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Chapter Text

Jamie Fraser had never planned to be a teacher.

He’d grown up on stories—ones told by his father at the fireside, sung in Gaelic lullabies by his mother, whispered by his sister about the ghosts of Culloden. He’d spent his childhood roaming the hills of Lallybroch, feeling the weight of history beneath his feet, knowing that every ruin had a memory, every stone had seen things he never would.

At university, history had been his passion, but he’d never expected it to become his work. He’d assumed he’d end up in research, tucked away in archives or working on historical sites.

It had all started when one of his professors, an older, tweed-clad man with a fondness for whisky and assigning unreasonable amounts of reading, had asked him to fill in for a guest lecture. Jamie had reluctantly agreed, assuming it would be a disaster, that his voice would betray him, that he’d trip over his own feet and knock over a podium or something equally humiliating.
Instead, something clicked.

He had never been the kind of historian who lived for academic debates in dusty archives. He wasn’t interested in long-winded, jargon-filled essays that drained all the life out of history. No—history was a story, and stories were meant to be told.

That was why his students loved him.

His classroom was not a solemn place of silent note-taking. It was lively, unpredictable, and often far too chaotic for the liking of the more traditional faculty members. His lectures involved dramatic reenactments (sometimes featuring unfortunate students as unwilling participants), impassioned rants about the criminal injustice of Highland dress bans, and more than a few terrible Gaelic puns.

Jamie had a theory: if he could make them laugh, he could make them listen. And if they listened, they just might learn something.

One of the things that impressed his students the most, though, was his uncanny memory for names.

In a lecture hall of over a hundred faces, Jamie never forgot a single one. By the second week of class, he could call on anyone by name, paired with a detail they’d mentioned in passing during a previous discussion.

“Erica, ye mentioned your grandmother was from Inverness—what do ye think she would’ve made of the Act of Proscription?” he’d ask, leaving Erica blinking in surprise that he’d remembered both her name and her random tidbit of family history.

“Sam, you’re the one who called the Jacobites ‘the original underdogs’ last week—care to elaborate on that?” And Sam, who usually slouched in the back row, would sit up straighter, trying to suppress a grin.

It was a simple thing, really—just a name—but to his students, it meant he saw them, that they mattered.

That approach had worked wonders—until the incident with The Girl Who Would Not Take No for an Answer.

At first, Jamie had thought it was a harmless crush. Students sometimes developed admiration for their teachers, especially when said teacher wasn’t some aging, grey-haired academic but an energetic twenty-five-year-old with sharp blue eyes, an easy smile, and a presence that made people take notice. He’d dealt with the occasional flirtatious comment before and brushed it off without much trouble.

But Laoghaire was different.

It started with the extra-long conversations after class—lingering by his desk, twisting her hair around her fingers, laughing at things that weren’t remotely funny. Then came the oddly personal questions. Did he have a girlfriend? What kind of women did he like? Would he ever date a student (hypothetically, of course)?

Jamie, being a naturally polite man, had tried to discourage her with subtlety. A friendly but firm demeanor. Professional distance. A carefully placed reference to being very busy outside of teaching.

Laoghaire did not take the hint.

The behavior escalated. She started appearing outside his office at strange hours, always with some weak excuse.

“I just happened to be passing by,” she’d say, despite the fact that Jamie’s office was in a remote corner of the history department where no one just happened to pass by.

Then there were the gifts. First, it was little things—a coffee left on his desk (“Oh, I noticed you drink black coffee! Thought you’d like one.”), a tin of biscuits around Christmas. Then it got weirder. A scarf—hand-knitted. A framed photo of a Highland landscape (I thought you might miss home).

And worst of all—the love letter.

It had arrived in his office mailbox, a thick envelope with his name written in swirling script. Jamie had opened it, expecting a student essay, only to be met with three pages of deeply personal declarations of admiration, sprinkled with alarming phrases like I see the way you look at me (he did not look at her in any way at all) and I know we’re meant to be together.

That was when he knew he had a real problem.
He had tried to set clear boundaries. Sat her down, told her plainly that he was her professor, that this was inappropriate, that he was not interested.

It did not go well.

Laoghaire burst into tears, accused him of leading her on, and dramatically fled his office. The next day, she acted as if nothing had happened.

Then, one fateful morning, salvation arrived in the form of overheard gossip in the faculty lounge.

“Did you hear?” One of the admin assistants was saying. “Laoghaire MacKenzie’s family is relocating to the U.S. Her dad got some big corporate job in New York.”

Jamie, who had been pouring himself a coffee, nearly dropped the cup.

“Ye dinna say,” he said carefully, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Oh yes,” she continued. “Apparently, she wasn’t thrilled about it, but her mum insisted. They’re leaving next week.”

Jamie had never been a man who celebrated the misfortunes of others, but he did take a long, slow sip of his coffee and savor the relief that washed over him.

For the time being, at least, he was saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Claire Beauchamp had never been a girl who followed the expected path.

She had been born in Oxfordshire, raised in a world of quiet privilege, surrounded by people who believed in tradition, structure, and predictability. Her late parents had both come from academic families—her father a respected scientist, her mother a woman of poise and discipline. If they had lived, they likely would have wanted Claire to follow in their footsteps, choosing something practical, sensible. Medicine, perhaps. Law. Something with security.
But Claire had never belonged to their world.
She had belonged to Uncle Lamb’s.

Quentin Lambert Beauchamp—eccentric, brilliant, endlessly curious—had been Claire’s salvation after she lost her parents. Instead of a conventional upbringing in England’s polite society, she had grown up trekking across the world at his side, bouncing between excavation sites, dusty libraries, and remote villages where history felt more real than anything she could have learned from a textbook.

It was Uncle Lamb who had taught her to love the past, to see history not as a list of dates and dead kings but as something alive, something personal. And it was Uncle Lamb who had given her the stories that would shape the rest of her life—particularly the stories of Scotland.

She had been enchanted by them as a child—tales of wild landscapes, defiant Jacobites, and ancient clans who had fought, suffered, but never truly been broken. Lamb had taken her to battlefields, told her about Bonnie Prince Charlie as if he had known him personally, recited fragments of Gaelic poetry by candlelight.

She had felt Scotland before she had ever set foot there.

But when it came time to choose a university, she had taken a more conventional route—at first. She had started her studies in history at the University of London, where she spent two years wading through dense academic papers and lectures that, while informative, lacked the passion she craved.

Then, one day, she stumbled upon an opportunity—a transfer program with the University of Inverness.

It had been an easy decision.

And that was how she found herself, at twenty-two years old, in a place she had always dreamed of, sitting in a lecture hall, waiting for her first Scottish History class to begin—completely unaware that her life was about to change forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lecture hall was filling quickly, a low hum of chatter and the occasional clatter of notebooks as students settled into their seats. Claire found a spot near the front—not in the first row, where the most studious overachievers sat with their perfectly color-coded notes and an air of silent competition, but close enough to actually pay attention without looking tooeager.

She was still adjusting to her new university, to the peculiarities of Inverness, where the weather seemed to cycle through all four seasons before lunch and people actually talked to strangers without suspicion. But if there was one thing she felt entirely sure of, it was that this class—Scottish History—was going to be the highlight of her week.

She was flipping through her notebook when she heard a voice—deep, rich, and unmistakably Scottish.

“Well, ye’ve all managed to find the right classroom, which is a strong start. Some of ye even look like ye meant to be here. Encouraging.”

Claire looked up—and saw him.

Her lecturer stood at the front of the hall, flipping through his notes with an easy familiarity, a touch of restless energy in the way he moved. He was young—very young to be teaching at a university. Perhaps that was why he didn’t carry himself with the rigid authority of older professors. There was no tweed, no air of superiority, just the quiet confidence of someone who knew his subject inside and out.

She had been expecting someone different—someone older, perhaps, with a droning voice and an obsession with historiographical analysis. But he was none of those things.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with copper hair that looked perpetually tousled, and sleeves rolled up as if formality was a battle he’d long since surrendered. He had the kind of presence that made people sit up a little straighter, not out of fear, but because he somehow made you want to listen.

And then, someone behind her muttered, “Fraser’s already in full swing, I see.”

Fraser.

Jamie Fraser.

Claire had heard the name before. She’d overheard older students in the corridor, always with a tone of reluctant admiration. Fraser actually makes you care about history, they’d said. He talks like he’s telling some grand adventure, not just reading off lecture slides.
Not Professor Fraser. Not Mr. Fraser. Just Fraser. And sometimes, with a surprising amount of casual familiarity—Jamie.

That was how she knew.

And then he began the lecture.

“Now, when most folk think of Scottish history, they picture war—rebellions, battles, and at least one angry Highlander chucking himself at the British with nothing but a sword and a sense of national pride. And, aye, we’ll get to that. But if all ye see is the fighting, ye miss the heart of it.”
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the room before continuing. “So today, we’re talking about something else—something just as important as any battlefield. The role of storytelling in Scottish culture.”

Claire felt her pulse quicken.

“This is a country built on stories,” Jamie went on, pacing slightly as he spoke. “Long before we had written records, before kings and laws, we had words. People gathered around fires, passing down history, traditions—not through books, but through voice. The bards, the seanchaidh, the ones who carried the past forward—not just facts, but feeling.”

Claire had sat through countless history lectures before—some good, some painfully dull—but never one like this.

Jamie Fraser didn’t just teach history. He performed it. His voice wasn’t just filling the room with facts; it was weaving a story, one he clearly cared about deeply.

And she couldn’t stop watching him.

She barely took notes. She was too busy studying him—the way his expression shifted when he spoke, the way his hands moved when he explained a point, the way his entire posture changed when he became particularly impassioned.

Then, quite suddenly, his gaze flickered toward her.

For a fraction of a second, their eyes met.

For some reason, Claire’s breath caught.

Jamie didn’t look away immediately, nor did she.
It was a brief moment, but something in it lingered. A flicker of recognition, as if they had met before, or would again.

Then he continued speaking, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.

Claire forced herself to focus, but the thought remained in the back of her mind:
Jamie Fraser wasn’t just a good lecturer.

He was extraordinary.

And Claire Beauchamp?

She was already in trouble.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Many people think of the Jacobite Risings as a doomed rebellion,” Jamie was saying, pacing in front of the room, his voice filled with that restless energy that made it impossible not to pay attention. “A fool’s errand. A lost cause from the start.”

He paused, scanning the room as if daring someone to argue with him. Then, just as he added, “I suppose it depends on how ye define lost,” Claire spoke up.

“Are we talking about history lost, or people lost?”

Jamie stopped mid-step and turned toward her, intrigued. “Go on.”

She leaned forward slightly, tapping her pen against her notebook. She could feel her heart beat faster—not with nerves, but with excitement. This was her favorite part—this sparring, this challenge.

“I mean, yes, they lost the battle—spectacularly, I might add.” A few students chuckled. “But history isn’t just about who wins, is it? If it were, we wouldn’t still be talking about them.”

Jamie’s mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smile.

“Aye, ye make a fair point.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head as he considered her words. “The Jacobites lost in the sense that Scotland didna end up with a Stuart king. But they won in another way—because their cause, their culture, their stories—they survived.”

Claire’s grin was quick and certain. “Since we’re still discussing them centuries later, maybe they were never really defeated in the first place.”

Jamie studied her for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze lingering in that quiet, unreadable way he sometimes looked at her when she spoke.

Then, with a slow nod, he turned back to the class.

“Ye see, this is why history is worth arguing over,” he said, voice lighter now. “Some say Culloden ended the Jacobite dream. Others”—he glanced at her briefly—“might say it simply changed how it lived on.”

Claire had read about the Jacobites before, studied them in books and academic papers, but there was something different about hearing Jamie speak about them.

He didn’t just teach history—he felt it.

And that, she realized, was part of the reason she couldn’t stop listening to him.

Jamie, for his part, hadn’t meant to get so caught up in his own words. But there was something about her gaze—so open, so intent—that made him want to keep talking.

She wasn’t just hearing him.

She was listening.

