Thank you for the messages regarding how I am feeling and the death of my friends. I really appreciate literally every message and review. We do need to check in on each other, now more than ever. Writing keeps me sane, it has slowed down and then started again full force. Currently fighting off a cold and enjoying the approaching autumn :) do you love autumn as much as I do?

Chapter twelve:

Every endless night, had a dawning day. She was the brightness. The beauty of the sky which overcame the shadows of the darkness and allows the rays of the sun to penetrate through to the illuminance of the morning.

And, she was innocent. Wild. Fiery. And he, Jack Dawson, had walked away from her. Walked away from something which felt as natural to him as, perhaps, breathing did. It wasn't just the idea of toying with her, bringing her away from the serious elements of her life which she knew and showing her just how to play. How to jest. How to take moments away from the protective layers of her world and step away just long enough to open her eyes to see beyond them, even just briefly. It was something deeper rooted. Whether or not it was her involvement with Hockley, he could not say, but it was as though she had sunk beneath his skin, down a layer or two and now, it was hard to pull her out, especially, when he wondered if part of him wished for her to be there.

Surrounded by few other gentlemen, one in use of the rowing machine, dressed in gymnasium whites and the other was towelling down his perspiring face before ceasing use of the electric camel. Jack, himself, took another swipe at the punching bag, with sweat already drenching his face. He wasn't attired for the use of the gym. He wasn't fit for much other than easing the frustrations. Other than allowing himself to be consumed in something other than almost losing himself with Miss. DeWitt Bukater on the floor of her damned sitting room with his hands at her waist.

The Gymnasium was just aft of the forward Grand Staircase along the Starboard side of the Boat Deck. It was described as a wonderful innovation for an ocean-going liner at the time. It was a brightly lit room with white-painted oak panelling and tile floors. Along the wall opposite the entrance was a carved oak installation with an illustrated cutaway of an Olympic-class Ocean liner and a map depicting the travel routes of the White Star Line throughout the world. The room was equipped with state-of-the-art exercise equipment manufactured in Wiesbaden, including two electric camels, an electric horse, a rowing machine, a punching bag, a weightlifting machine, and mechanical bicycles. The onboard Physical Educator T.W Hawley was back against the wall, encouraging other gentlemen and was about to assist with the weight machine.

Hitting the bag again, Jack felt nothing of the relief which usually followed a strenuous activity. There was fencing, which he had retorted to in London. There was running, which he had done in Paris, along the River Seine each morning before spending an hour in pure serenity by the water. Adrenaline just seemed to pump, endlessly and there was no use slamming his fists into the brown leather ball, for it just seemed to come back for more without any release. Where was the damned euphoria of breaking free of such stresses?

Perhaps a swim in the heated pool, but then it would only give his mind free time to roam of Rose, there, with him. She would shriek in such fits of giggles as she swam about his arms, trying to escape his chase but would then give in, surrender to his arms and allow him to kiss her there, sloshing about carelessly in the water. Perhaps, she would frolic the same in the sea in California?

Jack tried to sort through a tangle of emotions, as he continued to beat the ball. He had never known jealousy before, but when he had seen Rose and Caledon Hockley walking together earlier, Jack had experienced a violent urge to strangle the bastard. Every instinct raged that Rose was his, his alone to protect and comfort. But he had no rights to her. Hockley was the man engaged to her. She was to marry him. If she truly didn't wish to marry him then surely breaking off the engagement would be the way to go. Perhaps she needed to learn to love him. Learn to be with him. Beyond the barriers of the societal rules, Rose was trying and he, the kind which she would never be with, should accept that. Rose would be better off with her own kind, rather than a half-bred sort. Half-gentleman. Almost...

Jack could be better off, too. Good God, was he actually contemplating spending the rest of his life as a peer, bound in domesticity? But then what? He wasn't about to marry a seventeen-year-old just because he was more than mildly attracted to her. There was no room in his life for any woman. Not Rose DeWitt Bukater, nor any woman. His life before her had been so carefully planned out to not leave room for such a thing as love. He hadn't left room for anything other than the work which he had submerged himself into; primarily helping others. It left him not a single second to think of himself, or any needs aside from bathing, eating, sleeping and attending the tailor and the barbers when the time called for a trim and when the seasons fashions were called upon to change. These were the things which he had needed in order to continue his work, his life and so anything else had been discarded.

He should leave her alone, he thought. Rose would make her own decision about Hockley, and Jack would follow his destiny. No compromises or sacrifices on either side. He would never be anything more to Rose than a brief, vaguely remembered episode in her life. Lowering his head, Jack scrubbed his hands through his unruly hair. His chest ached in the way it always had when he yearned for freedom. But for the first time, he wondered if he was right about what he wanted. Because it didn't seem as if the pain would be cured when he left her alone. In fact, it threatened to become a good deal worse. The future spread before him in a great lifeless void. Thousands of nights without Rose. He would hold and make love to other women, but none of them would ever be the one he truly wanted. He thought of Rose living as a spinster; perhaps out in the freedom which she supposedly desired yet was afraid to chase. Or worse, with Hockley, perhaps marrying him, but always living with the knowledge that Hockley had her tied up. Bound. Unable to move even the slightest of muscles. Jack had watched them over the duration of the lunch and between her mother and Hockley, there was barely a shred of breath to take by the time they had finished interrupting her conversations, ordering the contents of her luncheon...

