Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd hits her first. Not the noise. The energy. A tidal wave of sound that rolls up the stage and wraps around her like heat. Cheers, whistles, the electric hum of thousands of people who came here for her. Claire steps into the spotlight like she was born in it. Red strapless dress hugging her frame. Shiny silver cowgirl boots catching every beam of light. Black leather jacket slung over her shoulders like armor. Red lipstick bold enough to make the front row gasp. Guitar in hand, red strap cutting across her body, she looks like the cover of an album that hasn’t been released yet — the one everyone will fight to get. Boston’s golden girl. The voice critics swear could crack open heaven. The performer who never misses.
And tonight? She proves them right. The band kicks in, and Claire hits the first verse like a match striking flame. Her voice soars — rich, effortless, powerful — filling the arena with something that feels bigger than music. She moves like she’s tethered to the rhythm, fingers flying over the guitar strings, hair catching the lights as she turns. Every note lands. Every lyric hits. Every person in the room is hers. She’s in her element. She’s unstoppable. She’s Claire B. Until she isn’t.
It happens in a blink — a tiny slip, a breath too shallow, a moment where her mind blanks and her body doesn’t catch her. She reaches for the next note. And misses. Just a fraction. Just enough. The kind of mistake no one else would notice. But she does. It slices through her like cold water, sharp and merciless. The crowd keeps cheering. The band keeps playing. The lights keep burning. But Claire? Claire feels the floor tilt beneath her boots. For the first time all night, she feels the weight of the jacket on her shoulders. The ache in her chest. The emptiness where the joy used to be. She keeps going — because she’s a professional, because she’s Claire, because she knows how to finish a show even when her heart isn’t in it. But the moment is already gone. And she knows it.
The audience erupts like she just handed them the moon. But backstage? Backstage she detonates. Claire storms through the curtain, ripping out her in‑ear monitors so violently the cord snaps. Her guitar is still strapped across her body, banging against her thigh as she paces — fast, frantic, like a caged animal trying to outrun its own heartbeat. Her leather jacket hangs off one shoulder. Her curls are plastered to her temple. Her lipstick is smudged from singing her lungs out. She looks like a goddess who’s been struck by lightning. Louise barely gets the door shut before Claire explodes. “Did you hear that?” she spits, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Did you hear what I just did?” Louise opens her mouth, but Claire barrels on. “I missed it. I missed the note. I never miss. I don’t miss, Louise. That’s my thing. That’s the one thing I can always count on — and I blew it.” She yanks the guitar strap over her head and throws the instrument onto the couch. It bounces once, dangerously. Louise winces. “Claire—”
“One note,” Claire snarls, pacing again. “One note, and it felt like the floor dropped out from under me. Like my body forgot how to do the one thing it’s supposed to do. Like I was—” She stops, chest heaving. “Like I was watching myself from the outside.” Her hands shake. She stares at them like they’ve betrayed her. Louise steps forward, calm as a saint. “The crowd didn’t even blink.”
“But I did!” Claire shouts, slamming her palm against the makeup counter. Bottles rattle. A brush rolls off the edge. “I blinked, and everything went wrong. I felt it. I felt the crack. And once I felt it, I couldn’t unfeel it.” Her voice breaks — not pretty, not cinematic. A raw, exhausted crack that sounds like something inside her finally giving way. “I don’t feel it anymore,” she whispers, and the fury drains out of her all at once. “The music. The spark. The thing that used to make this worth it. It’s just… gone, Lou. It’s gone.” Louise’s face softens, but she doesn’t rush her. She knows better. “Claire—”
“I need time,” Claire cuts in, voice trembling. “I need a break. A week. A month. I don’t know. I just—” She presses both palms to her eyes, smearing her makeup. “I need a moment where I’m not performing or pretending or being ‘Boston’s Golden Girl’. I need to breathe.” Louise steps close, steady and warm. “Then we’ll make space. We’ll figure it out. But you’re not broken. You’re tired.” Claire laughs — a sharp, humorless sound. “Feels the same.”