And, somehow, that meant everything.

~~~

By the time class ended, Claire’s notebook was a mess of scribbled notes, underlined phrases, and half-finished thoughts she knew she’d have to decipher later. Normally, she was meticulous, but Jamie Fraser had a habit of making her forgetthings—like writing in straight lines or actually finishing her sentences before jumping to the next idea.

The other students were filing out, but Claire hesitated. She knew she should leave—go to the library, grab a coffee, do something productive—but instead, she found herself making her way toward the front of the lecture hall, her excitement still thrumming in her veins.

Jamie was stacking his notes when he noticed her approaching. He glanced up, and a slow, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Well, if it isn’t my most enthusiastic student.”

Claire grinned. “I like to think of it as passionate.”

Jamie let out a small chuckle, crossing his arms in an easy, relaxed manner. “Aye, that’s a fair word for it.” He nodded toward her notebook. “Ye’ve got a sharp mind. Most students take a while before they start challenging me.”

Claire felt warmth rise to her cheeks—from a quiet kind of pride. “I just find it all fascinating,” she admitted. “The way you describe it… it’s not just names and dates. It’s people. Stories. It means something.”

Jamie’s expression shifted slightly—something thoughtful, almost surprised.

“Aye,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “That’s the heart of it.”

There was a brief pause, a moment of quiet recognition passing between them, before he tilted his head.

“I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Claire straightened, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically flustered.

“Claire Beauchamp,” she said, offering a bright, open smile.

Jamie held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, his eyes reflecting something unreadable—something curious.

“Well then, Miss Beauchamp,” he said, a hint of amusement creeping back into his tone, “I’ll be lookin’ forward to your next challenge.”

Claire offered a small, polite smile, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I’ll do my best.”

She turned to leave, her heart fluttering with the quiet thrill of having spoken to him. As she walked away, she caught the soft sound of his chuckle behind her, and the warmth of it stayed with her, making her smile long after she had left the room.

Chapter Text

Jamie promised himself he would be careful.

Not in a nervous, hesitant way—he wasn’t timid by nature—but when it came to students, especially his female students, he treaded cautiously.

The Laoghaire MacKenzie situation had ensured that.

It had been a mess, one that left him wary of misinterpretation, of blurred lines, of anything that could be seen as encouragement. He had sworn, after that ordeal, to keep a respectful distance from his students—not just in action, but in thought.

So he had never allowed himself to look at Claire Beauchamp beyond what was appropriate.

Of course, he had seen her.

She wasn’t the kind of person who faded into the background. There was a brightness to her, an openness that made her impossible to ignore.

She had a way of tilting her head when she was thinking, her curls catching the light, as if the sun had conspired to keep her always just a little bit golden. And she smiled—a lot—in a way that felt warm, familiar, homely. The kind of smile that wrapped around you like the glow of a hearth on a cold evening, like the first breath of fresh air on a crisp morning. It was effortless, unguarded, and for reasons Jamie couldn’t quite name, it put him at ease in a way he hadn’t expected.

Then there were her eyes—sharp, intelligent, impossibly expressive. When she listened, she did it with her whole face , and when she argued, her whole body joined in, hands moving animatedly, voice full of conviction.

She was all presence.

Jamie had, of course, noticed all of this. But he had firmly told himself that there was a difference between noticing and Noticing—a very professional, responsible, and necessary distinction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Now, farming in medieval Scotland was no easy feat,” Jamie said, pacing at the front of the room. “The land was rocky, the weather unpredictable, and if ye managed to grow anything at all, chances were good that either the laird would tax it, your neighbor would steal it, or some passing war band would set it on fire just for fun.”

A few students smirked, some rolled their eyes. Someone in the back muttered, “Jesus.”

Jamie pushed on, explaining how land use changed over the centuries, how different crops thrived in different regions. “See, it was no’ just about what people wanted to grow. It was about what the land allowed. If ye’ve ever tried to plant anything on rocky soil, ye’ll know—some land fights back harder than others.”

A girl in the front row, narrowed her eyes slightly.

“You sound like you know that firsthand, Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie hesitated for only a second before answering, scratching the back of his neck. “Aye, well. I might.”

Someone else tilted their head. “Wait—you mean personally ?”

Jamie exhaled, giving in with a small smile. “Aye. My family’s farm—Lallybroch—it’s in the Highlands, no’ far from Inverness.” He paused, as if picturing it. “It’s no’ the biggest place, but it’s good land. Barley and oats mostly, some potatoes and vegetables. We’ve sheep, a few cattle, hens that only lay eggs when it suits them. A burn runs through the valley, and the hills stretch out all around it. The air smells like earth and heather, and ye can hear the wind move through the fields long before ye feel it.”

The class had gone quiet.

And Claire…

Claire was gone.

Not physically—she was still sitting in her usual spot, pen in hand, curls spilling over her shoulder—but mentally, she was somewhere else entirely.

At that very moment her brain had abandoned logic and taken a reckless leap straight into the past.

She saw him there—not as a modern-day history lecturer, but as a Highland laird in his rightful place.

Standing tall on the crest of a hill, his plaid draped with effortless grace over one shoulder, the wind stirring his copper hair, the Highland sun gilding the valley behind him in gold. He was steadfast, commanding—born to this place, bound to it not just by duty, but by something deeper, something unshakable. A protector, a leader, a warrior in the truest sense.

And suddenly—dear God—it felt hot in the room.

Had someone turned up the heating? Or was it just her?

Claire resisted the urge to tug at the neckline of her sweater. It wasn’t that warm, surely. Maybe she was just sitting under a vent? Or maybe—just maybe—not entirely appropriate vision of Jamie Fraser standing on a windswept hill in full Highland regalia was frying her brain.

Whatever the reason, she was seconds away from fanning herself with her notebook when—

“Miss Beauchamp?”

Her heart nearly stopped.

Jamie was looking directly at her.

So was the rest of the class.

Oh. Oh no.

Jamie had clearly just asked her something, and judging by the expectant look on his face, it was something she was meant to answer.

She blinked, her mind scrambling for a lifeline. What was the topic? Medieval farming? Land inheritance? The absurdly attractive image of Jamie Fraser as a 18th-century warrior-laird?

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I—um—sorry?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Jamie smiled.

Not his usual, polite classroom smile. No, this was something smaller. Amused. Fond.

Claire wanted to sink into the floor.

“I asked,” Jamie said, the tiniest flicker of laughter in his voice, “if ye thought the system of land inheritance in medieval Scotland reinforced or undermined clan loyalty.”

Claire scrambled for an answer, anything that would make it seem like she hadn’t just spent the last two minutes mentally time-traveling to the 1700s.

“I—well, it depended, didn’t it?” she said quickly. “On—on the circumstances.”

Jamie nodded slowly, lips still twitching at the corners. “Aye. It did.”

The class went on. The moment passed.

But as Jamie continued the lecture, he found himself inexplicably delighted.

Because Claire Beauchamp—the sharpest, most engaged student in the room—had just gotten completely, adorably lost in thought.

And Jamie Fraser, despite his best efforts to remain professional, was finding it very difficult not to wonder what exactly she had been thinking about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following week, just as students were settling into their seats, Jamie set down his notes and leaned casually against the desk at the front of the lecture hall.

"Now, before we dive into today's topic," he began, surveying the room with an easy grin, "I’ve got an announcement. As some of ye might know, Inverness is hosting its annual historical reconstruction festival this weekend."

A few students perked up, some exchanging intrigued glances, while others, clearly unaware of the event, waited for further explanation.

Jamie continued, "It’s a chance to immerse yourself in the past—ye can wear period costumes, watch reenactments, and, for those of ye who have ever wondered what medieval ale tasted like, well, there’s a way to find out."

That got a few chuckles.

"But more importantly," he added, crossing his arms with a mock-serious expression, "attending the festival is, of course, an excellent opportunity to enhance your understanding of history." He let the words hang for a beat before adding with an exaggerated air of contemplation, "And, purely coincidentally, it may just have a positive effect on your midterm scores."

The reaction was immediate—groans from those already dreading exams, laughter from the ones who saw through his ploy, and a few murmurs of interest from those who were clearly considering attending just in case he wasn’t joking.

Claire raised a brow at him, smirking. "Are you saying there’s an academic benefit to dressing up in tartan and eating questionable meat pies?"

Jamie tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "Absolutely. In fact, I’d argue there’s no better way to understand history than to live it. And if that happens to involve eating meat of questionable origin, well—that’s just an authentic experience."

More laughter rippled through the class, but Claire merely shook her head, biting back a smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Truth be told, the moment Claire heard about the festival, there was no question—she was going.

And not just attending. She was committing.

Which was how she ended up dragging Geillis Duncan into an old, slightly musty-smelling costume shop, its racks filled with everything from medieval peasant tunics to disturbingly inauthentic “sexy Highland wench” outfits.

Geillis, arms crossed and unimpressed, surveyed the options with the air of a woman who had better things to do. “I hope ye know,” she drawled, “that I fully intend to be courted by a rugged outlaw or at least an emotionally unavailable nobleman at this event. So if ye make me wear something that looks like it belongs on a dairymaid, I will hold a grudge.”

Claire, flipping through dresses, barely spared her a glance. “You do realize this is a history festival and not a Regency romance novel, don’t you?”

“Oh, please.” Geillis smirked. “Men in kilts. Flowing shirts. Historical tension. It’s practically designed for a torrid affair.”

Claire groaned. “You’re impossible.”

After rifling through the shop’s questionable selection—most of which seemed like they had been borrowed from a community theater production of Braveheart—they managed to find two decent gowns that, while still far from period-accurate, had enough potential to work with.

Claire’s was deep moss green, simple in cut but made of thick wool that felt surprisingly authentic. Geillis, naturally, picked a striking burgundy dress with a neckline that seemed deeply at odds with 18th-century modesty.

“Geillis, you do realize women in this era covered up, right?” Claire pointed out.

Geillis grinned, running a hand over the bodice. “Aye, well. Some things transcend time, Claire.” She winked. “Like good cleavage.”

Claire shook her head, grabbing the dresses and practically dragging Geillis to the counter before she could scandalize the elderly shop owner.

~~~

Geillis Duncan was the kind of person who could walk into a room and immediately cause mild chaos.

It wasn’t that she was loud or obnoxious—far from it. It was more that she had a way of saying things that made people pause mid-sip of their drink, rethink their life choices, or—on occasion—slowly back away and reevaluate whether they wanted to be part of the conversation at all.

Which was exactly why Claire had no idea how Geillis was about to graduate with a degree in psychology.

In theory, she was supposed to be studying human behavior, helping people navigate their emotional complexities, providing insightful guidance.

In practice, she had once stared down a man who was crying outside a pub at 2 a.m. and said, “You should probably just dump her and start a new life. Have you considered moving to Norway?”

Claire had met her purely by accident during her first week in Inverness. She had been standing in line at a coffee shop, struggling to adjust to the Scottish chill, when Geillis had sidled up next to her, taken one look at her order (a sensible tea), and said, “That’s tragic. Try a whisky coffee instead. Warms the soul and the poor life choices.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at a tiny table, Claire still clutching her tea (she wasn’t about to be peer-pressured into morning alcohol), while Geillis explained, in vivid detail, why she firmly believed most people’s problems could be solved if they simply stopped lying to themselves.

“You wouldn’t believe the amount of nonsense people tell me,” she had sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I should just slap them with the truth and call it therapy.”

“…Is that what they teach you in psychology?” Claire had asked, deeply skeptical.

Geillis had grinned. “No. But I have instincts, Claire.”

How, exactly, this conversation had ended with them agreeing to be flatmates was still a bit of a mystery. Claire suspected it had something to do with the fact that Geillis was the first person she had met in Inverness who didn’t treat her like an outsider, or maybe because—despite her questionable attitude—she was genuinely hilarious.

Either way, Claire had moved in, and within a week, she had come to accept several facts about living with Geillis Duncan:

She had no concept of personal space. At all.

She would psychoanalyze Claire at random and with zero warning.

She had an alarming habit of knowing things about people without them ever having told her.

