of glass.” Dr. Patel didn’t interrupt.
“And then there was Uncle Lamb,” Claire continued, her voice smaller now. “He took me in after I lost them. It took me a whole year to feel safe with him. After that, he was… everything. My whole world. And then—” She blinked hard, tears gathering. “I got a call from Boston. He had a heart attack. And he died too. And I just… I didn’t know how to exist after that.” She pressed the tissue to her eyes, inhaling shakily. “I spiraled. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I drank too much. I kept everyone at a distance because I thought if I didn’t love anyone, I couldn’t lose anyone. I relied on alcohol to drown out my loneliness.”
“And did that help?” Dr. Patel asked softly.
“No,” Claire whispered. “It made everything worse.”
She wiped her face, trying to steady her breathing. “And then Jamie came along. And he was… different. He made me feel normal again. Safe. Like I wasn’t just waiting for the next disaster.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it. “He made me laugh. He made me feel like I could have a future. Like I wasn’t broken beyond repair.” Her voice cracked. “And I started to believe it. I started to believe I could be someone worth loving.”
Dr. Patel leaned forward slightly. “That sounds very meaningful.”
“It was.....it is” Claire said, her voice breaking. “And then last night happened. And I screwed it all up. I panicked. I drank. I said awful things. I hung up on him. I pushed him away because I was terrified, he’d realize I was too much trouble and run.” She shook her head, tears falling freely now. “I always do this. I ruin things before they can ruin me.”
Dr. Patel let the silence settle for a moment before speaking. “Claire… what if pushing him away is the thing that hurts you most? Not losing him — but believing you don’t deserve him?” Claire’s breath hitched. “What if the fear isn’t about him leaving,” Dr. Patel continued, “but about letting yourself be loved?”
Claire pressed her trembling hands to her face. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be someone who doesn’t ruin everything.”
“You don’t have to know,” Dr. Patel said gently. “You just have to be willing to try.”
Claire lowered her hands, eyes red and raw. “I want to. I really do. I want to be better. For him. For me.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Dr. Patel said. “We can work on the fear. The patterns. The instinct to run. You’re not alone in this.”
Claire exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and exhaustion. “I just… I don’t want to lose him.”
“And you’re here,” Dr. Patel said, “which tells me you’re fighting not to.” Claire nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. For the first time in a long time, she felt something shift inside her — small, fragile, but real. Hope.
Claire stepped out of her lecture hall with a splitting headache and a stomach full of dread. The morning’s therapy session still clung to her like damp clothes — every raw admission, every trembling confession, every truth she’d spent years avoiding now echoing in her skull. You’re afraid of being loved. You’re afraid of losing him. You’re afraid of yourself. She’d nodded. She’d agreed. She’d even felt a flicker of hope — the tiniest spark that maybe she could do better, be better, try harder. She should go home. She should talk to Jamie. She should apologize, explain, breathe, try.
But the moment she stepped into the hallway, her phone buzzed. Missed calls. Jamie. Again. And again. Her chest tightened painfully. She couldn’t face him. Not after last night. Not after the things she’d said — sharp, defensive, cruel in the way only fear could make her. Not after trying to pull him into bed while drunk and spiraling, desperate for comfort and terrified of it at the same time. She shoved her phone deep into her bag, as if burying it could bury the shame too.
Geillis looped an arm through hers, bright and oblivious. “Pub night, babes. Ye’re coming.” Claire opened her mouth to refuse — she should refuse — but the thought of going home, of seeing Jamie’s face, of facing the consequences of her own humiliation… Her throat closed. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t steady. She wasn’t brave enough to walk into that flat and look him in the eyes.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Okay.” Geillis squeezed her arm, already pulling her along. Frank and John were ahead of them, laughing about something stupid, carefree in a way Claire couldn’t remember feeling. She followed them, her chest tight, her thoughts a tangled mess. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to replay the therapist’s voice telling her she deserved love, deserved safety, deserved a future that didn’t involve running from herself. She didn’t want to face the man who’d held her together last night while she fell apart — the man she’d pushed away the moment she felt too exposed.
