you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
Flora pushes through the door of the House of Midnight, keen for something both sweet and biting to soften her edges a little. She’s dressed down, for her. Just jeans and a white crop top, a little loose from wear, but the sun has kissed her collarbones bronze and the dip of her waist still flashes like an invitation when she moves. Her gold jewelry catches the candlelight in the way only real gold does—stacked rings, knotted chains, little sea-glass beads and gleaming charms that mark her like a compass trying desperately to point home. The bar smells like cedar smoke and cloves, low candlelight gilding the stone walls, and the familiar hush of conversation hums around her like it always does. She knows this place—it’s safe, familiar, a little haunted in the good kind of way—but the second her eyes land on him, on Koa, all that comfort rips out of her chest like breath knocked from her lungs.
Still too handsome for his own good. Still looking like he belongs in some godsdamned romantic ballad with that brooding posture and the glint of gold in his jacket zipper. He’s hunched over a notebook like the world’s trying to crush him into the page, and Flora spins on her heel so fast she nearly walks straight into a waitress.
Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. Insert the gif of godzilla walking into the sea.
But her hand tightens on the bar, fingers curling around the edge as if to steady herself. He hadn’t even looked at her in the Greatwood. Hadn’t wanted to. And now, now he was with Soh and gods but they both deserved so much more from her than selfish cowardice.
So, Flora sucks in a sharp breath, flags the bartender with a nod, and when the shot lands in front of her she doesn’t even ask what it is before tossing it back. It burns like a declaration of love gone unreciprocated. With a cough she steps off her stool, skirts the tables with slow, measured steps, and stops just beside Koa’s. She doesn’t wait for him to look up; doesn’t give herself the chance to change her mind. "Sohalia told me," she says, voice brittle and too bright, like sunlight on shattered glass. Her gaze fixes somewhere just over his head. "And not that you need my blessing or anything, but… I hope it works out for you. For both of you."
The words hit the air and are already halfway to burning when she turns—too fast, too sharply—because something is rising in her throat and gods she is not going to cry in this fucking bar.
Still too handsome for his own good. Still looking like he belongs in some godsdamned romantic ballad with that brooding posture and the glint of gold in his jacket zipper. He’s hunched over a notebook like the world’s trying to crush him into the page, and Flora spins on her heel so fast she nearly walks straight into a waitress.
Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. Insert the gif of godzilla walking into the sea.
But her hand tightens on the bar, fingers curling around the edge as if to steady herself. He hadn’t even looked at her in the Greatwood. Hadn’t wanted to. And now, now he was with Soh and gods but they both deserved so much more from her than selfish cowardice.
So, Flora sucks in a sharp breath, flags the bartender with a nod, and when the shot lands in front of her she doesn’t even ask what it is before tossing it back. It burns like a declaration of love gone unreciprocated. With a cough she steps off her stool, skirts the tables with slow, measured steps, and stops just beside Koa’s. She doesn’t wait for him to look up; doesn’t give herself the chance to change her mind. "Sohalia told me," she says, voice brittle and too bright, like sunlight on shattered glass. Her gaze fixes somewhere just over his head. "And not that you need my blessing or anything, but… I hope it works out for you. For both of you."
The words hit the air and are already halfway to burning when she turns—too fast, too sharply—because something is rising in her throat and gods she is not going to cry in this fucking bar.
