it's just a bloodstain

JACK

"I know," Jack says quietly, raising a brow at the ring on her finger that he presumes is not screaming at her that he's being deceitful right now. "And that's easy for you to say," he adds, regarding her inner monologue about love and learning how to do it. "Presumably you were loved from the second you were born, at least by someone." Easy to learn when you know what it should feel like. Scoffing quietly and teasing his fingers through the Doubletake's still damp curls, to say they are both standing stiff and awkward would be an understatement, and yet it's probably the most honest they've been all night.

"Lead the way," he rumbles as she blinks up at him, and she's gone before he can try to wipe away some of the smudged mascara around her eyes. Following on silent feet - after removing his boots, because Jack doesn't need to read Flora's thoughts to know that keeping them on wouldn't be appreciated - he heads upstairs after her, lingering in a doorway to a room that's as much the Doubletake as his own cabin is quintessentially Jack.

Feeling the strangest urge to want to examine the room in the same way he'd so easily sift through Flora's thoughts, instead Jack follows her across to the wardrobe. Rather than helping her out of the shirt - presumably she'd assume he'd toss it away - instead he reaches for a hanger for her to put it on, like a strange and helpful ghost at her back.

romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic
and recommended