She thrived on chaos.

~~~

Back at their flat, Claire set about fixing the dresses—because, despite their potential, they still had the unmistakable air of mass-produced costume.

“This,” she said, threading a needle with determination, “needs work.”

Geillis flopped dramatically onto the couch, watching as Claire adjusted the bodice, took in the waist, and stitched delicate lace onto the cuffs of the sleeves. “Ye realize no one’s going to be inspecting the authenticity of your hemline, don’t ye?”

Claire didn’t look up. “I will know.”

Geillis sighed. “This is why you don’t get out more.”

Claire ignored her.

The result, though, was worth it.

Her dress now looked like something straight out of history—rich moss green wool, a fitted bodice that laced in the front, hugging her waist before flaring into full, sweeping skirts. The sleeves were snug to the elbow before soft ruffles cascaded over her wrists, and the neckline, while modest, allowed just enough of her white chemise to peek through for contrast.

It was perfect.

Geillis, of course, was less concerned with accuracy and more with impact. She’d managed to make her already bold dress even more scandalous by adding a golden ribbon under the bust and lowering the neckline another half-inch.

Claire sighed. “You look like a brothel owner from an especially dramatic historical drama.”

Geillis grinned. “Flattery will get ye everywhere.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s go make history.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The festival was alive with energy.

The streets were filled with people in period clothing, the sound of fiddles and pipes carrying through the crisp autumn air. Stalls lined the village square, selling everything from handmade crafts to steaming cups of mulled cider. Children ran past, giggling as they waved wooden swords, and somewhere in the distance, a storyteller was spinning a tale about Jacobites and lost love.

Claire was delighted.

"This is amazing," she breathed, spinning slightly to take it all in. "The atmosphere, the details—it actually feels like stepping back in time."

Geillis, sipping from a mug of cider, arched a brow. "Aye, it’s all very charming. But tell me, Claire—are you here for the history, or for a certain history professor?"

Claire turned sharply. "Wait—how do you even know about that?"

Geillis gave her an incredulous look. "Claire, please. You come back from his lectures like you've just witnessed the second coming of historical storytelling. You talk about your debates with him like you’re defending your ancestral birthright. And—" she gestured toward Claire’s painstakingly tailored gown, "—you just spent fourteen hours sewing yourself into 18th-century wool like a woman personally preparing for the Jacobite uprising ."

Claire opened her mouth, then closed it.
Geillis smirked. "I may not have a degree yet, but I do have eyes." She took another sip of cider, then added slyly, "And instincts, Claire. Instincts."

Claire shot her a warning look. "I knew you’d say something like that."

Geillis smirked. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you haven't thought about how he might look in full Highland dress. All that tartan, the rugged masculinity of it all—"

"I am here for the history," Claire insisted, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck.

But then—then—she spotted him.

Jamie Fraser stood near one of the reenactment tents, arms crossed as he spoke to another man dressed in period clothing.

And sweet God, he looked—

The tartan was magnificent, a deep blue and green pattern settled across his shoulder, pinned with a silver brooch. The crisp white of his linen shirt contrasted sharply against the dark plaid, the open collar revealing just a hint of collarbone. His kilt fell perfectly over strong legs, the pleats moving slightly in the breeze, and—was that a dirk at his hip?

Claire felt her breath catch.

It wasn’t just the outfit. It was him in it. The way he carried himself, the ease with which he wore something that, on another man, might have looked like a costume. But this wasn’t just dressing up—this was a true Highlander’s attire, worn as it was meant to be. And on Jamie, it looked right, as if he had simply stepped out of another century, as if he belonged to the past just as much as he did to the present.

Geillis noticed immediately.

“Oh, wow,” she whispered, following Claire’s gaze. Then she smirked. “And here I thought we were going to be the best-dressed ones here.”

Claire swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was standing there, gawking at him.

Get a hold of yourself, Beauchamp.

She was not some girl with a schoolgirl crush.

She was a mature, intelligent woman who absolutely could go over there and say hello without making a complete fool of herself.

…Right?

"Well?" Geillis nudged her. "Go on, then."

Claire straightened. "What?"

Geillis rolled her eyes. "Go talk to him. You look like you're about to combust just standing here."

"I do not!"

Geillis gave her a look.

Claire sighed. "I don't want to look—obvious."

Geillis grinned, then, in one swift motion, shoved Claire forward.

"Geillis!"

Claire barely caught her footing, stumbling a step before regaining her balance—right as Jamie turned toward her.

His expression shifted from casual to surprised, then to something almost… startled.

For a fraction of a second, he simply looked at her—his gaze sweeping over the deep green wool of her gown, the elegant lines of the bodice, the way her curls framed her face in the soft morning light.

When he finally spoke, his voice betrayed him just a little—rougher, quieter than usual.

“Miss Beauchamp,” he said, warmth threading through his tone.

His eyes lingered, just a second too long, before he added—almost as if the words had slipped out on their own—"Christ, ye clean up well."

Claire could have died on the spot.

Chapter Text

“Christ… ye clean up well.”

Jamie Fraser, composed history lecturer and a man who generally had a firm grip on his own tongue, immediately wished for divine intervention.

She was breathtaking. The kind of breathtaking that knocked the thoughts clean out of his head, that made the world narrow down to nothing but her. The way the morning light touched her curls, the way her gown moved as though it had been made with her in mind—as though history had been waiting for her return.

And Jamie, God help him, had just spoken before thinking, before remembering himself, before he could do anything but feel.

Claire blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh. Well. Thank you… Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie nearly winced. Mr. Fraser.

For a split second, he almost corrected her—to tell her, it’s Jamie, just Jamie—but he bit his tongue so hard it nearly bled.

This. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been trying to avoid.

Silence.

Then—

“FREEDOM!”

Jamie barely had time to react before a small, kilted missile launched itself at his leg.

A wooden sword came swinging with surprising force, landing directly against his shin with a sharp, resounding whack.

Jamie saw his life flash before his eyes.

A shockwave of blinding pain shot up his leg as he staggered back, clutching his thigh like he’d been struck down in combat.

“Mo chreach!” he hissed through gritted teeth, trying very hard not to swear in front of a small child.

The culprit—a boy of about six, absolutely radiating self-importance—lowered his sword, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“I got ye!” he announced, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Jamie braced himself against a stall to regain his balance, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Aye, lad. Ye certainly did.”

Claire, blinking in stunned amusement, turned to the boy. “I see we have a brave warrior here.”

The boy puffed out his chest, nodding.

Jamie, still fighting off the worst of the pain, forced himself upright. “And who exactly was I meant to be in this little battle of yers?”

The boy tilted his head, frowning slightly, as if only just realizing something.

Then, very solemnly, he said, “…Actually, I think I was supposed to hit the English.”

And then the boy turned to Claire again, eyeing her suspiciously.

Claire blinked at him, completely innocent. “What?”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “You’re English.”

Claire tilted her head slightly, hands clasped in front of her, and said—so politely, so sweetly—“That’s true.”

The boy gripped his sword tighter, shifting his weight, as if contemplating a second strike.

Jamie, still grimacing from the first one, quickly stepped forward, putting himself between Claire and certain doom.

“Ah, now, let’s no’ be too hasty,” he said, voice laced with mock seriousness. “She’s a guest of Scotland, ye ken. Can’t just go around whacking every Sassenach ye come across.”

Claire’s mouth parted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

The boy considered this.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he lowered his sword. “Alright,” he said reluctantly. “She can stay.”

Claire bit her lip, trying not to grin. “I appreciate the mercy.”

The boy gave a solemn nod, then, as if to redeem himself, threw his fist in the air and yelled “FREEDOM!” before charging off to rejoin his friends.

Jamie exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Aye. That felt about right for my day so far.”

Claire, still smiling, folded her hands delicately in front of her. “Well, Mr. Fraser, at least you perished nobly.”

Jamie shot her a flat look, but the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself. “Aye, well. If ye dinna mind, I’d prefer to resurrect myself with something that involves less bruising.”

It was only then that Jamie realized they had been pushed through the crowd, now standing directly in front of a large exhibition tent.

Claire glanced up. Historical Excavation Finds—New Discoveries in the Highlands!

Jamie shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Well. This wasna quite my plan, but since we’re here…”

Claire tilted her head. “What is it?”

Jamie hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Och, it’s—ah, it’s probably not the most thrilling thing to do at a festival, but some of these artifacts were found on my family’s land.”

Claire blinked. “Lallybroch?”

Jamie looked anywhere but at her. “Aye. My sister let some historian friends dig around a few years back, and now I get the joy of seeing our old cow field turned into a fascinating academic discussion.”

Claire bit her lip to keep from laughing at his suffering.

Jamie sighed, shaking his head. “I dinna ken what’s worse—seeing it in a museum, or knowing someone’s probably written a paper about my great-great-grandda’s misplaced chamber pot.”

Claire snorted at that, but before she could tease him, Jamie spoke again—softer this time, his voice carrying something quieter, something steadier.

“Ach. But it is something, ken? Knowing my family’s been there so long… that it all meant something to someone before me.”

Claire, still smiling, felt a quiet, unexpected warmth settle in her chest.

She’d never thought much about belonging—what it meant to have roots so deep they became part of you. But Jamie had. He carried history like it was his own, not just something studied, but lived.

And suddenly, she wanted to know more. Not just about Lallybroch, but about him.

“Mr. Fraser,” she said, her voice quieter now, “I think we just found the most exciting thing in this festival.”

Jamie blinked at her, his lips parting slightly.
Then—just the barest flicker of something unguarded, something real—he huffed a soft, almost bashful laugh.

~~~

The tent was dimly lit, the air cooler than outside, filled with the scent of aged parchment, dust, and the faint tang of something metallic. Tables lined the space, each draped in deep navy cloth, displaying artifacts carefully positioned behind glass cases—tiny remnants of history, unearthed from the soil of the Highlands.

Jamie exhaled quietly as they stepped inside, still rubbing his shin. His body had not fully recovered from the Scottish Revolution, Age Six.

Claire, however, was in her element.

Her fingers hovered over the glass display, her eyes catching on something small, worn, but strangely intricate. A tiny metal badge, no bigger than a coin, sat on navy velvet, its surface tarnished with age but still revealing the delicate engraving of a scallop shell—a symbol of pilgrimage.

She leaned in, reading the inscription on the display card:

"Recovered from the Broch Tuarach site. Identified as a 14th-century pilgrim’s badge, possibly from St. Andrews or Iona Abbey. Likely belonged to a Highland traveler who undertook a religious journey."

Claire turned to Jamie, brow furrowed in curiosity. “A pilgrim’s badge? Here? On Lallybroch land?”

Jamie, who had been casually surveying the artifacts with mild amusement, suddenly straightened, his interest piqued. He took a step closer, eyes sharpening with recognition.

“Aye,” he murmured, rubbing a thumb over his jaw. “That’s rare.”

Claire watched him. “Why? What does it mean?”

Jamie exhaled, tilting his head slightly.

“Well, medieval pilgrimages were no small feat—long journeys across unforgiving landscapes, through storms, over mountains, with no certainty of return. Some sought healing, others redemption, and some carried the weight of a promise made before they left.” He tapped the glass. “But this? If it was brought back to Lallybroch, it wasn’t just a token. It was a reminder. A mark of survival, of faith kept. Proof that whatever they’d faced out there, they’d made it home.”

Claire felt something shift in her chest as she looked at the tiny artifact again, the metal now seeming to hold a weight it hadn’t before.

Jamie let out a slow breath. “Whatever the reason, someone carried it all the way there. That makes it personal.”

Claire glanced up, something soft settling behind her ribs.

She exhaled. “That’s… incredible.”

Jamie, watching her, gave a small, lopsided smile.

“Aye,” he murmured. “It is.”

There was a beat of silence, the hum of voices and the distant music of the festival filtering in from outside.

Then—

“Oh, Uncle Lamb would have loved this.”

Jamie blinked, startled out of the moment. “Your uncle?”

Claire turned to him, eyes bright with something deeply personal.

“He’s an archaeologist,” she said, her voice warmer now, more open than he’d ever heard it.

“He practically raised me after my parents died. We were always traveling—dig sites, museums, forgotten ruins. I spent more of my childhood brushing dirt off ancient pottery than playing in a garden.”

Jamie listened quietly, his expression unreadable.

Claire hesitated, feeling the words form before she even knew what she meant to say.

“I wouldn’t change it,” she admitted. “Not for anything. I loved that life—seeing the world, chasing the past. But…” She exhaled, fingers brushing absently over the glass. “I suppose I admire people like you. People who have a home—not just a place, but a history that’s theirs.”

Jamie’s gaze didn’t waver.

Then, after a beat, his lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“Ye truly are a Sassenach.”

Claire blinked. Something about the way he said it—like he’d always known it to be true—sent warmth pooling in her stomach.

She lifted a brow. “You say that like it means something more than just ‘Englishwoman.’”

Jamie shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Aye, well. It does.”

He tilted his head, considering her. “See, a Sassenach is an outsider, aye—but not just any outsider. It’s someone who stands apart, sees things differently. Someone… unexpected.”

Claire felt her breath hitch just slightly.

Jamie rubbed the back of his neck, as if only just realizing he’d spoken aloud. “Meant kindly, of course.”

Something in his voice—just the barest hint of hesitation—made Claire’s stomach flip.