Rose deserved so much more than that. She deserved passionate, heart-scalding, overwhelming, consuming love. She deserved . . .

Oh, hell. He was thinking too much. Just like his father would. Jack forced himself to face the truth. Rose DeWitt Bukater was not his to save. She wasn't his, at all. What was a few stolen kisses, which would no doubt be forgotten? Let her marry Hockley, or if there was the need for her to leave the four walls of her prison then she could navigate it herself. The frustration lingered within the pit of his stomach that she had been driven to almost suicide and yet Hockley was completely unaware and so wrapped up within the confines of his own ego that it almost didn't matter if the woman he was to marry was having depressive episodes as the ones she had described. The marriage was planned to the last flower arrangement and so it would go ahead, with Jack invited along, apparently.

Slamming his fist into the punching ball once more, it tremored, bouncing back to him with as much force as he had ploughed into it. He wished to bash it until it was ragged from its hinges but knew better of it. Already unkempt with sweat lined face, his formal attire now spoiled and half clinging to him, Jack gave up and wiped away the sheen on his shirtsleeves. He never remembered walking back to his state room, only that he eventually found himself standing beside his bed. Groaning a curse, he sank to his knees and gripped huge handfuls of the counterpane and buried his face in it. He was in hell. Holy Christ, how Rose devastated him. He had starved for her for so long and yet it was simply two days. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Yet, twice he had taken her mouth and felt her mould to him in such a beautiful way.

It was as though madness was coming to consume him; the most rational of men. He thought of Rose's lovely face, and the softness of her mouth against his, and the way she had arched beneath his hands. She had felt different, her body supple and strong. But her spirit was the same, radiant with the endearing sweetness and honesty that had pierced straight to his heart. It had taken all his strength not to go to his knees before her but for what purpose? They could never be anything more than-

Could he ask Rose for friendship? How could he could separate any part of the unwieldy tangle of his feelings, and hand over such a small piece? And she knew better than to ask that of him. There would always be a pull toward her, even during platonic relationships. Jack had nothing to offer Rose except degradation. Even Hockley was able to provide the things which should so rightly be hers, perhaps he did even love her beneath the icy exterior. But Jack, he had no worldly possessions, no grace of character, barely the right education, no advantageous connections only within the world of steel, nothing that Society valued. There was no rationality to it, at all.

Jack Dawson had boarded this ship with truly one mission; to return to the place he called home, to continue to make success of the company his uncle had built from nothing but a pile of papers and a bright idea and then, he would never allow himself to become tangled with another. Hadn't women been a fine amusement for these past eighteen months? God, it had taken him that long to finally be with a woman. Most were young teens when they lost their virginity and yet he had been almost eighteen and beyond a mess. Of course, that had become easier with time but the regard of the act was simply like a transaction of business. A woman got what she needed and so did he; protective sheaths were worn and never had he been with the same twice. Wasn't that like reading the same book or walking about the same room? Having never paid for the company of a woman, or the need to, Jack had remained focused on his European business trip and never once indulged in the company of a distraction. Even during the several weeks spent in Paris, he had not once taken refuge inside a woman and now, it was a bitter regret. Was it arousal which was driving him dearly mad? Was it the fact that she was Hockley's fiancé? If she had belonged to any other man, perhaps the attraction would lessen.

After attempting to sleep on a bed that had turned into a torture rack, Jack had awoken with a heavy heart. And other, more urgent discomforts. He'd been plagued with stimulating dreams in which Rose's naked body had been writhing against him, beneath him. All the desires he kept at bay in the daylight hours had expressed themselves in those dreams . . . He had been holding Rose, thrusting inside her, and taking her cries into his mouth . . . kissing her from head to toe and back again. And in those same dreams she had behaved in a most un-Rose-like manner, delicately feasting on him with a wanton mouth, exploring him with inquisitive little hands. Washing in frigid water had helped his condition marginally, but Jack was still aware of the heat burning far too close to the surface.

Feeling wretched and explosive, Jack dressed in the town clothes that his uncle had insisted he wear when out and about in towns such as New York and London.

"You know how much value Society place on appearance," Eric had told him, dragging him to Savile Row. "You have to look respectable, or it will reflect badly us."

Jack had submitted to the indignity of having measurements taken, being draped with countless fabrics, and going for endless fittings. Eric had seemed pleased with the results but Jack couldn't see any difference between his new attire and the old. Clothes were clothes, something that covered the body to protect it from the elements. Scowling, Jack donned a white pleated shirt and black cravat, a vest with a notched collar, and narrow-legged trousers. He pulled on a wool town coat with front flap pockets and a split at the back.

A startling knock interrupted his assessment of his appearance in the mirror. He kept his face expressionless, even though his gut was twisting and his pulse was rampaging. All at the thought of seeing Rose, but instead he found, Molly Brown, adorned in a black sequinned gown trimmed with a purple lace. Her lips were painted a dramatic red, and her eyes kohled just as dark, but Jack couldn't help but soften his features.