“Not even close,” Louise says, squeezing her shoulder. And for the first time all night, Claire sags. Just a little. Just enough. She needs out. She needs quiet. She needs to find the girl who used to sing because she loved it — not because the world demanded it. Outside, the crowd chants her name, begging for an encore. Claire closes her eyes. She doesn’t go back out.
The hotel room is too bright. One of those chain‑hotel suites with overhead lights that make everything look a little washed out. Jamie sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair for the tenth time in as many minutes. Across from him, Lambert Beauchamp—head coach, mentor, and the closest thing Jamie’s had to a father in years—sits like a man preparing to deliver a lecture he’s given before and knows he’ll give again. Alex, thirteen months old and blissfully unaware of adult problems, sits in Lamb’s lap on the armchair, babbling happily and smacking Lamb’s chest with a soft plastic giraffe. Lamb tries to keep his stern expression, but every time Alex squeals, it cracks. Still, he soldiers on. “Jamie,” Lamb says, adjusting the baby on his knee, “you fired another nanny.” Jamie groans. “She was terrible.”
“You say that about every nanny.”
“Because they are terrible,” Jamie insists, sitting up straighter. “She let him chew on a charging cable, Lamb. A live one. I walked in and he was gnawin’ on it like a wee beaver.” Alex giggles at the word beaver, delighted. Lamb sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jamie, son… you’ve fired six nannies in eleven months.”
“Seven,” Jamie mutters.
“Seven,” Lamb repeats, exasperated. “Do you know how many professional athletes manage to keep their careers going with children at home? Plenty. But they do it because they accept help.” Jamie bristles. “I’m no’ sayin’ I dinna need help. I’m sayin’ I need someone competent.”
“And I’m saying,” Lamb counters, “that you’re being too hard on them. You’re expecting perfection. No one is perfect with a toddler. Not even you.” Alex chooses that moment to smack Lamb in the chin with the giraffe. Lamb winces. “Especially not him.” Jamie can’t help it—he laughs. A tired, worn‑out sound, but real. Lamb softens at the sound, his voice gentling. “Jamie… you can’t keep doing this alone. You’re burning yourself out. You’re distracted on the ice. You’re exhausted off it. And you’re talking nonsense about retiring.” Jamie’s jaw tightens. “It’s no’ nonsense. If it’s between hockey and Alex, I choose Alex. Every time.”
“I know you do,” Lamb says quietly. “And that’s why you don’t have to choose. You can have both. But only if you let people help you.” Jamie looks away, staring at the carpet like it might offer answers. “I just… I dinna trust anyone with him. No’ really.” Lamb reaches across the small space and squeezes Jamie’s shoulder, fatherly and firm. “You trusted me.” Jamie swallows. “Aye. Because you earned it.”
“Then let someone else earn it,” Lamb says. “Don’t sabotage your own life because you’re scared.” Jamie’s throat works. “I’m no’ scared.” Lamb raises a brow. Jamie sighs. “Fine. Maybe a little.” Alex leans forward, reaching for Jamie with grabby hands and a delighted “Da-da-da!” Jamie scoops him up instantly, pressing a kiss to his son’s cheek. “I just want him safe.”
“And he will be,” Lamb says. “But you can’t quit the NHL because you’re afraid of hiring the wrong nanny. You’ve worked your whole life for this. Don’t throw it away.” Jamie looks down at Alex—bright-eyed, drooling, waving the giraffe like a victory flag. His whole world. “I’ll try again,” Jamie murmurs. “One more nanny.” Lamb exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for months. “Good. Because I’m running out of polite ways to tell the general manager why our star forward keeps scaring off childcare professionals.” Jamie snorts. “Tell him they’re incompetent.” Lamb gives him a look. “I’m telling him you’re a stubborn ass.” Alex squeals in agreement. Jamie laughs again, softer this time. “Aye. Maybe I am.” Lamb pats his knee. “But you’re my stubborn ass. And I’m not letting you give up on your dream.” Jamie nods, holding Alex close. For the first time in weeks, he lets himself believe Lamb might be right.