And then Jamie suddenly realized—they were standing very close.

Too close.

The cool dimness of the tent, the quiet between them, the way her eyes had softened as she looked at him—it all flickered in his mind at once, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he found himself completely unprepared.

Claire seemed to notice it too.

The moment stretched, almost like it was daring them to let it linger.

And then—

“There you are, Claire!”

Jamie startled slightly as a voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Claire turned just as Geillis strode toward them, her green eyes flicking between them with open curiosity, her smirk firmly in place.

Before Claire could say anything, Jamie straightened slightly, clearing his throat. He cast a brief glance at Geillis, offering a courteous nod in greeting before turning back to Claire.

“I shouldna keep ye any longer. I’m sure ye have plenty more to enjoy at the festival.”

Then, with a final nod, he stepped back and disappeared into the crowd, his stride unhurried, purposeful—leaving Claire feeling like the moment had slipped through her fingers before she could grasp it.

She blinked, slightly dazed.

Geillis let out a low hum of amusement. “Well. That was… something.”

Claire exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face.

~~~~

As the evening sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the festival grounds, Claire wandered through the thinning crowds, soaking in the last remnants of the day. The air hummed with music—drums thudding in a steady pulse, a lone flute trilling high above the melody, as if carrying the voice of the land itself. Voices rose in laughter, merchants called their final sales, the scent of roasted meat and mulled cider still thick in the air.

She should have been heading home by now.

But something kept her lingering.

Or maybe… someone.

Because no matter where she looked, Jamie Fraser wasn’t far from her thoughts.

Not literally, of course. But her mind—traitorous as it was—had made a habit of noticing him.

A burst of laughter from a nearby group of men, and she thought of his laugh—the deep, unrestrained sound of it, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when something truly amused him.

A tall figure moving through the crowd, and she thought of him—the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence, the broad shoulders that seemed made for bearing weight.

A gust of wind tousled the hair of a passing stranger, and she thought of his hair—the unruly scattering of auburn strands, forever doomed to fall out of place no matter how often he pushed them back.

She sighed, shaking her head at herself, but it didn’t help.

Because the truth was unavoidable.

Jamie Fraser was slowly carving out a very special place in her heart.

And the realization settled deep, thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Chapter Text

The murmur of shifting bodies filled the lecture hall as students settled into their seats, the general mood leaning toward end-of-semester exhaustion. Some stared blankly at their notebooks, others yawned behind their sleeves, a few made weak attempts at looking alert.

Jamie surveyed them from his place at the front of the room, lips quirking in mild amusement. He knew the signs. This was the time of year when motivation dwindled, when the spark of intellectual curiosity was smothered beneath the weight of coursework and deadlines.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

Setting his papers down with deliberate slowness, he crossed his arms. “Since most of ye look like ye’ve been dragged here against yer will, let’s make this more interesting.”

There were a few groans. A few wary glances. Good.

He tapped the desk once, then tilted his head toward the students. “Callum. Claire. Up front.”

Callum groaned dramatically. “Oh, come on, Mr. Fraser. Don’t you ever pick on someone else?”

Claire sighed as she grabbed her notebook.

“Take it as a compliment, Callum. Clearly, we’re his favorites.”

Callum turned to her, considering. “You know what? You’re right. This is probably an honor.”

Jamie fought back a smirk.

“Ye’ll be arguing opposing views,” he said. “Bonnie Prince Charlie—reckless dreamer or calculated strategist?”

Callum huffed. “Easy. Reckless dreamer.”

Jamie turned to Claire, expectant.

She sighed dramatically. “Then I suppose I’ll be defending his strategic genius.”

At first, the debate unfolded as expected—structured, focused, both of them firing off well-reasoned points with the kind of academic competitiveness that bordered on theatrical.

Callum was confident, delivering his arguments with exaggerated hand gestures, while Claire countered with sharp precision, her tone dry and unimpressed.

It was entertaining—for the class, sure, but also for Jamie, who found himself leaning forward slightly, nodding along, listening closely.

Then, somewhere along the way, he stopped just listening.

“Well, Miss Beauchamp,” Jamie said, tilting his head slightly, “that logic assumes Charles Stuart actually planned anything beyond ‘run fast and hope for the best.’”

Claire’s head snapped toward him.

Callum blinked.

A few students sat up straighter, aware that something had just shifted.

Claire, catching onto the change in tone, smirked. “Well, Mr. Fraser, one could argue that most rebellions begin with little more than a good speech and a highly questionable sense of optimism.”

Some students chuckled, but Jamie barely noticed.

His arms were still crossed, his stance still casual—but now, he was part of the debate.
He lifted a brow. “Ah, so ye admit then—ye’d have joined his army? Fought beside him, wearing yer finest tartan?”

Claire gave him an incredulous look. “Only if they let me bring proper shoes. I refuse to freeze my toes off in the Highlands.”

Jamie grinned. “Historical accuracy be damned, aye?”

The class laughed.

Callum cleared his throat loudly. “I feel like I’ve been forgotten here.”

Jamie, without looking away from Claire, said dryly, “Well, Callum, if yer best argument can be summed up as ‘Charlie was bad at chess,’ ye’ve already lost.”

More laughter.

Callum threw his hands up. “That’s it. I’m done. Never debating against Beauchamp again. Mr. Fraser’s clearly biased.”

Jamie caught the brief flicker of Claire’s eyes on him—just a second too long.

And just like that, the moment snapped back into place.

Jamie straightened slightly, cleared his throat, and forced himself back into the role of impartial moderator.

“Good points from both sides,” he said, voice even. “That’ll be all for today.”

The students groaned, gathering their things, oblivious to the slight tension in the air.

Claire, however, hesitated just a beat before returning to her seat, her smirk lingering—but her expression unreadable.

And Jamie?

He didn’t dare look at her again.

Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d stop.

~~~~~~~~

The air was crisp and sharp, the kind of coolness that settled deep into the lungs and left a clean burn in its wake. The Highlands stretched before Jamie in a great, untamed sprawl, golden-brown hills rolling into deep glens, the last remnants of autumn clinging to the heather before winter claimed it for good.
Jamie adjusted the strap of his rucksack, breathing in deeply. This was what he needed. A day outside, miles away from the clamor of campus, away from lecture halls and papers and—

Well. Everything.

The soft squelch of damp earth under his boots was the only sound beyond the occasional distant call of a bird overhead. He moved steadily up the hillside, his body falling into the familiar rhythm of climbing—breath, step, breath, step.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this.

To be alone. To let his mind clear.

But when he reached the ridge, standing high above the valley, he let out a slow breath—and for some reason, he thought of her.

Jamie frowned at himself, adjusting the strap of his rucksack. Where the hell had that come from?

Still, the thought didn’t leave. Instead, it settled in—comfortably.

Would she be quiet here? Would she stand beside him, arms crossed, lips pursed as she took it all in? Or would she start talking immediately, filling the space with some scientific explanation about glacial erosion and rock formations—one he’d half-listen to, just to hear the way her voice changed when she got caught up in a thought?

Would she complain about the wind?

Or—more likely—would she try to be stubborn about it, shivering but refusing to admit she was cold until he finally sighed and tossed her his jacket?

Jamie smirked to himself. Aye. That seemed about right.

He glanced at the ridge beside him, at the flat stretch of grass just off the path. It would be a good place to stop for a while. Not much of a view, but sheltered from the worst of the wind. He could sit here for a bit, drink some of the tea he’d packed—

Jamie stopped himself mid-thought, exhaling sharply.

Ye’re a fool, Fraser.

He shook his head, kicking at a loose rock on the path before heading down the trail.

But the thought—the feeling of her here—lingered.

And he didn’t mind it at all.

~~~~~~~~

By the time Jamie made it back down the hillside, the sun had started its slow descent, stretching the shadows across the valley. His body was comfortably sore from the hike, his mind… less settled than he would’ve liked.

He hadn’t planned on heading to Lallybroch today, but once he reached his car, he found himself turning onto the road home without thinking much about it.

~~~

Lallybroch’s kitchen was warm and familiar, the scent of freshly baked bread lingering in the air, mixing with the faint smokiness of the hearth.

The light was soft, the kind of golden glow that made the walls look older, the room smaller, the night outside colder by contrast.

Jamie leaned against the sink, arms crossed, his eyes distant as Jenny worked the dough in front of him, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, movements quick and efficient.

Jenny smirked. “Ye look like someone’s just told ye the wool market’s collapsed.”

Jamie snorted, shaking his head. “Dinna be dramatic, Jen.”

Jenny arched an eyebrow, still kneading. “So what is it, then?”

Jamie exhaled, his gaze drifting out the window. The hills stretched dark and endless beyond the farmhouse, the sky above them clear but cold. His fingers tapped idly against his arm, the rhythm absent-minded.

“Just something I heard at the university,” he said, voice careful. Casual. “Thought I’d ask yer opinion on it.”

Jenny didn’t pause, but Jamie knew she’d caught the way he said it.

“Aye?” she said, like she was indulging him. “Go on, then.”

Jamie shrugged. “Well, suppose there’s a student and a professor. Nothin’ improper, but… say there’s a bit of admiration there. Maybe more than admiration.”

Jenny finally looked up.

Her brow furrowed slightly, fingers stilling against the dough.

“Ye mean a student’s got a crush on a professor?” she asked.

Jamie cleared his throat. “Or the other way around.”

Jenny didn’t even blink. “Then the professor needs to get his head out of his arse and walk away.”

Jamie stiffened just slightly, but kept his face neutral.

“Aye?” he said, forcing a smirk. “And why’s that?”

Jenny rolled her eyes, smacking the dough down with unnecessary force. “Because it’s a bloody nightmare for the student, Jamie. Ye ken how people talk. If it ever got out, d’ye think folk would look at that lass and say, ‘Oh, what a well-earned relationship’? No—they’d say, *‘Ah, she must’ve charmed her way to a good grade.’”

Jamie’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t even considered that side of it. Not the way it would reflect on her.

Jenny kept going, oblivious to his internal spiral.

“And what if she is serious about him?” she continued. “Even if there’s nothin’ untoward—folk will make it sound like there is. A young woman workin’ twice as hard just to prove she’s where she is because she deserves it, not because of him?”

Jamie swallowed, forcing himself to nod like this was all purely theoretical.

“Aye,” he said quietly. “That’d be hard for her.”
Jenny’s eyes narrowed slightly at his tone.
“Why the sudden curiosity?”

Jamie barely hesitated. “Just somethin’ that came up in the faculty lounge,” he said easily, reaching for a knife to cut the apple in his hand. He didn’t even need to think about the lie.
“Someone mentioned an old case from years ago.”

Jenny was still watching him, suspicious but not quite enough to press. After a beat, she shrugged.

“Well, whoever that professor was,” she said, turning back to the dough, “he’d have done well to stay far away from it.”

Jamie only nodded, swallowing down the weight in his chest.

Because he knew she was right.

But somehow, the truth of it made it all feel so much worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Claire had stayed too long.
She knew it the moment she stepped outside the university doors and saw the sky—dark, heavy, swollen with rain.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed the storm coming. She had. But somehow, one more page turned into five, and one last review of her notes became a full reread of an entire chapter. She had convinced herself she had just a little more time before it hit.

Clearly, she had miscalculated.

And now, thanks to that, she was stranded in the worst downpour she’d seen all semester.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.”

Claire groaned, wrapping her coat tighter around herself as she stared at the sheets of water hammering against the pavement.

“Dinna tell me ye planned to walk home like this.”
She turned at the sound of his voice, already half-smiling despite herself.

Jamie stood just inside the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an umbrella, brows raised. He was dressed for the cold—a thick wool coat, a knitted scarf wrapped snugly around his throat, dark gloves tucked into his pocket. Unlike her, he looked completely prepared for the miserable weather.

Claire sighed, exasperated. “Obviously, I didn’t plan it, Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie’s lips tugged up at the corner, amused. “So what’s yer grand strategy, then?”

Claire huffed, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “I just have to survive it long enough to get to the bus stop. That’s it.”

Jamie glanced toward the street, considering. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his umbrella slightly and said, “Aye, then I’ll walk ye.”

Claire blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”

“Ach, I ken that.” He lifted the umbrella higher, motioning for her to step under it. “But I will.”

Claire hesitated. It wasn’t far—ten minutes, maybe. She could survive ten minutes in the rain.

But then a low, distant rumbling rolled through the sky—, and Jamie gave her a look.