She wanted noise. Distraction. Anything but the truth. So she walked toward the Thistle. And away from Jamie. And away from the version of herself she’d promised, just hours earlier, she was ready to become.
The Thistle was loud, crowded, familiar. Claire sat at a table with Geillis, Frank, and John, nursing a drink she didn’t really want. Geillis was talking about some ridiculous Tinder date. Frank was arguing with the bartender. John was already tipsy. Claire forced a smile, nodding at the right moments, pretending she wasn’t dying inside. Her phone buzzed again.
Jamie.
She flipped it over so she wouldn’t have to see his name.
Geillis noticed. “Ye’re avoiding someone.”
Claire swallowed. “I just… can’t deal with him right now.”
“Jamie?” Geillis asked, eyebrows raised. Claire didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her phone buzzed again. Jamie was still calling. Still trying. Still reaching for her. And Claire felt herself unraveling all over again.
Jamie pushed through the Thistle’s front door, the familiar smell of beer and fried food hitting him like a wall. The place was loud, crowded, buzzing with the usual Thursday‑night chaos. But he wasn’t here for the atmosphere. He scanned the room, heart pounding. Geillis spotted him first. She was in the usual booth with Frank, both of them mid‑argument about something stupid. Her expression shifted the moment she saw Jamie — surprise, then guilt, then something like sympathy. She slid out of the booth and met him halfway. “She’s out back,” Geillis said quietly, jerking her thumb toward the alley. “With John.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Is she all right?”
Geillis hesitated. “Define ‘all right.’”
That was all he needed. He didn’t wait for more. He pushed past the bar, through the back hallway, and shoved open the door to the alley. The cold air hit him first. Then the sight of them. Claire and John were sitting on overturned crates, a joint passing lazily between them. Claire’s head was tipped back against the brick wall, eyes half‑closed, her laugh soft and unfocused. John was rambling about something, waving his hands dramatically. Jamie’s heart cracked. Not because she was smoking. Not because she was laughing. But because she looked lost. Untethered. Hurting. Trying so hard to feel nothing.
“Claire.”
His voice cut through the alley like a blade. Claire’s eyes snapped open. She blinked, confused, then startled, then… ashamed. “Jamie?” she whispered.
John coughed, nearly dropping the joint. “Oh— hey, man. Didn’t expect—”
Jamie didn’t look at him. His eyes were on Claire. Only Claire. She shifted on the crate, pulling her coat tighter around herself, trying to sit up straighter, trying to look sober, composed, anything but what she was. “What are ye doin’ out here?” Jamie asked, voice low, tight, trembling with everything he wasn’t saying.
Claire swallowed hard. “I— I didn’t want to go home.”
“Why?” he asked, stepping closer.
She looked away. “Because you were there.” That hit him like a punch.
John stood awkwardly. “I’m just— gonna go inside. Give you two a minute.” He slipped past Jamie, disappearing into the bar.
Jamie took another step toward her. “Claire,” he said softly, “why didn’t ye come home?”
Her eyes filled, but she blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. “Because I’m embarrassed, Jamie. Because I made a fool of myself. Because I pushed myself on you. Because I—” Her voice cracked. “Because I didn’t want to see the look on your face when you realized I’m not worth the trouble.”
Jamie’s breath left him in a rush. He crouched in front of her, gently taking her cold hands in his warm ones. “Claire Beauchamp,” he said, voice shaking with emotion he couldn’t hide, “ye are worth every mile I drove, every minute I waited, every second I worried. Ye hear me?”
She shook her head, tears spilling now. “I’m a mess.”
“Aye,” he said softly, “but ye’re my mess.” She let out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and Jamie pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. She didn’t fight him this time. She just held on.