Jamie steps out of Lamb’s room with Alex glued to him like a wee ginger marsupial, tiny fists knotted in his shirt. The kid’s curls are sticking up in every direction, his face still flushed from giggling at Lamb’s dramatics. Jamie presses the elevator button with his elbow. Willie appears from the hallway like a man summoned by mischief — and looking exactly like the kind of trouble who would answer the call. He’s a younger version of Jamie by a few years, but where Jamie is all sharp lines and red‑gold intensity, Willie is the softer, prettier chaos. Dark brown curls — the kind he doesn’t even have to brush for them to fall perfectly — flop over his forehead. His big blue Fraser eyes are bright despite the obvious hangover, framed by black‑rimmed glasses that make him look like Clark Kent if Clark Kent woke up with a stranger after a night out.
He’s rocking grey sweats, a long‑sleeve black shirt, and the kind of easy grin that says he’s been a menace since birth. “Morning, a bhràthair,” Willie says, ruffling Alex’s hair as if he’s not one wrong move away from a migraine. “And morning tae ye, wee menace.” Alex squeals, delighted — because of course he does. Willie Fraser is basically a walking baby magnet. The elevator dings. They step inside, and Willie immediately starts performing like he’s on stage: crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, exaggerated gasps, the whole circus routine. Alex is eating it up, babbling nonsense syllables that sound suspiciously like insults. They’re halfway down when the elevator stops again. The doors slide open. And in walks a woman.
A black mini skirt hugging long, toned legs; a red tube top that looks like it’s holding on through sheer willpower; an oversized denim shirt slipping off her shoulders like it’s given up trying to behave. White Chuck Taylors. A wild halo of brown curls that look like they’ve been fighting with gravity all morning and winning. Ink curls up the side of her thigh, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt. A thin gold hoop glints in her nose. Phone pressed to her ear. Voice sharp with exhaustion, like she’s been awake for days and is one inconvenience away from setting the world on fire. Jamie and Willie freeze mid‑movement, identical expressions of what fresh hell is this plastered on their faces.
Claire stops, pinches the bridge of her nose, and sighs like the universe has personally wronged her. “Actually—make that two.” She hangs up before the poor soul on the other end can respond, shoves the phone into her clutch, and exhales through her teeth. Willie’s mouth drops open like he’s witnessing a celebrity sighting and a car crash at the same time. Jamie elbows him hard. Claire slumps against the wall, and lets out a long, soul‑tired exhale. Willie is still staring. Jamie smacks him again. Alex, meanwhile, has discovered something far more interesting than his uncle’s antics — Claire’s curls. He reaches. And reaches. And reaches. Tiny hands opening and closing like he’s trying to summon her with toddler telekinesis. Jamie tries to bounce him, distract him, redirect him — anything — but Alex is locked in. Willie whispers, “Is that—?” Jamie shoves him toward the door as it dings on Willie’s floor. “Aye, get out.”
“But—”
“Out.” Willie stumbles into the hallway, still gawking. The doors close. Silence. Then Claire notices the baby. Her posture softens instantly. “Well hullo there,” she murmurs, voice warm in a way it hadn’t been on the phone. “Aren’t you a handsome lad.” Alex beams. Actually beams. Reaches again, curls bouncing. Jamie blinks. Alex does not like women. Not strangers. Not anyone except Lamb and the occasional grandmotherly type who smells like biscuits. But this woman? He’s enchanted. Claire steps a little closer, careful, gentle. “Look at those curls,” she says softly. “Just like your dad’s.” Jamie stiffens. “He’s no’ usually this friendly.” She smiles — tired, crooked, real. “Babies know things adults don’t.” Jamie snorts. “Aye? And what does he ken, then?”