She huffed. “Fine.”

Jamie simply lifted the umbrella, shifting it slightly to cover her as they stepped into the downpour.

~~~

The umbrella did its job, mostly. Jamie held it tilted slightly toward her, enough that she stayed mostly dry while his own shoulder was getting steadily soaked.

Claire noticed—of course she noticed.

“You don’t have to be gallant,” she muttered.

Jamie shot her a sidelong glance. “Aye, well, if ye drown on university property, I’d have too much paperwork to fill out.”

Claire snorted, shaking her head. Typical.

For a few moments, they walked in companionable silence, the rain pattering against the fabric above them, the air damp and cool.

Then Claire exhaled, tucking her hands deeper into her coat pockets. “You really don’t mind this weather, do you?”

Jamie smirked. “Och, no. Ye grow up with it, ye learn to live with it.”

Claire hummed. “So that’s it? You just accept it?”

“Aye. If ye spend yer life complainin’ about the rain, ye’ll die bitter.”

She huffed a small laugh. “That sounds like something ingrained at birth.”

Jamie glanced at her, amused. “Aye? And what does that mean, exactly?”

Claire hesitated, thinking for a moment before answering.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Something like—making peace with things you can’t change. Like if the world hands you something miserable, you just… bear it. Stand through it.”

Jamie was quiet for a second.

Then, softly—“Aye. Somethin’ like that.”

Claire exhaled, watching the pavement as they walked.

~~~

They neared the bus stop, their steps slower now, neither of them really in a rush anymore.

Somewhere along the way, their conversation had wandered—from the rain, to little observations about the day, to something that had made Claire scoff and say, “That’s completely ridiculous.”

Jamie made a thoughtful noise, tilting his head. “Is it, though?”

Claire huffed, pushing damp curls from her face. “Yes, it is.”

“Aye, but ye’ve no proof,” he countered, his tone easy, casting her a knowing glance.

“I don’t need proof,” she shot back. “Some things are just self-evident.”

Jamie chuckled, adjusting the umbrella slightly as they reached the bus stop.

"Lucky we made it, or ye’d have passed out from all my nonsense."

The words just came out, easy as breathing, before Claire could stop herself.

"No… I don’t think I could ever get enough of you."

Jamie froze.

Claire felt it a second too late.

Her heart stuttered, the air shifting too fast, too suddenly. The words hung there, stark and irreversible between them, rain pattering softly against the umbrella.

“I just meant—” She gestured vaguely, grasping for something, anything. “I mean, the way you explain things, of course, it’s never boring—”

“Claire.”

The way he said it—the way his voice caught on it, like he was holding back something sharp and heavy—stopped her mid-sentence.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Jamie’s gaze stayed fixed on her, steady, unreadable, like he was bracing against something unseen.

And that was enough.

That was everything.

Claire’s stomach dropped.

She had misread it.

She had thought—God, she had thought—but no.

She nodded too quickly, a polite smile clicking into place like a reflex.

“Thanks for walking me,” she said lightly. “I appreciate it.”

And then she turned, stepped onto the bus—
—and was gone.

~~

Jamie’s jaw tightened. His hands fisted at his sides.

He wanted—God, he wanted—to chase after her.

To tell her she hadn’t misread a damn thing.

That he wanted her just as much.

More.

But the doors had closed.

And Claire was gone.

Jamie exhaled sharply, forcing himself to nod.

Right. This was right.

Then why did it feel like his ribs were caving in?

Like something vital had been torn from his chest?

Like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life?

Chapter Text

The moment Claire closed the door behind her, the tears came.

Not the kind she could blame on the cold, or the rain, or sheer exhaustion—but the kind that burned. The kind that made her stomach twist and her chest feel too tight.

She sniffed sharply, angrily wiping her face.

Get a grip, Beauchamp. You are not crying over Jamie bloody Fraser.

Except—she was.

And she hated it.

She dropped her bag on the floor and leaned against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut.

The whole thing had been humiliating.

The way she had let it slip.
The way he had looked at her.

The way he had said her name, low and strained, like he was trying to stop something from breaking.

She pressed her fists against her eyes, willing the tears to stop.
Then—

“Jesus Christ, did someone die?"

Claire startled violently, whipping her head up.

Geillis stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, a wine glass in hand, eyebrows raised.

Claire shot her a sharp look. "Jesus, Geillis—were you lurking?"

Geillis took a slow sip of her wine. "No, I live here. But, please, continue. I'm enjoying the theatrics."

Claire groaned and marched past her, heading straight for the couch.

Geillis followed. "So, let me guess—Jamie Fraser, King of Repressed Emotions, did something stupid, and now you're suffering?"

Claire flopped onto the cushions, grabbing a pillow and burying her face in it.

Geillis smirked. "I'll take that as a yes."

Claire muffled something against the pillow.

Geillis leaned over her. "What was that, darling?"

Claire lifted her head just enough to glare. "I may have slightly implied that I could never get enough of him."

A beat of silence.

Then Geillis howled.

Claire shoved the pillow back over her face.
"Oh, for God’s sake—"

"You what?!" Geillis practically fell onto the couch beside her. "You confessed your undying admiration? In the rain?" She clutched her chest as if in a faint. "Claire! That's not just romance—that’s a bloody cinematic moment!"

Claire let out an exasperated wheeze. "It was an accident!"

Geillis wiped away tears of laughter. "Tell me he at least did something dramatic back. Grabbed your face. Declared his own undying devotion."

Claire sighed heavily. "No. He just… said my name."

Geillis froze mid-sip. "He what?"

Claire rubbed her temples. "He said my name. Just once." She exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling. "Like he was stopping me. Like he couldn’t let me say anything else—because it would’ve made it real."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "And that was it. He didn’t want me to go on. So I didn’t."

Geillis sat up straighter, eyes flashing. "Oh, for the love of—Claire, that’s not him telling you no. That’s him barely keeping himself together."

Claire exhaled, shaking her head. "Or maybe it’s exactly what it looked like. He didn’t say more. I didn’t push. End of story."

Geillis let out a strangled noise. "Mother of God, that man is exhausting."

"Tell me about it."

Geillis pointed aggressively. "He wants you. He’s just an idiot about it."

Claire scoffed. "Well, I can’t wait for that to be my problem."

Geillis waved a hand. "That’s not even the—" She stopped abruptly. "Claire."

“What?”

Geillis grabbed her by the shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully."

Claire blinked. "Okay?"

"You are brilliant. You are stunning. You are a goddess." Geillis shook her slightly. "And if Jamie Fraser doesn’t see that, he is a fool."

Claire snorted despite herself. "Thanks for the pep talk, but I still have to sit through his lectures tomorrow."

Geillis perked up, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Then hold your head up high, walk into that lecture hall, and make him suffer."

Claire raised an eyebrow. "Suffer?"

Geillis smirked. "Oh, aye. Tragically."

Claire let out a weak laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Aye," Geillis said, grinning. "But I'm right."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jamie was having a spectacularly shite day.

It had begun before sunrise, when he woke up feeling like he’d spent the entire night in a battle he couldn’t remember losing.

Then, the department sent another email about a crucial faculty meeting—which, knowing them, meant he’d be trapped in a room listening to Professor McLean moan about budget cuts while eating dry biscuits.

Then the printer in his office jammed—twice—before promptly running out of ink.

Then, just before class, a student ambushed him in the corridor, waving a copy of their latest paper and demanding to know why it hadn’t been graded yet.

Jamie, who was already drowning in assignments, resisted the urge to tell them that he was, in fact, only one man.

By the time he reached the lecture hall, he had precisely zero patience left.

He dropped his notes onto the desk and made a decision.

They were watching a bloody documentary today.

It was a perfectly respectable choice. The film covered key themes, provided visual analysis, and most importantly—gave Jamie exactly 42 minutes in which he didn’t have to speak.

It should have been simple.

It should have been fine.

And then Claire Beauchamp walked in.

Jamie stiffened slightly.

Claire also stiffened slightly.

Neither of them acknowledged this fact.

Instead, they both tried very hard to act like perfectly normal human beings.

Claire walked to her seat a little too quickly, opened her notebook with far too much purpose, and clicked her pen an unnecessary number of times.

Jamie cleared his throat loudly, adjusted the projector that did not need adjusting, and shuffled his notes as if they contained the meaning of life.

At one point, their eyes almost met.

But instead of holding it, they both immediately looked at anything else—Jamie at the whiteboard, Claire at her own damn shoelace.

It was painful.

It was fine. They were adults. Professionals. Experts in the art of pretending nothing had happened.

It was fine.

Absolutely fine.

The projector flickered on.

The documentary started.

~~

Jamie sat back, adjusting his chair, and pulled the first paper from the stack.

Right. Grading. That was the goal.

He scanned the first paragraph.

Not bad, decent thesis statement. Could use—
Claire shifted in her seat.

Jamie’s eyes flickered up.

She was scribbling something in her notebook, her lips pressing together slightly.

Jamie exhaled, refocusing on the paper.

Okay. Structure’s solid, but they’re overstating this argument. Maybe note that—
Claire crossed her legs. Quickly. Almost too quickly.

Jamie, against all reason, noticed.

He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back down.

Alright. Historical evidence here is weak, need to—
Claire tilted her head slightly, brow furrowing at the screen.

Jamie sighed, dropping his pen.

He hadn’t written a single word of feedback.

This was a disaster.

He grabbed a new paper, determined.

But by the time he got through three sentences, he had looked up at Claire at least six times.

~~

The documentary mercifully ended.

Jamie switched the lights back on, forcing himself to breathe.

"Right," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Thoughts?"

Unfortunately, there were thoughts.

A long silence stretched through the room. Students exchanged looks, clearly hoping someone else would go first.

Finally, a brave soul ventured, "Well… people in the past had it really hard."

Claire’s eyebrows slowly lifted. A fraction.

Jamie waited.

And waited.

"…And?"

The student blinked. "And that’s interesting."

Jamie blinked back.

Claire, beside them, dragged a hand down her face.

A girl in the back row tried weakly, "The music was nice?"

Claire visibly inhaled. Then exhaled.

Then made a tiny, despairing noise, like a dying kettle.

Jamie pressed his lips together, forcing down a groan.

Claire opened her mouth like she might actually say something. Then, visibly deciding it wasn’t worth it, shut it again.

Instead, she just picked up her notebook, held it briefly against her forehead, and then set it back down.

Jamie cleared his throat. "Right. Since we seem to be struggling for words today, let’s call it there. Dismissed."

Chairs scraped, bags zipped, and students gratefully packed up.

Jamie let it go.

At least it was over.

Or so he thought.

Claire stepped up to his desk.

Jamie tensed.

For a split second, he thought—hoped?—that she was going to say something real, something about yesterday, something that might cut through this awful pretense.

Instead—
"Thanks for the… um… visually immersive experience."

Jamie stared.

Claire blinked.

Jamie tilted his head slightly.

Claire seemed to register what she had just said.

Her expression shifted from polite composure to quiet internal horror.

She nodded. Once. Briskly.

"Goodbye."

Then she turned and walked out like she had just submitted her resignation from society.

Jamie stood there, blinking at the space where she had been.

Then, after a moment, he exhaled sharply, grabbed a paper from his pile, and flipped it open.

At least this one wouldn’t leave him questioning his life choices.

Probably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The library had become Claire’s refuge.

It wasn’t just because finals were looming like a storm cloud over the entire university—it was also because hiding behind a stack of dusty tomes meant she didn’t have to risk running into Jamie Fraser and being reminded of his maddeningly perfect face.

She was deep into an article on 18th-century Highland agriculture—because nothing screamed avoidance like learning about crop rotation—when a shadow fell across her table.

"Ah, the elusive Miss Beauchamp."

Claire looked up, startled. A man she didn’t recognize stood there, dressed in a crisp blazer that somehow screamed I correct people for fun.

"Frank Randall," he said smoothly, extending a hand like she should know who he was. "Postgraduate history student. Specializing in British military strategy. I’ve heard about you in Fraser’s lectures—you’ve quite the… spirited approach."

Claire blinked, shaking his hand briefly. "Thanks, I think?"

Frank pulled out the chair opposite her without asking, setting his leather-bound notebook on the table with the kind of precision that suggested he alphabetized his spices at home.

"Fraser’s approach is… unorthodox," he continued, oblivious. "All that romanticism about the Highlands. Frankly, it borders on sentimentalism. But I suppose that appeals to some."

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. "Right. Because God forbid history has feelings."

