flora
The sudden shade steals the heat off her thighs like a thief, and for a blissful moment Flora assumes it’s a passing cloud. Maybe the weather’s shifting, maybe the wind’s come back—maybe, finally, the sea has decided to cooperate.
Then the boat rocks. Not the lazy drift she’s been cursing all morning, but a proper roll, rhythmic and inevitable, like the swell of a wave heralding something big. Her eyes snap open, heart already rising to meet the dread crawling across her sun-drenched deck.
And there it is: The Ark. All billowing sails and smug maroon menace, cutting through the stillness like it owns the sea (because of course it does), its hull so close and massive that the stained glass of her own sails throws fractured rainbows across the polished wood like a failed attempt at a charm spell. And him—leaning over the railing like sin made manifest, shirt open and billowing, hair tousled by the breeze that magically decided to show up for him of all people. (Or possibly conjured by him).
Jack's voice slices the air like a smug blade., and it takes Flora a second to recover from the sheer injustice of it, because this? This has got to be intentional. Who just happens to drift into their ex’s windless patch of ocean, looking like every mistake she never stopped craving?
Flora bolts upright, one hand shielding her eyes from the glow of divinely-lit disaster above. "Nautical right of way goes to the vessel with less power!" she yells up, indignant and flushed, curls bouncing as she storms to the rail. "Also, you’re blocking my sunlight," she adds, knowing the captain will care little about either accusation but finding herself too tongue-tied at the sight of him to conjure up anything better.
Then the boat rocks. Not the lazy drift she’s been cursing all morning, but a proper roll, rhythmic and inevitable, like the swell of a wave heralding something big. Her eyes snap open, heart already rising to meet the dread crawling across her sun-drenched deck.
And there it is: The Ark. All billowing sails and smug maroon menace, cutting through the stillness like it owns the sea (because of course it does), its hull so close and massive that the stained glass of her own sails throws fractured rainbows across the polished wood like a failed attempt at a charm spell. And him—leaning over the railing like sin made manifest, shirt open and billowing, hair tousled by the breeze that magically decided to show up for him of all people. (Or possibly conjured by him).
Jack's voice slices the air like a smug blade., and it takes Flora a second to recover from the sheer injustice of it, because this? This has got to be intentional. Who just happens to drift into their ex’s windless patch of ocean, looking like every mistake she never stopped craving?
Flora bolts upright, one hand shielding her eyes from the glow of divinely-lit disaster above. "Nautical right of way goes to the vessel with less power!" she yells up, indignant and flushed, curls bouncing as she storms to the rail. "Also, you’re blocking my sunlight," she adds, knowing the captain will care little about either accusation but finding herself too tongue-tied at the sight of him to conjure up anything better.
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