“That I’m having a very bad morning,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “And that whisky is the only thing keeping me from screaming into a pillow.” Jamie raises a brow. “Whisky at eight in the mornin’. That’s… something.” Claire lets out a humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t understand.” Jamie bristles, already judging her. “Try me.” But Alex reaches again, whining now, desperate for her. Jamie tries to turn him away. “No, lad, leave the lass be.” Claire steps closer anyway, offering her hand for Alex to grab. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.” Alex clutches her fingers like he’s known her forever. Jamie watches — unsettled, irritated, and something else he can’t name. Claire looks up at him, curls brushing her cheek, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something rawer — the kind of tired that lives in the bones, not the body. Up close, she’s stunning in that dangerous, unraveling way: red lipstick smudged, mascara smearing just slightly, the shine of someone who gave everything onstage and has nothing left for herself.
“Rough morning?” Jamie asks, more gruffly than he means to. She huffs a laugh — sharp, humorless. “Rough week.” And God, it shows. Because that’s how long it had taken for Claire to pry herself away from Louise, from the tour, from the machine that had been grinding her down. A week of cancelled shows, rescheduled dates, furious emails, disappointed fans, and a PR team ready to set itself on fire. People had been pissed. People had been loud. People had demanded explanations. But Claire? Claire needed out. She needed distance. She needed silence. She needed to stop being Boston’s Golden Girl long enough to remember who Claire Beauchamp even was.
The elevator dings for Jamie’s floor. He shifts Alex higher on his hip, ready to step out — but the moment he turns, Alex lets out a sharp, wounded cry. A full‑body, betrayed wail. Jamie freezes. “What—? Alex, lad, what’s wrong?” Alex reaches past him, chubby arms straining toward Claire, fingers opening and closing in desperate little grabs. His face crumples, tears welling, curls bouncing with every frantic wiggle. Claire blinks, startled. “Oh—oh sweetheart, it’s okay.” Jamie’s jaw tightens. “He’s fine. He’s just—tired.” Alex screams louder. Claire steps forward, instinctively softening her voice. “Do you want me to hold him?”
“No.” Jamie says it fast. Too fast. “No, thank ye.” She pauses, taken aback. And Jamie knows exactly what he’s reacting to — the whisky order before sunrise, the tattoos curling up her thigh, the gold nose ring, the skirt that makes his ears burn, the wild curls Alex seems ready to abandon his father for. She’s stunning. Dangerously so. Before Alex, he would’ve flirted without thinking. Would’ve leaned into that smile, that voice, that spark. But now? Now he’s a da. And he can’t risk letting someone like her — unpredictable, hungover, heartbreakingly beautiful — anywhere near his son. Claire tucks a curl behind her ear, trying to hide the flicker of hurt. “I was only offering. He seems… interested.”
“He’s no’,” Jamie insists, bouncing Alex uselessly. “He’s just… loud.” Alex is not helping his father’s argument. He’s reaching again, sobbing now, tiny face blotchy and devastated, like Claire is the last cookie on earth and Jamie is dragging him away from it. Jamie steps out of the elevator. Claire stays where she is, confusion knitting her brows. “Right. Well… have a good morning.” Jamie nods stiffly, refusing to look at her again. “Aye. Ye too.” He turns down the hallway, Alex clinging to him like he’s being kidnapped. And then—A tiny voice pipes up over his shoulder, bright and wobbly through tears. “Bye‑bye!”
Jamie glances over his shoulder. Alex is waving. At Claire. Over Jamie’s arm. Like his wee heart is breaking. Claire lifts her hand in a small, hesitant wave back — something soft and unguarded flickering across her face. The elevator doors slide shut between them. Jamie exhales, long and tight, and mutters under his breath, “Christ above.” Because he has no idea why his son reacted like that. And he has even less idea why he can’t stop thinking about the woman with the whisky order and the wild curls.