Frank chuckled, clearly missing the sarcasm. "Exactly."

Before she could gather her wits—and maybe chuck her book at him—he leaned in slightly, his smile doing its best impression of charming.

"But I must admit," he said, voice dropping just a touch, "I do admire a woman who’s not afraid to challenge her professor. That kind of… passion is rare these days."

Claire stared at him for a beat, then slowly closed her book.

"Well, Frank," she said sweetly, standing up and gathering her things, "I’m sure you’ll find someone who appreciates your… unique perspective on passion."

Frank’s smile widened, clearly thinking he’d made progress. "I look forward to our next debate, Miss Beauchamp."

Claire gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Oh, I wouldn’t hold your breath."

And with that, she turned on her heel and left, leaving Frank Randall sitting there, entirely unaware that he had just been thoroughly dismissed.

Chapter Text

If there was an award for the world’s most oblivious man, Frank Randall would have won it in record time.

Claire had dropped hints. Subtle ones. Obvious ones. At one point, she was fairly certain she’d outright told him to bugger off in so many words. But Frank, with all the finesse of a brick through a window, simply refused to get the message.

One dreary December afternoon, Claire had just settled into a corner table in the bustling university canteen, hoping to enjoy a quiet lunch. As she unwrapped her sandwich, Frank Randall appeared, tray in hand, and slid into the seat across from her with the enthusiasm of a puppy.

"Claire! Just the person I was hoping to find," he exclaimed, setting his tray down with a flourish.

Claire suppressed a sigh, taking a deliberate bite of her sandwich. "Hello, Frank."

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, leaning in as if sharing some delicious secret, “you and I spend so much time bumping into each other—it’s almost fate, don’t you think?” He gave her what he clearly thought was a roguish smile.

Claire sighed inwardly.

“You know,” he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially as though they were old friends sharing juicy gossip, “I’ve just come from the archives. Had the most ridiculous encounter with Fraser.”

Claire blinked, her interest piqued despite herself. “Jamie Fraser?”

“Yes, Jamie Fraser,” Frank said, rolling his eyes with theatrical flair. “We were reviewing some materials on Highland folklore—he insisted on adding these obscure Gaelic footnotes that no one will ever read, let alone care about.”

Frank chuckled, clearly amused by his own story.
“I mean, honestly,” he continued, shaking his head, “he was so precious about it. Muttering in Gaelic under his breath like some brooding Highland poet. I swear, I half expected him to start reciting love sonnets to the bloody artifacts.”

Claire couldn’t help it. The image drifted into her mind—Jamie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the warm, freckled skin of his forearms as he carefully turned the delicate, yellowed pages of an old Gaelic text. His brow furrowed in concentration, that familiar crease forming between his eyebrows, while a stubborn lock of auburn hair slipped over his forehead, refusing to stay in place.

She could almost see the way his lips moved silently as he murmured the words under his breath, his voice low and steady, like he was speaking to the pages themselves. Every so often, he’d pause, tilting his head just slightly, as if listening for the rhythm of the language, trying to coax out its secrets.

Claire imagined the little things—how he might scratch absently at the back of his neck when he stumbled over a tricky passage, or how his mouth would curve into that soft, lopsided smile when he finally got it right. The thought of him so deeply engrossed in something he loved, completely unaware of how endearing it made him—it warmed her more than she cared to admit.

And without realizing it, a soft smile tugged at her lips.

Frank’s story blurred into the background, but Claire didn’t notice. She was too busy picturing Jamie, lost in his world of words, and looking more earnest—and more irresistible—than ever.

Frank, of course, completely misread the situation.

“Ah, finally!” he grinned, mistaking her soft smile as a response to his story. “I knew I’d get a smile out of you eventually. You see? I can be quite entertaining when I want to be.”

Claire blinked, pulled abruptly from her daydream of Jamie. She opened her mouth to correct him—to explain that, no, she hadn’t been smiling at him—but honestly, what was the point? Frank would never believe it wasn’t his wit that had charmed her.

So she simply shook her head, her smile fading into something polite, and took a sip of her tea to avoid having to respond.

And that’s when Jamie walked in.

The canteen door swung open, and Jamie stepped inside, his hair slightly tousled from the wind, a light dusting of pink on his cheeks from the cold. He scanned the room absently, his gaze sweeping over the tables—until it landed on Claire.

There she was, sitting across from Frank Randall, her face soft with a smile Jamie hadn’t seen in weeks. From where he stood, it looked like she was enjoying herself, completely at ease in Frank’s company. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut, the air in his lungs tightening.

Jamie’s jaw clenched, but his expression remained neutral. He didn’t let the ache in his chest show—not here, not now. Instead, he turned on his heel before either of them noticed him, his steps measured as he left the canteen, the sound of Frank’s voice and Claire’s fading smile lingering far longer than he wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The new semester rolled in under a blanket of grey skies and biting winds. The days were short, the mornings slow to brighten, and by late afternoon, the campus was already cloaked in twilight. Icy rain slicked the cobblestones, and students trudged across the quads bundled in scarves and heavy coats, their breaths misting in the cold air.

Jamie had changed.

It wasn’t something most people would notice—his lectures were still brilliant, his passion for history undimmed. He spoke with the same steady authority, his voice filling the room with stories of ancient clans and forgotten battles. To anyone else, he was the same Jamie Fraser: composed, knowledgeable, captivating.

But Claire saw the difference. She felt it.

The easy warmth that had once existed between them was gone, replaced by a polite, professional distance that felt colder than any winter wind. Jamie still addressed her in class, still nodded when she raised a point, but his tone was different now—measured, detached, as if he were carefully keeping a boundary in place.

His eyes, which used to settle on hers with that quiet intensity, now flicked past her like she was just another student. When she spoke, he listened, but the spark—the connection they’d once shared—was buried beneath layers of formality.

And Claire didn’t understand why.

She hadn’t pushed him away. If anything, she’d tried to smooth over the awkwardness that had crept between them, to find their way back to the easy rhythm they once shared. But no matter how much she tried to bridge the gap, Jamie kept it there. Every time his voice used to carry that softer edge, that quiet warmth meant just for her, it now stayed cool and neutral, as if he were carefully tucking his heart out of reach.

What she didn’t see—what he never let her see—was the way his gaze held on her when she wasn’t looking, tracing the curve of her smile with an ache he couldn’t shake. She never noticed the faint clench of his jaw when Frank Randall’s name drifted into conversation, or the subtle stiffness in his shoulders when he spotted Frank waiting by the lecture hall doors, his easy smile aimed at her.
And she didn’t hear it—the quiet strain in Jamie’s voice, the slight, clipped edge when he greeted him with a cool, “Randall,” like the name itself tasted bitter on his tongue.

Jamie had seen enough to convince himself of the worst—that Claire had moved on, that she was happy with someone else. And because of that, he was pulling back, giving her space. Because he thought it was what she wanted.

And in doing so, he was quietly tearing himself apart.

~~~

Desperate for something—anything—to clear her head, Claire signed up for the university’s weekend archaeological dig.

When she told Geillis, the reaction was immediate and dramatic.

“You’re doing what?” Geillis choked, nearly spilling her tea all over Claire’s freshly printed excavation forms.

Claire grinned, entirely too pleased with herself. “Volunteering at the excavation site. Every weekend.”

Geillis stared at her as if she’d just announced she was moving to Antarctica. “Claire. It’s January. In the Highlands. You’ll be digging through frozen mud with a toothbrush and pretending it’s fun.”

“It is fun,” Claire shot back, folding her arms with mock indignation. “It’s not just digging, you know. We catalog artifacts, analyze soil layers, clean and preserve anything we find—it’s actual science.”

Geillis raised an eyebrow. “Oh, science. Right. So, instead of jogging, you’ll be out there scraping dirt off old bones and measuring pottery shards?”

Claire laughed, shaking her head. “Sometimes, yes. But we also map the site, record stratigraphy, and use ground-penetrating radar to detect buried structures. It’s not just about digging—it’s about understanding the story beneath our feet.”

Geillis still looked unconvinced, but she didn’t argue. “Well, when you come back missing a finger from frostbite, don’t expect me to help you reattach it.”

Despite Geillis’s melodramatic warnings, Claire found herself thriving at the excavation site. The cold air bit at her cheeks, and her muscles ached from hours of digging, but she loved every second of it. There was something grounding about uncovering pieces of history with her own hands—something that made the noise in her head finally quiet down.

By the second weekend, Claire realized she wasn’t just volunteering to distract herself. She genuinely loved the work. And by the third, she’d made up her mind: next academic year, she’d apply to the postgraduate archaeology program.

It felt like the first step forward in a long time.

~~~

By late February, Claire had settled into a comfortable rhythm at the excavation site. The weekends blurred into a familiar pattern of digging, cataloging, and sharing quiet laughs with fellow volunteers over lukewarm tea. The cold still bit at her fingers, but it was a welcome ache—something grounding, something real.

She’d finally found a strange sort of peace in the dirt and the history, her mind less tangled with thoughts of Jamie Fraser.

At least, that’s what she thought—until she arrived one Saturday morning and saw him standing there.

Claire froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat. There he was at the edge of the dig site, bending over a stack of excavation tools, sleeves rolled up, his copper hair catching the pale winter sunlight.

He looked up at the same moment. Their eyes met.

Jamie straightened, his expression mirroring her own shock, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“…Well,” Claire muttered under her breath, heart pounding, “this is… unexpected.”

Jamie blinked, his mouth twitching ever so slightly. “…Aye.”

For a long, awkward beat, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, thick with unspoken words. Claire could practically hear the echo of all the things they’d left unsaid.

But quitting wasn’t an option. They were both here, and neither of them was going to back down.

So, they worked.

At first, the conversations were stiff and painfully polite. Claire focused on her grid, carefully brushing dirt away from a stubborn muddy shard, while Jamie measured soil layers with mechanical precision. The tension clung to them like the cold, impossible to shake.

The silence stretched between them, each stolen glance only tightening the knot in Claire’s chest. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but the awareness of him—so close yet so distant—was impossible to ignore.

Then, as if the universe itself had grown tired of their awkwardness, one of the volunteers—a lanky, quick-witted archaeology student named Tom—held up what looked like a very unimpressive piece of broken pottery and announced, “Well, I think I’ve discovered the ancient remains of Scotland’s first dinner plate. Probably still waiting for the main course.”

There was a beat of silence. Claire’s lips twitched.

Jamie huffed out a breath, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Tom, encouraged by the faintest hint of amusement, added, “At this rate, we’ll find an ancient fork next week. Revolutionary stuff.”

That did it.

Claire snorted, the sound bursting out of her before she could stop it. Jamie’s head snapped toward her, his blue eyes wide with surprise, and for a split second, they just looked at each other—before Jamie’s shoulders started to shake with quiet laughter.

It snowballed from there.

Claire doubled over, her sides aching, as Jamie’s deep, rolling laugh echoed across the dig site. It wasn’t the joke, not really—it was the release. Laughter born out of exhaustion, of weeks spent carefully avoiding each other, of all the heaviness they’d carried without realizing just how much they’d missed this—missed each other.

When the laughter finally faded, leaving them both breathless and light-headed, Jamie glanced over at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, warmth flickering there again—the warmth she hadn’t realized how deeply she’d needed.

“Ye ken,” he said, his voice quieter now, softer, “out here, I’m not your lecturer.”

Claire’s heart stumbled in her chest.

“So there’s no need for all that ‘Mr. Fraser’ nonsense.” His eyes softened, that familiar spark returning. “Just Jamie’ll do.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. And then, with that quiet, knowing smile—the one that always managed to curl under her skin—he added, “Though I suppose I could call ye by the name that suits ye best.”

Claire arched a brow, the tension still fluttering faintly between them. “Oh? And what’s that?”

His smile deepened, eyes glinting with something warm, something familiar.
“Sassenach.”

The word slid between them, soft and effortless, like it had always belonged there. And hearing it—feeling it—pulled Claire straight back to that morning in the excavation tent: the quiet murmur of Jamie’s voice, the warmth of his strong body close beside hers, and the way his gentle, mesmerizing eyes had held her like a promise.

Chapter Text

Jamie Fraser had signed up for the excavation project with the noble idea of reconnecting with history. Not the kind you scribbled on whiteboards or dissected in endless faculty meetings, but the real, gritty, hands-in-the-dirt kind. It seemed like a brilliant plan at the time.
Aye, he thought, standing in the middle of a muddy field for the third weekend in a row, brilliant.

