you look like my next mistake
Flora tilts her head back, squinting against the late Flowerbirth sunlight as something dark and familiar cuts across the sky. The breeze catches in her disheveled curls, salt-tinged and sharp, and for a second—just a second—she thinks she’s imagining things.
Then the ship banks, shifting slightly against the wind, and her heart lurches painfully in her chest.
No way. No fucking way.
Her stomach twists—part shock, part frustration, part something far messier that she isn’t ready to name. Because, really, what were the odds? What were the fucking odds that now, after more than a week of nothing— boom—there he is? The Ark, his ship, his world, carving a path through the sky like he hadn’t left her stewing in her own thoughts for days.
Flora's jaw clenches, her hands twitching at her sides, and before she can even think about it, she’s digging through her bag, yanking out parchment and charcoal. With a huff, she glares at the parchment before staring up at the ship, daring it—daring him—to respond.
Then the ship banks, shifting slightly against the wind, and her heart lurches painfully in her chest.
No way. No fucking way.
Her stomach twists—part shock, part frustration, part something far messier that she isn’t ready to name. Because, really, what were the odds? What were the fucking odds that now, after more than a week of nothing— boom—there he is? The Ark, his ship, his world, carving a path through the sky like he hadn’t left her stewing in her own thoughts for days.
Flora's jaw clenches, her hands twitching at her sides, and before she can even think about it, she’s digging through her bag, yanking out parchment and charcoal. With a huff, she glares at the parchment before staring up at the ship, daring it—daring him—to respond.
