Hi everyone, sorry for the long wait. To be honest, I didn't really have the inspiration to right because I didn't really know where I wanted to go with this story... I hope you are still enjoying it and that you will enjoy this chapter too xoxo

Chapter 23

Jack folded the last of his shirts and placed it neatly into his suitcase, pressing down to make everything fit. His hands were steady, his movements deliberate, but the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. He could feel Clara watching him from the doorway, unmoving, barely even breathing.

"You don't have to do this," Clara finally spoke, her voice quieter than usual, yet laced with something desperate.

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair before turning to face her. "Clara, we've been over this. I do."

"No, you don't." She took a step into the room, her hands gripping the edge of the doorframe as if holding herself back. "You can stay here, finish your studies. You're doing well, Jack, despite everything. You don't have to leave."

Jack shook his head, zipping up his suitcase. "I'm not leaving school. This apprenticeship is a part of it. It's a chance to do real work, something that matters. I can't pass it up."

Clara scoffed, taking another step forward. "You could, if you wanted to."

Jack turned to her fully, arms crossing over his chest. "What are you really saying, Clara?"

She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "I just—" She exhaled shakily. "I don't want you to go."

Jack's expression softened. "Clara…"

But before he could say anything else, she moved. In one swift motion, she closed the space between them, almost clamping onto him, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. Jack instinctively caught her wrists, steadying her as she pressed against him.

"Clara, what is this?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

She didn't answer right away, just kept holding onto him like he was already slipping away. Then, in a near whisper, she admitted, "I just don't want to lose you."

Jack sighed, his grip loosening on her wrists. "You're not losing me."

Clara let out a bitter laugh, her forehead nearly resting against his chest. "Aren't I?" She looked up at him then, her eyes shining with emotion. "You're going to leave, and you're never coming back. Not really."

Jack felt a pang of guilt twist in his stomach. He reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from her face. "Clara, you've been a good friend to me. But this… this isn't something you can stop. I have to go."

Clara bit her lip, looking down again. "If I ask you to stay—really ask you—would it change anything?"

Jack hesitated, but only for a second. Then, softly, he said, "No."

Clara closed her eyes, nodding as if she expected that answer, but it didn't make it hurt any less. Slowly, she released her grip on him, taking a step back.

"I should go," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack held onto Clara's hand, his grip firm but not forceful. She froze, her back still turned to him, her breath hitching slightly.

"Maybe see it as a sign," Jack said gently, "to make something of your own life."

Clara let out a short, humorless laugh. "Mother won't like that."

Jack shook his head. "You're 36 years old, Clara."

"Exactly." She turned to face him, her expression laced with something tired, something defeated. "What is there to become of me… alone?"

Jack frowned, searching her face. "You're not alone."

"Aren't I?" She tugged her hand free from his, but the hesitation in her movement betrayed her. "I've spent my whole life here, Jack. Taking care of Mother, looking after the house, renting rooms to students who come and go while I stay the same." She shook her head, blinking away the emotion threatening to spill over. "I don't have dreams like you do. I don't have a Rose waiting for me somewhere."

Jack swallowed hard, guilt creeping up his spine. He somewhat knew Clara had feelings for him, even if she'd never outright admitted it. And now, standing in this dimly lit room, with his packed suitcase between them, it felt like she was finally letting herself say what had always remained unsaid.

"You don't need me to make something of your life," Jack told her. "You never did."

Clara let out a shaky breath, hugging her arms around herself. "It's too late."

Jack stepped closer. "No, it's not."

She looked up at him, searching his face for something—hope, maybe, or reassurance. He gave her a small, lopsided smile, the kind that had always come so easily to him, but now carried the weight of goodbye.

"Do something for yourself, Clara," he urged. "Not for your mother. Not for anyone else. Just for you."

Clara bit her lip, nodding ever so slightly. But Jack wasn't sure if she truly believed him.

A moment of silence stretched between them before she finally took a step back toward the doorway. "Goodbye, Jack."

Jack nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Goodbye, Clara."

Los Angeles, July 1913

The kitchen was sweltering, the July heat mixing with the steam from boiling pots and the crackling fire of the stove. The scent of roasted chicken, fresh bread, and herbs filled the air, but neither Mary nor Rose had time to enjoy it. The boarding house was busier than usual tonight, every room filled with travelers, businessmen, and performers passing through the city.

"Where's the gravy?" Mary called over the clatter of dishes as she balanced a tray of steaming vegetables. Her red hair was stuck to her forehead, and flour smudged her cheek.

"I'm working on it!" Rose huffed, whisking furiously at the thickening sauce in the pan. She had already burned herself twice and was sure she had a streak of butter on her dress, but there was no time to fix anything now. "Is Lucinda even helping, or is she just scolding from the sidelines?"

Mary snorted. "You already know the answer to that."

As if on cue, Lucinda's voice rang from the hallway. "That chicken better not be dry, Mary!"

Mary rolled her eyes and grabbed the gravy boat from beside Rose. "I'll take this out before she loses her mind." She darted past Rose, narrowly avoiding a tray of bread rolls that nearly tumbled to the floor.

