My breath caught.
Her eyes were wide, glassy, her lashes damp. "See," she whispered, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt before she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her chest. "They’re bigger. Better than Yelena’s."
I swallowed hard, my pulse spiking. "Claire, you’re drunk," I said, my voice rough as I gently pulled my hand away.
She didn’t let go.
"Stay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please. Don’t leave"
I studied Claire’s face—her flushed cheeks, the way her breath hitched just a little too perfectly, the way her fingers trembled against my shirt, but not quite enough to sell the act completely.
Claire Starling—FBI agent, survivor, someone who had faced down criminals and betrayal without flinching—drunk? So easily? So completely?
No.
It didn’t add up.
Her breathing was uneven, but her eyes—though half-lidded—still flickered with a sharpness that betrayed her.
The way she clung to me wasn’t the desperate grasp of someone lost to alcohol. It was calculated. A performance. One she was putting on for reasons I couldn’t quite unravel yet.
I could’ve called her out. Could’ve teased her, pushed her, watched her squirm as she tried to justify her act. But that wouldn’t be interesting. Not yet.
Instead, I sat down beside her on the bed, my movements slow, deliberate. My fingers brushed against her cheek, gently patting her face before adjusting the strands of hair that had fallen across her forehead. "I’m not going anywhere," I murmured, my voice soft, almost tender. "Get some rest."
Claire’s lashes fluttered, her breath hitching just slightly as my fingers trailed along her jawline. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t open her eyes. But I could hear her—the storm of thoughts raging beneath the surface, a whirlwind of panic, shame, and something far more vulnerable.
[Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. What the hell was I thinking?! Claire, you have TWO DAUGHTERS. TWO.. And you’re acting like some... some desperate, drunk mess in front of JACK.]
[What if he thinks I’m pathetic? What if he thinks I’m—]
[No, no, no. It’s the alcohol. It has to be. I never lose control like this. But I didn’t even drink that much. Did I?]
[Oh God, did I? What if I really DID lose control? What if I— No. No, I’m still in control. I’m still ME. But then why does it feel like I’m drowning? Why does it feel like I can’t breathe when I think about him leaving? Why does it feel like I need him to stay more than I need my next breath? This isn’t me. This isn’t ME.]
[I don’t get attached. I don’t NEED people. But Jack... He’s different. He’s not like Daniel. He’s not like any of them. Daniel was selfish. Weak. He betrayed me without a second thought.]
[But Jack... He stayed. He didn’t run when things got hard. He didn’t flinch when Natalya played her games. He’s still here. And I—I just grabbed his hand and put it on my— OH MY GOD. What is WRONG with me?!]
[I’m a MOTHER. A FEDERAL AGENT. I don’t do this. I don’t BEHAVE like this. But then why did I— Why did I WANT him to— No. No, no, no. It’s the stress. It’s the mission. It’s NATALYA. She messed with my head. That’s all this is. But then why does my chest still hurt? Why do I still feel like I’m going to cry if he walks away? Why does it feel like I’m falling apart?]
Her lashes lifted just a fraction, her dark, glistening eyes peeking at me from beneath them. I kept my gaze on her face, my expression soft, almost amused. "She looks so cute drunk like this," I murmured, more to myself than anything.
Claire’s thoughts exploded into chaos.
[Cute? He thinks I’m CUTE? Me? An OLD WOMAN? Cute in his eyes? Oh God, oh God, oh God—What if he’s just being NICE? What if he’s laughing at me right now? What if he thinks I’m ridiculous?]
[But he’s not laughing. He’s not pulling away. He’s still HERE. His hand is still on my face. His thumb is still brushing my cheek like I’m something PRECIOUS. No one’s touched me like this in YEARS. Not since Daniel. And even then— Daniel never looked at me like THIS.]
[Daniel never MADE ME FEEL like this. But Jack— Jack makes me feel like I’m going to BURN. And I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to STOP it.]
[ I should push him away. I should tell him to leave. But I don’t WANT him to leave. I want him to STAY. I want him to KEEP looking at me like this. I want— No. NO. I can’t want this. I can’t NEED this. But I do. God help me, I DO.]
I didn’t say anything.
I just stayed there, watching her, my hand still resting against her cheek.
And I waited.
Claire’s breath hitched, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic and shame. She couldn’t face me. Couldn’t bear the thought of me seeing her like this—vulnerable, exposed, needy. So she did the only thing she could think of: she turned away, her body curling in on itself as she pretended to succumb to the drunkenness she’d faked.
[I can’t face him...]
[If I just pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave...]
[He’ll think I’m passed out, and he’ll go...]
[And then I won’t have to see the look in his eyes—pity, or worse, disgust...]
She turned her face to the other side, her breath slow and deliberate, her body feigning the heavy stillness of sleep. But I didn’t move. I just sat there, quiet, watching her. Listening.
[Why isn’t he leaving?]
[Why is he still here?]
[Does he know I’m faking?]
[No, no, he can’t. I’m too good at this.]
[But then why does it feel like he can see right through me?]
I reached out, pulling the blanket over her, tucking it gently around her shoulders. She didn’t stir, but her thoughts betrayed her.
[He’s covering me up...]
[Why?]
[Does he actually care, or is he just being polite?]
[No one’s taken care of me like this in so long...]
I didn’t answer her unspoken questions. I just sat beside her, my presence a quiet promise. I wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Not when she was like this.
Claire’s thoughts spiraled, her mind racing even as her body pretended to sleep.
[Will he stay here... like this?]
[Just because I asked him to stay?]