i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
How many hours pass between when the couple finally fall silent and when Jack shoots up in bed, Flora can't even guess. Though there were still stars faintly twinkling, the sky wasn't as dark as it had been. She couldn't see the clock from where she was, but Flora assumed that dawn couldn't be too far off.
"Hey—" Rolling over, Flora immediately reaches out for Jack just as he flops back down onto the bed. "You're with me, in my room." Her voice is soft, the words meant to tether him to the present as much as to give context for why he'd not be able to feel the sea beneath him. Sliding closer, she stretches a hand across his chest, her fingers splaying out in a starburst as if trying to touch more of him at once. Jack hadn’t been as descriptive about his nightmares as she’d been about hers, but Flora didn’t need the details to imagine the black edges and the cold silence that had pulled him awake. Her fingers brush gently over his ribs, seeking out the steady rhythm of his breathing as much as the comforting warmth of his skin.
"What was it this time?" she asks lightly, grinning against his shoulder as she tucks herself closer. "Bassian painting the Ark hot pink? No, wait—he was playing captain and made you swab the deck." She tucks herself closer, her curls spilling against his chestas she presses her cheek to his chest.
Her own nightmares—her mother, the houseboat, the unbearable screams—is still too sharp to face just yet. It’s far easier to focus on Jack, to cling to him like a lifeline and make jokes about painted ships and misplaced authority than let herself sink back into the violet gouges running through her mind.
"Hey—" Rolling over, Flora immediately reaches out for Jack just as he flops back down onto the bed. "You're with me, in my room." Her voice is soft, the words meant to tether him to the present as much as to give context for why he'd not be able to feel the sea beneath him. Sliding closer, she stretches a hand across his chest, her fingers splaying out in a starburst as if trying to touch more of him at once. Jack hadn’t been as descriptive about his nightmares as she’d been about hers, but Flora didn’t need the details to imagine the black edges and the cold silence that had pulled him awake. Her fingers brush gently over his ribs, seeking out the steady rhythm of his breathing as much as the comforting warmth of his skin.
"What was it this time?" she asks lightly, grinning against his shoulder as she tucks herself closer. "Bassian painting the Ark hot pink? No, wait—he was playing captain and made you swab the deck." She tucks herself closer, her curls spilling against his chestas she presses her cheek to his chest.
Her own nightmares—her mother, the houseboat, the unbearable screams—is still too sharp to face just yet. It’s far easier to focus on Jack, to cling to him like a lifeline and make jokes about painted ships and misplaced authority than let herself sink back into the violet gouges running through her mind.