''Good evening, Molly, you look wonderful.'' Molly dropped her gaze across Jack's attire and raised a susceptive brow.

''We're going to dinner, not a horse carriage trip to Hyde Park. Is that what you're planning to wear?''

Jack shrugged his shoulders back, ignoring the tension there. ''What?''

''Do you have the slightest comprehension what you're doing? You can't even dress the right attire for the right occasion.''

Jack glanced to see that whilst she was correct, he found no issue with it. His mind truly had been twisted about. ''I have no intentions of this been a parade of fashion, Mrs. Brown, I am simply hungry.''

''Yes, well, there's a roomful of famished snakes ready to feast upon you and believe me, they will.''

''Let them feast, my dear, Molly.'' He raised a brow, and she clasped onto his arm like a naughty child.

''Come on, what is wrong with you? You look like you haven't visited the tailor since you were a young boy, and my God, this is not a simple walk in a London Park. Didn't you get that that?

''I wish it was, there would be less hassle about dressing.''

Sensing that if he didn't adhere to Mrs. Brown's rules then he would find himself in even more hot water, Jack allowed her to almost drag him out of his cabin and into the corridor where he was met with more arched brows. It wasn't that his attire wasn't the latest fashions, just not what one would wear aboard a ship; at least not to dinner but of course this sort of thing mattered to all except for him.

''I figured. Come on, let us sort this out before the soiree starts.''

''Soiree? I only want dinner.''

''Yes, and you owe me quite a few dances now, can you recollect that in your tiny brain?'' Molly's tone softened. ''Now, let's get you sorted, son.''

Once they were in a suite, about the same size as his own on B-Deck, Jack turned to Molly as she ringed around him before leading him off into a separate room. He dumped his town jacket on the bed, feeling just how unnecessary this was.

''Now, I will find the damned suits I bought in Paris. I think I remember where I packed them.''

She left Jack bewildered at the door as she started to pull about in a suitcase. He walked into the bedroom to find Molly tinkering over an opened suitcase with many shirts, jackets and trousers along with two pairs of shoes and other bits and pieces.

''Well, you need some of these.'' She handed him some shirts and trousers. ''I'm afraid I don't have quite the right necktie, although we could fashion something out of that one, you're wearing.''

''Can I ask, why you are travelling with an entire suitcase of gentleman's attires?''

Molly raised a warning brow. ''What are you suggesting there, Jack? Now try these for size. I will wait out in the sitting room.''

Doing as instructed, Jack attired himself in the correct clothing which a gentleman would done for an evening of dining and dancing. Even his hair, usually left to hang as it wished, he decided would be styled to the fashions. In the back of his mind, he found amusement did linger and the corners of his lips twitched. Only Molly would be the one allowed to drag him, to dress properly and be so stern with him as only a mother would be. And, of course, mother hens were always correct; the fit of the clothes was much better than his own.

''Well, well, look at you, Mr. New Money.'' Molly had whistled, as he approached her in the sitting room. ''How does it fit you?''

He moved around in the garments carefully. ''Pretty close. Better than my own, I suspect.''

''I thought you and my son would be around the same size.'' Molly ran her hand over the back of his dinner jacket, ensuring the fit was right. ''Just think of a moving picture actor.''

''And would you be the leading lady?''

''Of course!'' Molly was having a fine time. The items which were strewn all over the bed were now piled on top of each other. She muttered to herself before finally locating what she wanted. ''Ah-ha.'' She pulled a white bow tie from the case. ''I did find one.''

She handed it to Jack before he held it in his left hand, looking at it as though it was a foreign object or perhaps it was just different to his own.

''Of course.'' Molly shook her head. ''Don't feel bad about it. My husband still can't tie one of these damn things after 20 years.'' She fiddled with it for a few minutes. Jack watched her expertly tie it the way it should be done.

''Not bad.'' Jack smirked. ''Better than I would have attempted it, and tighter. So, you do intent to murder me during tonight's dinner?''

Molly gently tapped his shoulder, playfully. ''One day your mouth will get you into trouble, especially where a woman is concerned.''

''Perhaps it already has,'' he responded, slyly beneath his breath and watched, fascinated as Molly continued to fuss about, fettling the attire. If she heard his little comment, then she didn't press further, knowing just how the teasing would never end.

''I gotta buy everything in three sizes 'cause I never know how much the husbands been eating while I'm away.'' Molly pulled back, addressing his image reflected in her vanity mirror. ''My, my, you shine up like a new penny.''

''Thank you, Molly.''

''Oh, don't thank me. I couldn't have you going down there facing the jury dressed like you were.'' She narrowed her gaze at him. ''Although, you would have been dressed immaculately for a horse ride about the Thames.''

''Molly, you do say that my mouth will get me into trouble, yet your own has just reduced the number of dances which I will lead you in this evening.'' Amusement lingered within his eyes and it turns out that a simple thing such as laughing did help to soothe out the frustrations and adrenaline, it wouldn't last long, but it was a welcome respite away from the consuming thought of Miss. Dewitt Bukater.

Temporarily.