Rose sighed, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist before turning back to the stove. The heat was unbearable, her curls sticking to her skin. The laughter and clinking of silverware from the dining room only made the frenzy feel more chaotic.

"Rose, the potatoes!" Mary's voice had a sharp edge, and Rose spun around just in time to yank the pot off the stove before it boiled over.

"Got it!" she called back, exhaling sharply.

She barely had a moment to breathe before the door swung open, and one of the serving girls rushed in, eyes wide. "Miss Williams, the guests are asking for more biscuits."

Rose groaned, rubbing her temples. "Tell them they'll have to wait unless they want them raw."

The girl hesitated before nodding and scurrying away.

Mary smirked, dumping the vegetables into a serving bowl. "I think you scared her."

"I don't care," Rose muttered, reaching for the biscuits in the oven. "If one more person asks for something extra, I might actually scream."

Mary laughed. "Welcome to the glamorous life of running a boarding house."

Rose shot her a tired grin before picking up a tray. "Come on, let's survive this night first. Then we can complain."

Together, they carried out the next round of dishes, bracing themselves for the madness waiting beyond the kitchen doors.

The dining room buzzed with conversation and clinking silverware as Rose weaved through the tables, balancing a tray of empty plates. The heat from the kitchen had followed her, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to the nape of her neck, but there was no time to think about that now.

As she moved past a familiar table near the piano, a firm hand suddenly caught her wrist. She startled, nearly dropping the tray.

"Miss Williams," the man at the table grinned, his face already flushed from too much whiskey. "Play us a tune, will you?"

Rose sighed, adjusting the tray in her free hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stevens, but I can't. It's too busy tonight."

Stevens pouted dramatically. "Aw, come on now. Just one song. Lighten the mood a little."

"I really can't," she repeated, trying to gently pull her wrist free, but his grip remained firm.

"I'll make it worth your while," he added with a wink, reaching into his coat pocket as if to produce a few extra bills.

"Can you just take no for an answer, Stevens?"

The voice came from across the table, calm but firm. Rose turned her head and met the gaze of a man she didn't recognize. He was younger than the rest, perhaps around her age or a little older, with dark hair and an easy but unimpressed expression.

"Don't be such a buffer, Calvert," Stevens scoffed, finally letting go of Rose's wrist. "No need to be a killjoy."

Calvert rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his beer, ignoring the older man's complaint.

Rose took the opportunity to step back, smoothing out the fabric of her dress as she steadied herself. "Maybe another time, gentlemen," she said, her voice polite but firm.

Stevens grumbled but waved her off, turning his attention back to his drink.

As Rose turned to leave, she glanced at the younger man again. He was watching her with mild curiosity, but he didn't say anything else. She quickly moved away, disappearing into the rush of the dining room.

The following week had been absolute madness. The inn had seen more visitors than usual, and with Lucinda still tending to bookkeeping and managing supplies, most of the work had fallen onto Rose and Mary. From dawn until well past midnight, the two of them had rushed between the kitchen and the dining hall, serving meals, cleaning up after guests, and preparing rooms for the steady flow of travelers passing through.

Rose could feel it in every part of her body—her aching feet, the soreness in her shoulders from lifting trays and scrubbing tables, the way her fingers felt stiff from writing down so many orders. She barely had time to eat, let alone sit down to rest. By the time Sunday arrived, she felt like a shell of herself.

It had been another long night, and as she wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time, Mary sighed beside her, rolling her shoulders. "I swear, if one more person asks for extra biscuits after I've already cleared the table, I'm throwing the entire basket at them."

Rose managed a small, tired chuckle. "I'd pay to see that."

Mary smirked but then eyed Rose more closely. "You look awful."

"Thank you, Mary," Rose muttered.

"You should go on up. I'll check in the last guests."

Rose shook her head. "No, I'll do it. You've been running yourself ragged, too."

"I'm used to this," Mary said with a wave of her hand. "You? You've got that dreamy faraway look again. And don't think I haven't noticed you haven't written Jack all week."

Guilt pricked at Rose, but she didn't have the energy to respond. Instead, she merely rubbed her forehead and straightened up as the front door opened, letting in a couple who had clearly been traveling for some time.

She greeted them with a polite but tired smile, taking down their names and handing over their key. "Breakfast is served from seven to ten," she said, her voice quieter than usual.

The man nodded, giving her an appreciative smile. "You look like you need some sleep more than we do."

Rose chuckled weakly. "You have no idea."

Once the door was locked and the guestbook closed, she turned to Mary, who had already disappeared into the kitchen for one last check. Rose debated going in to help but decided against it. If she didn't go upstairs now, she might not make it at all.

She trudged up the staircase, her limbs feeling heavier with each step. By the time she reached her room, she could barely focus. She peeled off her dress, barely managing to hang it over the chair before collapsing onto her bed, sinking into the mattress with an exhausted sigh.