Lamb is halfway through reviewing game footage when someone knocks. He isn’t expecting anyone. Not at this hour. Not on a travel day. He opens the door—And freezes. “Claire?” She stands there in the hallway, curls wild, denim shirt slipping off one shoulder, tattoos peeking out from under the hem of her skirt. Her eyes are red‑rimmed, makeup smudged, and she’s clutching a half‑empty bottle of whisky like it’s emotional support. She lifts her head when the door opens. “Hi,” she says, voice small, frayed at the edges. Lamb doesn’t hesitate for even a heartbeat. He sweeps her into his arms, hugging her so tight she lets out a startled squeak. “My girl! What on earth are you doing in Aberdeen?” he booms, pulling back just enough to look at her face. “How did you even know where to find me?”
Claire melts into him, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding herself together. “I still have your location on Life360, remember?” she murmurs into his chest. “Finding you was the easy part.” Lamb’s expression softens into something paternal and fierce. He keeps an arm around her as he ushers her inside, shutting the door behind them like he’s protecting something fragile from the world outside. The moment she sits on the couch, she breaks. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. The kind of breaking that comes from exhaustion, not weakness. “I can’t do it anymore, Lamb,” she whispers. “I can’t write. I can’t sing. I can’t even pretend. I’m burnt out. Completely. I need time away. I need—something. I don’t know what.” Lamb sits beside her, rubbing her back. “Oh, sweetheart…”
Claire’s voice is small when it finally breaks free. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she admits. “I just… needed you.” Lamb’s heart cracks clean down the middle. He cups the back of her head, thumb brushing her hairline. “Then you came to the right place.” She sniffles, dragging her sleeve across her eyes, denim going damp. “I know I can’t stay long. With family not being allowed to travel with the team.” Her shoulders sag. “I can go back to your place in Edinburgh for a bit. I just needed to see you.” Lamb studies her — really studies her. The exhaustion. The fear. The way she’s holding herself together with frayed thread. His eyes sharpen, something clicking into place. “Family isn’t,” he agrees slowly. “But staff is.” Claire blinks. “What?”
Lamb stands, already reaching for his phone, already moving like a man who has made up his mind. “Stay put,” he says, voice steady, purposeful. “I’ve got an idea.” And Claire — exhausted, unraveling, desperate for something solid — stays exactly where she is. Because when Lamb uses that tone? It means he’s about to change her life. “Lamb—what are you doing?”
“Fixing your life,” he mutters, dialing. Claire isn’t curled on the couch. She is dramatically, unapologetically flopped across it like a starlet in a black‑and‑white film who has given up on life and gravity both. She’s on her back, legs propped over the back of the couch at an angle that defies anatomy. One arm dangles off the side, a half‑empty whisky bottle swinging loosely from her fingers — in plain sight, no shame, no attempt to hide it. Her curls spill over the edge of the cushion, fanning across the floor like a dark halo, wild and untamed. Her denim shirt is gone entirely, tossed somewhere across the room, leaving the ink along her shoulder and ribs on full display. Her tube top is crooked, her breathing uneven, her expression the picture of exhausted rebellion.
Lamb opens the door. Jamie stands there, Alex on his hip. Alex spots Claire instantly. His whole face lights up — like someone just turned the sun back on. He squeals, a delighted, high‑pitched sound that makes Jamie nearly drop him. Because of course the baby imprints on the woman currently lying upside‑down with whisky in her hand like a fallen rockstar. Claire’s eyes widen. “Oh. Hullo again.” Jamie stiffens. “You.” Alex wiggles violently, reaching for her with grabby hands. Jamie tightens his hold. “No, lad. We’re no’—” Alex lets out a furious toddler shriek. Lamb beams. “Come in, both of you.” Jamie steps inside reluctantly, eyes darting between Claire’s tattoos, her bare thighs, the whisky bottle she’s not even trying to hide, and the fact that his son looks ready to leap out of his arms. “What’s this about?” Jamie asks.
