marked me like a bloodstain
The warmth of Sunjata’s arm returns around her shoulders, but Flora doesn’t immediately lean into it this time. Instead, she stares down into the cider cradled between her palms, watching the way the light dances along the rim like it might hold some kind of answer. But it doesn’t; it never does.
By the time he’s finished speaking, there’s a pressure building behind her eyes, a tightness in her throat that she swallows against with sharp determination. She listens—truly listens—as Sunjata lays out all the broken pieces of his past, the jagged timeline that spans betrayal and silence, children and grief and slow, hard-won forgiveness.
And for once, Flora doesn’t have anything clever to say. No flippant remark. No dry retort. Just quiet, aching silence. She hadn’t known all of that. Not really. Not the shape of it, not the years spent apart or the box under the bed or how long it had taken to unbury a thing like trust. The version of events she’d pieced together over the years was a mosaic of gossip, glances, and things unsaid—and hearing the real story now makes her feel like she’s been trying to build a boat with driftwood and string.
Her thumb skims the rim of her mug, tracing a slow circle as she finally exhales. "You had time," she says softly. Not accusatory—just fact. "Time to fix it. Time to... leave breadcrumbs. Reminders." Her lips twitch, but it’s a poor attempt at a smile. "All Jack and I ever had was one date. One date I had to trade him for." Her eyes flick up, but the expression on her face is raw and laced with bitter self-awareness. "You kept a box. I don’t even have a second mug on the Ark." That realization stings more than it should.
"And the truth is," she adds, quieter now, "even if I did leave things behind... he wouldn’t look. He’s not that kind of person." Jack doesn’t linger, wasn't sentimental about things. He didn't pick through memories. When he was done with something, he'd close the door and never open it again. Flora knows that. She’s always known that. She just hadn’t expected to ever be the one at the door.
Sunjata’s offer makes her heart seize in her chest, but she manages to laugh, though the sound is thin and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Can you imagine?" she says, finally glancing up at him with a look that’s more tired than teasing. "He’d throw himself overboard before he let anyone talk to him about his feelings." She shakes her head, curls brushing her cheek as her gaze turns up toward the domed ceiling above them, as if maybe the stars Safrin scattered across it will offer her some kind of direction. But they don't. They just shine—distant, beautiful, and far too high to reach.
And gods, doesn’t that just feel like everything right now.
By the time he’s finished speaking, there’s a pressure building behind her eyes, a tightness in her throat that she swallows against with sharp determination. She listens—truly listens—as Sunjata lays out all the broken pieces of his past, the jagged timeline that spans betrayal and silence, children and grief and slow, hard-won forgiveness.
And for once, Flora doesn’t have anything clever to say. No flippant remark. No dry retort. Just quiet, aching silence. She hadn’t known all of that. Not really. Not the shape of it, not the years spent apart or the box under the bed or how long it had taken to unbury a thing like trust. The version of events she’d pieced together over the years was a mosaic of gossip, glances, and things unsaid—and hearing the real story now makes her feel like she’s been trying to build a boat with driftwood and string.
Her thumb skims the rim of her mug, tracing a slow circle as she finally exhales. "You had time," she says softly. Not accusatory—just fact. "Time to fix it. Time to... leave breadcrumbs. Reminders." Her lips twitch, but it’s a poor attempt at a smile. "All Jack and I ever had was one date. One date I had to trade him for." Her eyes flick up, but the expression on her face is raw and laced with bitter self-awareness. "You kept a box. I don’t even have a second mug on the Ark." That realization stings more than it should.
"And the truth is," she adds, quieter now, "even if I did leave things behind... he wouldn’t look. He’s not that kind of person." Jack doesn’t linger, wasn't sentimental about things. He didn't pick through memories. When he was done with something, he'd close the door and never open it again. Flora knows that. She’s always known that. She just hadn’t expected to ever be the one at the door.
Sunjata’s offer makes her heart seize in her chest, but she manages to laugh, though the sound is thin and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Can you imagine?" she says, finally glancing up at him with a look that’s more tired than teasing. "He’d throw himself overboard before he let anyone talk to him about his feelings." She shakes her head, curls brushing her cheek as her gaze turns up toward the domed ceiling above them, as if maybe the stars Safrin scattered across it will offer her some kind of direction. But they don't. They just shine—distant, beautiful, and far too high to reach.
And gods, doesn’t that just feel like everything right now.