It wasn’t that he minded hard work. Growing up on Lallybroch, Jamie was no stranger to sore muscles or the sting of cold air against his skin. But there was something uniquely humbling about realizing he couldn’t, for the life of him, tell the difference between a significant archaeological find and a particularly interesting pebble.

After nearly an hour of careful digging, Jamie squinted at the ground, convinced he’d uncovered something ancient—an artifact that would surely make headlines. He crouched, brushing away the soil with the delicate precision he reserved for his most fragile books, only to reveal… a very old, very unimpressive potato.

He sighed, leaning back on his heels. Aye, the ancestors would be proud, he thought dryly. Jamie Fraser: historian, lecturer, and finder of ancient tubers.

The sound of soft footsteps crunching over the gravel behind him made him glance up, already knowing who it was.

“You know,” Claire said, crouching down beside him with a familiar glint in her eye, “I thought we left the potatoes back in the cafeteria.”

Jamie groaned, shaking his head, but the warmth of her teasing made him grin despite himself. The awkwardness that had once tinged their interactions was long gone—washed away in laughter after Tom’s ridiculous joke the week before. Now, there was an ease between them, the kind that came from shared jokes and stolen glances across excavation trenches.

“Oh aye?” he replied, arching a brow. “And here I was, thinking I’d stumbled upon the lost treasure of the Highlands.”

Claire leaned over, inspecting his so-called discovery with mock seriousness. “If by treasure, you mean the remains of someone’s forgotten lunch, then absolutely.”

Jamie chuckled, nudging the potato aside with his boot. “I’ll have you ken, Sassenach, potatoes have a rich history. Maybe I’m onto something.”

Claire rolled her eyes but smiled, reaching for his trowel. “Here,” she said, nudging him gently. “Let me show you how it’s actually done.”

Jamie shifted back, watching as she demonstrated the technique—how to angle the trowel just so, feel for the subtle differences in texture beneath the soil, and brush away dirt with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for ancient manuscripts.

Within minutes, she’d uncovered a small, corroded metal clasp, no bigger than a coin, but unmistakably significant.

Jamie stared at it, then at her, shaking his head in disbelief. “I think,” he said quietly, still watching her, “you might be a better archaeologist than half the folk who teach it.”

Claire glanced up, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from the compliment—but she only shrugged, like it was nothing.

But Jamie knew better. And as she stood, brushing dirt from her hands with that easy confidence, he felt the familiar flutter of something deeper than admiration.

He wasn’t just impressed.

He was utterly gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the excavation site. Most of the volunteers had wandered off for a break, leaving the field quieter than usual. Jamie and Claire sat side by side on the edge of a trench, their knees almost brushing, both cradling mismatched mugs of lukewarm tea that tasted faintly of soil—because, of course, everything here tasted faintly of soil.

For a while, neither of them spoke. It wasn’t an awkward silence, just the kind that settled comfortably when words weren’t really necessary.

Claire let out a soft sigh, tilting her face toward the sun, eyes half-closed, a small, contented smile playing at the corners of her lips.

And Jamie, well… Jamie was in trouble.
Because looking at her like this, with the sunlight catching in her curls and a smudge of dirt across her cheek, he felt something shift deep in his chest. Something that wasn’t entirely new but had grown too loud to ignore.

It would be so easy, he thought.
So easy to turn to her now, in this quiet, perfect moment, and just say it. I love you. The words sat there, right on the edge of his tongue, waiting for permission to tumble out.

He could see it so clearly—her head turning slightly, that small, knowing smile she gave when he said something unexpected. Maybe she’d laugh, soft and warm, the way she did when he told one of his terrible historical jokes. Maybe she’d reach out, fingers brushing against his, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It felt real. Like they’d been doing this forever.

But instead of saying anything, Jamie took a sip of his tea, grimacing. “Christ, this tastes like someone dug it up from the Iron Age.”

Claire snorted, lowering her mug. “That’s because Tom made it, and I’m pretty sure he thinks boiling water is optional.”

Jamie chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, well. If this archaeology thing doesn’t work out for him, he’s got a bright future in historical torture methods.”

Claire laughed, the sound curling around him like the first breeze of spring, and Jamie felt his heart give a little lurch.

It shouldn’t be this easy, he thought. Sitting here, laughing with her, imagining things he had no right to imagine. Things like waking up beside her, sharing mornings filled with terrible tea and worse jokes, her hand slipping into his like it belonged there.

And that’s when it hit him—like one of Tom’s badly made mugs to the head.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

But instead of letting that thought settle too heavily, Jamie just smiled, turning to Claire with mock seriousness. “Tell me, Sassenach, do ye think if I dig deep enough, I’ll find my will to live at the bottom of this trench?”

Claire grinned, bumping her shoulder against his. “If you do, be sure to label it properly. Wouldn’t want the historians misinterpreting your existential crisis.”

Jamie laughed, the sound echoing across the field. But as the laughter faded, he stole another glance at her—at the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she made even a muddy field feel like home.

And deep down, he knew.

~~~~~~~~~~

The last day of the excavation arrived with the reluctant warmth of early April. The sun cast a soft glow over the site, and for once, the ground wasn’t trying to suck the boots off everyone’s feet. The trenches had been filled, the tools packed away, and now the volunteers gathered in a loose circle, their faces flushed from the work—and maybe a little from the emotions running high.

Tom, predictably, was already in tears.

“I just—” he hiccupped, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his very muddy jumper, “I just want to say—this has been the best bloody experience of my life!” His voice cracked, making a few people exchange amused glances. “I mean, sure, I lost three trowels, fell into two trenches, and I’ll probably never get the dirt out from under my nails, but—” He sniffled dramatically, “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

There was a smattering of laughter, and Tom, undeterred, forged ahead with his impromptu speech.

“And Claire—” he turned, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto her, “Claire, you’re like—the excavation goddess or something. Seriously. You taught us all so much. Like how to actually dig without looking like idiots.” He paused, clearly trying to collect himself but failing miserably. “And all that stuff from your Uncle Lamb—bless him! I mean, who knew soil stratification could be so bloody interesting?”

Claire’s cheeks flushed, but she was smiling, her eyes soft as Tom continued.

“You made history feel alive, you know? Like we weren’t just digging up old junk but—like—we were part of something bigger.” He sniffed again, his voice wobbling. “You’re amazing, Claire. Uncle Lamb would be proud. And so am I. Even if you did steal all the good finds.”

The group chuckled, a mix of affection and amusement rippling through them as Tom finally wrapped up his speech with a dramatic flourish of his arms.

“To Claire! And to the best bloody dig crew in the history of digs!”

Everyone cheered, a mix of laughter and applause filling the air. Even Jamie found himself grinning, his heart a little heavier than he’d like to admit. Watching Claire glow under the praise, surrounded by people who adored her, it struck him just how much she belonged here—in this world, with these people, doing what she loved.

And how much he didn’t.

As the applause faded, someone piped up, “Right, who’s up for celebrating? Pub night, anyone?”

There was a chorus of enthusiastic agreement, and someone nudged Claire. “You’re coming, right?”

Claire laughed, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned to Jamie, her eyes bright. “What about you? Coming to the pub?”

For a brief, dangerous moment, Jamie considered saying yes. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with everything he wasn’t ready to admit.

He smiled instead, gentle and polite. “I’ll leave the celebratin’ to the rest of ye. Someone’s got to make sure the university’s still standing come Monday.”

Claire arched a brow, her smile tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. “Suit yourself, then. But don’t blame me if you miss out on Tom’s inevitable drunken karaoke.”

Jamie chuckled, the image both horrifying and oddly endearing. “I’ll count that as a blessing, Sassenach.”

As the group started to disperse, heading toward the promise of pints and bad singing, Jamie lingered for a moment, watching Claire’s laughter drift on the breeze as she walked away.

~~~~~~~~

The lecture hall buzzed with the usual end-of-term energy—half-hearted note-taking, whispered plans for summer, and the occasional desperate glance at the clock. Jamie stood at the front, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, watching his students with a fond, familiar mix of amusement and exasperation.

He cleared his throat, and the room slowly settled, eyes turning toward him expectantly.

“Well,” he began, the familiar lilt in his voice wrapping around the room like a warm blanket, “that wraps up our discussion of the Scottish Enlightenment. I trust ye’ll all remember the key figures, even if I ken half of ye are just here for the participation marks.”

A ripple of laughter echoed through the hall.
Jamie’s smile softened. “But before we go, I’ve one last thing to say.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just a little longer than usual. The students leaned in, sensing something different.

“This…” he gestured around the room, his voice quieter now, “this will be my last lecture at the university.”

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then, as if the words finally registered, the room erupted into a chorus of confused murmurs and gasps. Claire, sitting near the front, felt her heart jolt violently in her chest. She stared at him, wide-eyed, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Jamie held up a hand, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, dinna fash. It’s no because of yer essay grades—though some of ye might’ve given me reason.”

The students chuckled, but the laughter was tinged with disbelief. Claire’s hands tightened around her notebook, her mind racing.

Jamie’s gaze swept over the room, lingering just a moment too long when it passed over Claire—but his expression never wavered.

“I’ve had the honor of teaching some of the brightest, most stubborn students I’ve ever met.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ye’ve argued with me, challenged me, and in some cases, made me question my own sanity. But ye’ve also made me a better teacher—and for that, I’m grateful.”

A soft, bittersweet chuckle rippled through the hall.

Jamie exhaled, his smile tinged with something Claire couldn’t quite name—something that felt like goodbye.

“Another professor will take ye through finals,” he added, straightening slightly. “Be kind to them. Or at least pretend.”

A few more laughs, but Claire barely heard them. Her mind was spinning, her heart aching in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

And then, with a final nod, Jamie gathered his notes.

“Thank ye, all of ye. It’s been a privilege.”

Without another word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence he left behind.

Claire sat frozen, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The room slowly buzzed back to life around her—students whispering, packing up their things, but she couldn’t move.

He’s leaving.

Her heart thudded painfully, the weight of his absence settling over her like a stone.

And before she knew it, she was on her feet, her notebook forgotten on the desk.

Chapter Text

Claire didn’t remember leaving the lecture hall. One moment, Jamie’s words were still hanging in the air—this will be my last lecture at the university—and the next, she was pushing through the crowded corridor, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

He’s leaving.

The thought echoed in her mind with every hurried step toward his office. She didn’t stop to think about what she’d say when she got there. She just had to know why.

Reaching his door, she didn’t bother to knock. She shoved it open, breathless, a tightness curling in her chest.

Jamie stood behind his desk, his hands resting on the scattered papers. When the door swung open, he looked up—not startled, but as if he’d been expecting her all along. His face, though drawn with exhaustion, softened at the sight of her, and the tension in his shoulders eased, like the words he’d been holding back had finally found their moment.

“Claire.”

Her name slipped from his lips, quiet but steady, like it had been waiting there all along.

“You’re resigning?” she asked, the words sharper than she intended, her voice trembling as it filled the stillness between them. “Just like that?”

He let out a breath, but there was no defensiveness in it—just a quiet release, like he’d been holding it in for far too long. “Claire, I’ve been carrying this for months. I can’t—” He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he couldn’t believe he was finally saying it. “I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Claire’s heart pounded in her chest, every beat aching to hear what he was about to say. She held his gaze as she quietly closed the door behind her, locking them in the moment.

“Then tell me,” she whispered, her voice softer now, though no less desperate. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

Jamie exhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for her to ask—like he’d been needing her to ask.

“Because every day I see ye, Claire,” he said, his voice low but unwavering, “it feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. And I can’t—” He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head, the relief bleeding into every word. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it. Every time I hear yer voice, every time ye’re near… it’s there. It’s always there.”

Claire’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She felt like the ground beneath her was shifting, but Jamie—Jamie seemed steadier than ever, like he’d finally stepped into the truth he’d been avoiding.

He met her eyes fully now, and there was no hesitation, no fear, only a raw honesty that made her chest ache.

“I love ye,” he whispered, and the words weren’t broken or painful—it was a quiet confession that seemed to lift the weight off his shoulders. “God, Claire… I love ye.”

The words hung between them, filling the space that had felt so empty just moments ago.

“It’s not enough, just bein’ near ye,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers. “I want more. I want to be part of yer days, yer nights, all of it. I want to face whatever life throws at us, together. I need us to be us.”

His voice faltered for a breath, and just as he was about to say more, to spiral into all the reasons he couldn’t have that life with her, Claire moved.