Claire is still upside‑down on the couch when Lamb claps his hands together like he’s announcing the winner of a raffle. “Jamie, meet your new nanny.” Claire flings herself upright so fast she nearly launches off the cushions. Her legs, previously draped over the back of the couch, slip — and she half‑slides, half‑rolls until she’s sitting crookedly, curls flying, whisky bottle wobbling dangerously in her hand. Jamie nearly chokes. “Absolutely not.” Claire’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me?” Alex squeals again, reaching for her like she’s the sun and he’s been living in a cave. Lamb continues, unfazed, as if Claire didn’t just perform a full‑body pratfall. “Claire needs time away. You need a nanny. The team needs you focused. This solves everything.” Jamie glares. “She hardly looks like a nanny.” Claire bristles, shoving herself fully upright, spine stiff, curls wild, whisky bottle now hidden behind a pillow with all the subtlety of a raccoon hiding stolen food. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Jamie gestures vaguely at her — the crooked skirt, the tattoos, the nose ring, the whisky bottle she’s failing miserably to hide behind a pillow. “It means… ye dinna exactly give off ‘responsible childcare provider.’” Claire’s eyes narrow. Jamie swallows. Alex reaches for her again, chanting delighted nonsense. And Lamb? Lamb looks like a man who has just set a very complicated, very chaotic plan in motion. Jamie turns on him, jaw tight. “Lamb, I’m already raising Alex. I’m already taking care o' my irresponsible eejit o' a brother. I canna take care o' the lass as weel. I need someone tae help me — no give me more tae handle.” Claire bristles again, sitting up straighter even though she’s still half‑sliding off the couch. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Jamie lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Clearly.”
Claire opens her mouth to defend herself — something about being perfectly capable, something about him being a judgmental ass — but the words tangle, slur, and dissolve. She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, and exhales. “Fine,” she mutters, defeated by whisky, gravity, and the morning from hell. “Whatever.” Lamb clasps his hands, triumphant. Claire’s cheeks flush — with anger, embarrassment, or both. Lamb sighs dramatically. “Jamie, this is Claire Beauchamp.” Jamie blinks. “Aye, I ken who she is. We met in the elevator this morning.”
Lamb rubs his temples, exhaling like he’s bracing for impact. “No. Claire Beauchamp,” he says, voice firm. “My girl. My family. My adopted daughter.” Jamie goes still. Completely still. His eyes snap to Claire — really snap — taking her in with new context, new weight, new meaning. The whisky bottle dangling from her fingers. The wild curls. The tattoos. The upside‑down couch entrance. All of it rearranges itself into something he didn’t see coming. Claire blinks at him, then lifts her chin in a dramatic little tilt. “Surprise,” she says, the word slurred just enough to sound both smug and wounded. Alex squeals her name in baby babble, reaching for her like she hung the moon. Jamie swallows hard. Everything just got complicated.
Jamie is pacing now — long strides, free hand dragging through his hair, jaw clenched tight. His voice stays low, but the heat in it could scorch the wallpaper. “I’m tellin’ ye, Lamb, she doesna look responsible. She’s wearin’—” He gestures vaguely, ears going red. “That skirt. She’s no’—she’s no’ nanny material.” Across the room, Claire sits on the couch like a queen on a throne she absolutely does not deserve but will defend to the death. Spine straight. Chin lifted. Pretending she isn’t listening. She is absolutely listening. Her eyes flash — sharp, offended, dangerous. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sweetly, venom wrapped in honey. “I didn’t realize childcare required a dress code. Should I have worn a cardigan and pearls?” Jamie ignores her, which only makes it worse. “I need someone stable,” he continues. “Someone who looks like they ken what they’re doin’. No’ someone who—”
“Say it,” Claire snaps. “Go on. Someone who looks like me.” Jamie’s mouth opens, then closes. He doesn’t deny it. Lamb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jamie, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being practical,” Jamie fires back. “I canna trust—” He turns to gesture toward Alex. Except Alex isn’t in his arms anymore. Jamie’s heart stops. “Where—?” In the heat of the argument, Alex had wriggled his way into Lamb’s arms… only to lean, stretch, and launch himself toward Claire the moment he got close enough. Lamb lifts a hand. “He’s right there.” Jamie whirls around. And freezes. Alex is in Claire’s arms. Not fussing. Not crying. Not clinging in fear. He’s tucked against her chest, tiny arms wrapped around her neck, face buried in her curls like he’s found the safest place on earth. Claire stands by the window, swaying gently side to side, humming something soft and low. Her curls mix with Alex’s fiery red ones, the two of them bathed in pale Scottish morning light.