She had meant to write to Jack. Had been meaning to for days. Every night, she told herself she would pick up the pen, but something always pulled her away—a guest needing something, another spill in the dining hall, another set of sheets to wash.

Her heart ached at the thought of him waiting for a letter that hadn't come. She knew he would understand, but still, she hated the idea of him wondering, worrying.

"I'll write first thing in the morning," she mumbled to no one, her voice barely above a whisper. But before she could even reach for the paper on her nightstand, sleep wrapped itself around her, heavy and inescapable.

And for the first time in weeks, she slept without dreaming.

…

The sunlight filtered through the window, casting soft beams of warmth across the room. Rose had managed to steal a rare moment of peace after a week of non-stop chaos. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her book open in her hands, savoring the quiet and the escape it provided. The letters she had written to Jack had been few and far between, but at least she could close her eyes for a brief moment and imagine the comfort of his voice.

The gentle tapping on the door broke the silence. Rose looked up and called out, "Come in."

The door creaked open, and Mary appeared in the doorway, her usually composed face tinged with frustration.

"Are you all right?" Rose asked softly, setting the book aside and giving Mary her full attention.

"I am sorry to bother you on your day off," Mary began, her tone almost apologetic, "but there is this man downstairs who just keeps having complaints about everything. It just seems that with everything I say, he gets angrier."

Rose raised an eyebrow, a sigh escaping her lips. "And where is Lucinda?" she asked, already sensing where this was headed.

"I don't know," Mary replied, clearly frustrated. "I haven't seen her for over an hour. I think she might have gone to check the back rooms."

Rose let out a deep sigh. Of course, Lucinda had disappeared at the exact moment they needed her most. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Well," Rose said, pushing herself to her feet, her voice already taking on the familiar tone of someone who'd handled too many unreasonable guests. "I'll go and handle it. But fetch me a big glass of scotch when I'm finished with this... Mr... what's his name?"

Mary frowned and shook her head, clearly exasperated. "I don't even remember. It's been such a circus down there. He's just... one of those people."

"Great," Rose muttered under her breath, pulling her cardigan tightly around her shoulders. "Well, I'll try my best not to strangle him. Let's go."

Mary gave a half-hearted chuckle, and together they walked down the narrow hallway toward the stairs.

Rose's steps faltered as she descended the stairs, the irritation rising in her chest, ready to confront the man who had been causing so much trouble. Her mind was already racing, preparing for the argument that was about to unfold. But as she reached the bottom of the stairs and her eyes landed on the figure standing near the entrance, something inside her stopped.

Her heart skipped a beat.

There was no mistaking that familiar silhouette. His blonde hair, the strong set of his jaw, the confident stance—he was here.

Jack.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. She blinked, unable to fully process what she was seeing. She stood frozen at the top of the stairs, her breath caught in her throat. He smiled at her, that same easy grin she had remembered from before, one that made her heart race with warmth.

The world seemed to fade around her, the noise of the inn, the complaints from earlier, everything melting into the background. Rose's heart thundered in her chest as the realization hit her. He was here. Jack was here.

Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, her legs carried her down the stairs in a rush. She almost lost her balance, her feet tripping over the steps as she hurried to reach him. The moment she hit the bottom, she didn't hesitate. She practically leaped into his arms, her arms wrapping around him with desperate, joyful force.

"Jack!" she gasped, breathless, as she buried her face against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath her hands.

He caught her effortlessly, his strong arms pulling her close as if he had never intended to let her go. She felt the steady beat of his heart under her ear, and the world seemed to stop for a second. Rose could hardly believe he was here—after all this time, all the months apart—it felt surreal.

"I can't believe you're here," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her hands resting on his shoulders as she pulled back slightly to look up at him.

Jack's grin softened, a flicker of tenderness in his eyes. "I couldn't stay away, Rose."

Before she even realized it, she was kissing him, unable to stop herself. Her lips found his with a rush of passion and relief, her mind spinning from the shock of seeing him again, the sheer joy of having him in her arms once more. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if they were both taking the moment in, savoring the feel of each other after months apart.

Rose pulled back slightly, eyes searching his face, tracing the familiar lines of his features, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions crashing through her. "How did you—when—what are you doing here?"

Jack chuckled, the sound deep and rich, like a melody Rose had been aching to hear. "I couldn't stand being away from you anymore. I had to come and see you."

Tears welled up in Rose's eyes, though she tried to hide them behind a smile. "I've missed you so much, Jack."

"I know, Rose," he murmured, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away the stray tears that had begun to fall. "I've missed you, too. Every damn day."

She felt her heart swell in her chest, a mixture of joy, relief, and an overwhelming love for the man who was now holding her close. After everything—after all the time, the distance, the silence—he was here, in front of her, and nothing else seemed to matter.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack shook his head, his gaze intense as he looked down at her. "Don't be ridiculous."

In that moment, it felt as though nothing could separate them—not time, not distance, not anything. Rose could feel the tension leaving her body as she melted against him, the ache from all the months without him slowly being replaced by a deep sense of comfort and peace.