She crossed the space between them, her hands trembling as they reached for his face, cupping his cheeks with a touch that was both light and sure. Her thumbs brushed over the stubble on his jaw, feeling the warmth of him beneath her fingertips.

Then, without a word, she leaned in and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips.

It was brief—just the lightest touch—but it carried all the things she hadn’t yet said. When she pulled back, she let her forehead rest against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet between them.

“You’ve no idea,” she whispered, her voice trembling with feeling, “how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

Jamie’s breath hitched, but before he could speak, Claire brushed her fingers over his lips, silencing him with a tender smile.

“You think stepping back is the only option,” she murmured, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That giving up your career would somehow make things easier for both of us.”

Her voice wavered, a tear slipping down her cheek, but she didn’t look away. She held him there, steady and close, her heart full to bursting.

“But you’re wrong,” she whispered, her tone gentle but sure.

Jamie’s hands, which had hovered uncertainly at her waist, finally settled, anchoring them both. But as Claire continued, she felt his grip tighten, his body stiffening with each word.

“I’ve been accepted into the postgraduate archaeology program in Orkney.”

Jamie froze. His hands clenched slightly, his body going rigid as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. The color drained from his face. Everything he’d just confessed was for nothing.

Claire’s heart clenched but she cupped his face quickly, her thumbs brushing along his jaw, grounding him.

“No, Jamie,” she said firmly, her voice but unshakable. “I’m not leaving.”

But he still looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe it, his breath slowing, his eyes darting across her face, searching for the truth behind her words.

Claire’s hands remained steady on his cheeks, tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into his skin.

“Something clicked during the dig,” she began, her lips curving slightly. “You know how much I loved being there. And Dr. Stevens—he’s brilliant. After the project wrapped up, he casually mentioned he’d recommended me to Orkney.”

She gave a soft laugh, shaking her head at the memory. “Honestly, I didn’t even plan to do anything with it. But then they sent me an offer last week, and… well, here we are.”

Jamie blinked, his brows knitting in confusion. She could see the wheels turning in his head, still bracing for the worst.

“They offered me a chance to finish my degree and move into their postgraduate program,” Claire said, her voice warming as she spoke. “It’s Orkney, Jamie—some of the richest archaeological landscapes in Europe. I couldn’t pass it up.”

Jamie swallowed hard, his jaw tensing again. His lips parted like he was going to speak, but no words came out. This is it, his eyes seemed to say. She’s going.

Claire saw it, the way his hope flickered. She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as she cupped his face more firmly.

“But Orkney’s an archipelago, Jamie.”

He stared at her, his brow furrowing deeper, as if she’d suddenly switched to speaking another language.

“Most of the courses are online,” she said, her smile growing. “Except for a few trips and some excavation projects. But I’m not moving—I’ll still be here, in Inverness.”

“So…” Jamie rasped, his voice hoarse, “you’re not leaving?”

Claire simply shook her head, her gaze steady, her smile softening as she watched the tension bleed from his shoulders.

For a moment, Jamie just stood there, blinking as though her answer hadn’t quite registered. Then, like a wave crashing over him, the realization hit.

A breathy laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half sheer relief. He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes brightening with something wild and untamed, like the ground he thought had disappeared beneath him was suddenly there again, solid and sure.

“And in six weeks,” Claire added softly, her voice warm and certain, “I won’t be your student anymore.”

Jamie let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When he finally looked at her again, his grin was wide, boyish, and full of something raw and unguarded.

“Jesus, Claire…” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Ye’re killin’ me.”

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them, kissing her like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment.

It wasn’t rushed, but it was full—full of everything he hadn’t been able to say. His hands threaded into her hair, pulling her closer with a tenderness that sparked something deep between them. His lips were soft at first, testing, savoring—but when Claire sighed softly against his mouth, breathless and vulnerable, the emotion between them broke loose. The kiss deepened, turning into something fierce and alive, like they were both realizing at once that they didn’t have to hold back anymore.

Claire’s hands fisted in his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath her fingers. Her heart raced against his, from the sheer intensity of the kiss, wild and unrestrained, every beat echoing the relief and joy swelling between them. She let herself melt into him, and when Jamie felt the shift, he let out a low, contented sound, like the weight of everything he’d been carrying had finally fallen away.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless and trembling, Jamie rested his forehead against hers, his eyes shining with something bright and unguarded.

“Christ, Sassenach,” he murmured, his voice rough with awe and a shaky laugh, “I dinna think I’ve ever been this happy—or this terrified—in my life.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jamie stood outside the head of the department’s office, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. Claire had all but dragged him here, insisting he fix the mess he’d made.

“Just go in there, explain yourself, and take it back,” she’d said, arms crossed but eyes soft.

Simple enough—if the department head wasn’t Professor MacDougall, a man known for his uncanny ability to make grown academics feel like misbehaving schoolchildren.

Jamie finally knocked and stepped inside. Professor MacDougall didn’t even look up from his desk.

“So,” the man said flatly, flipping through a stack of papers, “decided to grace us with your presence again, Fraser?”

Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye. About my resignation…”

Professor MacDougall did look up then, his eyes narrowing like he’d just spotted an unsightly stain on the carpet.

“Oh, you mean the dramatic little letter you submitted last week? The one that caused quite the administrative nightmare? That resignation?”

Jamie swallowed. “That’d be the one.”

MacDougall pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fraser, do you have any idea how irresponsible this was? You’re lucky we didn’t fill your position already.”

Jamie tried to look appropriately chastised, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth made it impossible. All he could think about was Claire, waiting for him down the hall.

“I apologize for the trouble, sir,” Jamie said, voice suspiciously light.

Professor MacDougall’s eyes narrowed further. “Are you smiling, Fraser?”

Jamie’s grin widened. “No, sir.”

MacDougall groaned. “Get out of my office before I change my mind.”

Jamie left still smiling like an idiot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Claire was tucked into her usual corner, books and notes spread out like a protective barrier. She’d been there for hours, trying to focus on coursework, but her mind kept drifting to Jamie—his smile, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, the ridiculous grin he’d worn after retracting his resignation.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Beauchamp.”
Claire looked up to find Frank Randall standing at the edge of her table, that familiar smug grin plastered across his face. He set down a stack of books, clearly intending to stay.

“Oh. Hi, Frank,” Claire said, offering a distracted smile while her mind wandered somewhere far away.

“I hear Fraser’s been… indisposed,” he said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Shame, really. I always thought he’d be the last one to crack under pressure.”

Claire bristled, but before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Aye, well, even the best of us have moments, don’t we, Randall?”

Jamie appeared behind Frank, his arms crossed, his expression polite but distant. There was no sharpness in his tone, but Claire could feel the tension simmering beneath his calm.

Frank turned, flashing that same condescending smile. “Fraser. Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

Jamie nodded, his own smile easy but restrained. “Life’s full of surprises.”

The tension between them crackled, though Jamie kept his composure. Claire, however, felt like she was sitting between two forces pretending to be civil.

Frank cleared his throat, adjusting his posture with exaggerated ease. “I was just offering Claire some insight into historical methodologies. Thought she might appreciate a more… refined perspective.”

Jamie’s eyebrow lifted slightly, but his tone remained smooth. “That’s thoughtful of ye.”

Claire sighed, deciding she’d had enough of this polite sparring. “Actually,” she said, looking pointedly at Frank, “I don’t need any more insights.”

Frank blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

Jamie stayed quiet, his gaze steady on Claire, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Claire continued, her voice calm but firm. “Because, frankly, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

There was a pause as Frank processed her words. Slowly, his gaze shifted between Claire and Jamie, the realization dawning like a slow, painful sunrise.

“Well,” Frank said finally, gathering his books with a flick of his wrist. His pompous air returned full force as he rose to his feet. “I suppose that clears things up.”

But before he left, he glanced back at Claire with a thin smile. “And best of luck with Orkney, Claire. I’ve always found damp excavation sites to be so… enlightening.” He gave a slight, theatrical shiver. “Do try not to catch cold.”

Jamie, still polite, nodded slightly. “Thank ye, Randall. I’m sure Claire will manage just fine.”

Frank gave a tight smile, adjusting his collar. “Good luck, you two.”

As Frank disappeared down the aisle, Jamie turned to Claire, his smile finally loosening into something more genuine.

“Well,” he murmured, “that was… cordial.”

Claire chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re better than me. I’d have lost patience five minutes ago.”

Jamie leaned in slightly, as if sharing a casual remark with a student, his voice softening. “Maybe. But ye liked watching me try.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lecture hall buzzed with curiosity, students whispering as they waited for Jamie Fraser to begin. His sudden resignation had been the talk of the university for days, and now, his unexpected return only deepened the intrigue.

Jamie walked to the front of the room with his usual calm confidence, though there was a lightness in his step, a quiet ease in his expression that hadn’t been there before. He set his notes down but didn’t look at them. Instead, his gaze swept across the room, pausing just briefly when he spotted Claire in the back row. She sat quietly, her head bent over a notebook as if she were engrossed in it, but Jamie knew better.

He cleared his throat, and the room quickly fell silent.

“Well,” he began, his familiar lilt carrying easily through the space, “I reckon I owe ye all a bit of an explanation.”

A few chuckles echoed around the room, but every student leaned in, waiting.

Jamie’s mouth curved into a small smile, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened.

“I found myself in a situation that made me believe resigning was the only option,” he said, steady but with a quiet emotion beneath the words. He paused, letting the room absorb it, then added with a faint, almost self-deprecating grin, “Sometimes, when it feels like everything’s fallin’ apart… it’s just life rearrangin’ itself into somethin’ better.”

The room stilled, his words settling over the students like a quiet revelation. But Jamie didn’t let it linger too long.

“And on that note,” he said, straightening with a wry grin, “let’s talk about love.”

The students laughed, and Jamie chuckled with them, letting the room relax before he dove into the material.

“Specifically,” he continued, “we’re lookin’ at the story of Gráinne and Diarmuid—one of the most dramatic love stories from the ancient Celtic world. It’s Irish in origin, aye, but these tales traveled across the sea with the Gaels who settled in Scotland, shapin’ our early culture. It’s got betrayal, loyalty, runaway lovers—ye name it.”

His eyes twinkled as he leaned against the desk. “It’s the kind of story that reminds ye that sometimes, the heart leads ye down unexpected paths… and if ye’re lucky, ye might just end up exactly where ye’re meant to be.”

Claire’s heart clenched, but she kept her head down, pretending to jot notes, though her vision blurred slightly. Jamie, however, didn’t miss the small smile tugging at her lips.

And with that, he launched into the story, his voice steady and full of warmth, but never too much. The students were captivated, laughing at his well-timed humor and leaning in at every twist and turn. His passion for the subject was clear, but Claire knew the deeper glow behind his words—the quiet happiness they shared, waiting just beneath the surface.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the last day of the academic year, and Claire was sprawled on her couch, phone pressed to her ear, exhaustion seeping into every bone in her body. Her apartment was littered with open textbooks and crumpled notes—evidence of a semester that had finally, mercifully, come to an end.

“Remind me,” she muttered into the phone, “why did I think university was a good idea?”

Jamie’s warm chuckle rumbled through the line. “Because you’re stubborn and brilliant, Sassenach. And ye love torturin’ yerself with knowledge.”

Claire snorted, rolling onto her back. “Well, at this rate, I’ll be sleeping until our first date. Might need a full week to recover.”

“Aye,” Jamie teased, “wouldn’t want ye dozin’ off halfway through dinner.”

She laughed, eyes fluttering shut as a comfortable silence settled between them. But then Jamie’s voice returned, soft and curious.
“Did ye get home alright?”

Claire’s brow furrowed, eyes cracking open. “Uh… yeah? Why?”

Another pause. She could almost hear the smile in his voice.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then open the door.”

Claire shot upright, heart thudding in her chest. “What?”

“Open the door, Sassenach.”

Still clutching the phone, she stumbled off the couch, her mind racing. She crossed the room in a daze, flung the door open—

And there he was.

Jamie stood on her doorstep, his hair tousled from the breeze, his blue eyes shining with something between mischief and relief.

“Technically,” he said, his voice low and warm, “we’re free.”

For half a second, Claire just stared, her brain scrambling to process what was happening. But then, all at once, the weeks of waiting, the stolen glances, the barely-there touches—it all crashed over her like a wave.

Without a word, she grabbed him by the front of his jacket, yanked him inside, and slammed the door behind them.

The wait was over.

THE END