She isn’t looking at Jamie. She isn’t defending herself. She isn’t saying a word. She’s just… holding his son. Tenderly. Instinctively. Jamie’s breath catches. He’s never seen Alex like this with a woman, no one but his sister Jenny. Never this calm. Never this trusting. Claire whispers something to Alex — too soft to hear — and he sighs, tiny fingers curling into her hair. Jamie feels something in his chest shift. Crack. Reorient. Lamb steps beside him, voice quiet. “Aye. That’s why.” Jamie swallows hard, throat tight. “He… he doesna do that wi' women.” Claire keeps humming, completely ignoring the hurtful things Jamie said minutes ago. Not out of weakness — She’s not trying to impress him. She’s comforting a child. Jamie’s child. And for the first time since she walked into that elevator, Jamie Fraser has no idea what to say.
His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Claire glances over — eyes soft but guarded, like she’s bracing for him to snatch the moment away. She doesn’t speak. She just keeps humming, keeps rocking, keeps holding his son as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lamb nudges him, voice low. “Aye. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Jamie tears his gaze away from Claire, barely. “What do ye mean?” Lamb sighs — the kind of sigh that comes from months of watching someone he loves fall apart quietly. “Claire isn’t what you think she is. She’s not a drunk. She’s not reckless. She’s going through a tough time, Jamie. A hard patch.” His eyes soften as he watches her sway with Alex. “She needs something to ground her again.” Jamie swallows, throat tight. “And ye think… this?” He gestures helplessly toward Claire — toward Alex curled into her like he’s found home. Lamb nods. “Aye. Look at them.” Jamie does.
And the sight hits him like a blow. She isn’t trying to prove a damn thing. She’s just… comforting a child. His son. Jamie’s chest tightens, something shifting, cracking, rearranging itself in a way he can’t name. Lamb’s voice gentles. “She needs steadiness, Jamie. And Alex—” He nods toward the baby curled against her. “Alex needs her.” Jamie can’t look away. Because for the first time since she stumbled into that elevator with whisky on her breath and chaos in her curls… he sees her. Really sees her. Not the mess. Not the attitude. Not the whisky bottle that was dangling from her fingers. He sees the woman humming softly to his son, steady as stone, gentle as breath, holding Alex like she was born knowing how. But the truth hits him just as hard. He still doesn’t know if he’s ready to take the chance. Claire feels like a bad decision — the bad decision. The kind that could blow up everything he’s built. The kind he can’t afford, not with Alex to think of, not with the fragile balance he’s barely holding together. His heart pulls toward her. His head pulls away. And he stands there, caught between the two, watching the woman who shouldn’t fit into his life at all…fit perfectly.
Claire doesn’t pay Jamie or Lamb a shred of attention — not anymore. Her whole world has narrowed to the tiny boy in her arms. The boy clinging to her like a lifeline. And just like that, she feels more sober than she did an hour ago. She presses a soft kiss to Alex’s temple — a tiny, instinctive gesture that punches the air out of Jamie’s lungs. His chest tightens painfully, like something inside him is trying to break free. After another moment, she shifts her weight and turns toward him. “Here,” she says quietly. “You should take him.” Her voice is gentle. No bite. No snark. No trace of the judgment he threw at her minutes ago. She just… hands Alex back. Jamie steps forward, awkward, suddenly all thumbs. His hands brush hers as he takes his son, and he feels the warmth of her skin, the steadiness of her hold — a steadiness he didn’t expect from the woman guzzling whisky before lunch. Alex whines in protest, reaching back toward her even as Jamie settles him on his hip. Jamie clears his throat, flustered. “Thank ye. I… eh… thank ye for calming him.”
Claire nods once, tucking a curl behind her ear, the motion soft and almost shy. “He’s a sweet boy.” Jamie can’t look away from her — from the way her curls fall over her shoulder, from the ink peeking along her arm, from the softness she showed his son without hesitation. And suddenly he’s painfully aware of every harsh thing he said. Every assumption. Every judgment. In this moment, Jamie Fraser has no idea how to stand, how to breathe, or how to stop feeling like he’s already misjudged her in the worst possible way. He's flustered, still trying to figure out how to hold his son and his pride at the same time, when Claire steps away from him. She gives Alex one last soft smile — the kind that makes his little hands reach for her again — then turns to Lamb. “Thank you,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss his cheek. It’s tender, familiar, the kind of affection that makes Jamie blink in surprise.
Lamb pats her arm. “Claire—wait, we’re not finished talking about—” But she’s already grabbing her whisky bottle from the coffee table, sliding it into her hand with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at Jamie. Not once. She saunters toward the door, denim shirt thrown over one shoulder, curls bouncing with every step. The picture of someone who refuses to let a man’s judgment bruise her twice. Lamb calls after her, “Where are you going?” She pauses only long enough to toss over her shoulder, “I’ll be in my room.”
“Claire,” Lamb tries again, “we’ve a game tonight!” She’s halfway out the door when she shoots back, voice bright and careless, “Save me a seat!” The door clicks shut behind her. Silence. Jamie stands frozen, Alex on his hip, mouth slightly open like he’s forgotten how to speak. Alex whines, reaching toward the closed door, little fingers stretching for someone who’s no longer there. Jamie finally manages, “What… just happened?” Lamb sighs, rubbing his temples. “You judged her. She ignored you. Alex fell in love. And now you’re going to have to deal with all three.” Jamie blinks, still staring at the door. Alex whimpers again, leaning toward it, chubby hand waving in a sad little “bye-bye.” Jamie swallows hard. Gob smacked doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Claire doesn’t look back. Not at Jamie. Not at Lamb. Not at the baby reaching for her like she hung the moon. She just saunters down the hall, whisky bottle swinging from her fingers, curls bouncing like she’s walking away from a crime scene she absolutely committed. The moment her door closes behind her, the performance shatters. She flops onto the bed with the grace of a dying starfish — flat on her back, limbs splayed, whisky bottle thunking onto the comforter beside her. She groans loudly, the kind of sound that comes from the soul. “Brilliant, Claire,” she mutters to the ceiling. “Just brilliant.”
She came to Scotland to be close to Lamb. To get away from the music, the fans, the burnout chewing her alive. To breathe. And now? Now she’s feeling things she hasn’t felt in years. A pull toward a little boy she didn’t know existed until this morning — a tiny, red‑haired barnacle who clung to her like she was safety itself. An undeniable attraction to his grumpy, judgmental, infuriatingly handsome father — the man who looked at her like she was a disaster and then like she was a miracle, all in the same hour. And worst of all? An urge to write a song about all of it. She groans again, louder this time, rolling onto her stomach and dragging a pillow over her head like she can smother the feelings out of existence. “Nope,” she mumbles into the mattress. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this.” The pillow muffles her next groan — long, dramatic, theatrical. Because Claire Beauchamp came to Scotland to escape her life. Not to start a new one. Not to get attached. Not to feel anything at all. And yet here she is. Feeling everything.
Heres our visual for baby Alex and his bigger than life curls.