you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
"She's not just my friend," Flora says, and her voice, though quiet, cuts clean through the bar’s soft din. Her gaze stays locked just above Koa’s shoulder, because looking at him—really looking—is a luxury she doesn’t trust herself with. Not right now; not when she’s on the verge of shattering into something that will cut them both to ribbons. "Sohalia's my best friend."
The words sit between them like something sacred and untouchable, and for a moment Flora can’t breathe. Because saying them is also a reminder—of every night they spent tangled in laughter, of secrets exchanged in tangled whispers, of the way Soh had held her while she cried over the man now sitting in front of her.
When Koa says he can’t pretend nothing happened between them, it’s not his voice that undoes her—it’s the memory of her own. Her fingers twitch where they rest against the curve of her thigh, her rings pressing cold indentations into her skin. She remembers the warmth of Koa’s hand wrapped around hers, steadying her against the waves. Of anonymous gifts too thoughtful to have been from anyone but him. Remembers him saying he loved her, and the almost of it all. And she remembers walking away, choosing the telepath who'd stolen her heart even when she'd warned him away from it.
Flora swallows. Her eyes glint like sea glass under pressure, and still she can't bring herself to look at him. "Koa," Her laugh is soft around the shape of his name even as tears score at the backs of her eyes. "I..." Flora forces her gaze to meet his, finally, and there’s no hiding her answer. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, with frustration, with a heartbreak she’s still too proud and ashamed and selfish to name. "..love her too much to answer that."
Her breath leaves her in a shaky exhale, and she smiles—small, wry, and utterly, devastatingly sad. Because what else is there for them now but to name the silence, to acknowledge the fractured timing and the ache that doesn’t go away just because it’s been outlived? She knows what she walked away from. Knows that Koa was steady where Jack was a storm. That he’d have built a life with her that felt like sunlight and sea salt and belonging instead of secrets and silence and the ever-growing ache of being chosen too late or not at all. But the moment passed. The door closed. And to ask him to look back now, to look at her now, would be selfish in the most cruel way—would be standing between two people she loves and asking them to choose.
So she doesn’t, won't.
Her fingers tighten in her lap, nails biting into the soft skin of her palm. You were almost everything, she wants to tell him, knowing that for both better and worse, Koa is no telepath, so instead she forces herself to say, "and I know you love her too much to ask me that again."
The words sit between them like something sacred and untouchable, and for a moment Flora can’t breathe. Because saying them is also a reminder—of every night they spent tangled in laughter, of secrets exchanged in tangled whispers, of the way Soh had held her while she cried over the man now sitting in front of her.
When Koa says he can’t pretend nothing happened between them, it’s not his voice that undoes her—it’s the memory of her own. Her fingers twitch where they rest against the curve of her thigh, her rings pressing cold indentations into her skin. She remembers the warmth of Koa’s hand wrapped around hers, steadying her against the waves. Of anonymous gifts too thoughtful to have been from anyone but him. Remembers him saying he loved her, and the almost of it all. And she remembers walking away, choosing the telepath who'd stolen her heart even when she'd warned him away from it.
Flora swallows. Her eyes glint like sea glass under pressure, and still she can't bring herself to look at him. "Koa," Her laugh is soft around the shape of his name even as tears score at the backs of her eyes. "I..." Flora forces her gaze to meet his, finally, and there’s no hiding her answer. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, with frustration, with a heartbreak she’s still too proud and ashamed and selfish to name. "..love her too much to answer that."
Her breath leaves her in a shaky exhale, and she smiles—small, wry, and utterly, devastatingly sad. Because what else is there for them now but to name the silence, to acknowledge the fractured timing and the ache that doesn’t go away just because it’s been outlived? She knows what she walked away from. Knows that Koa was steady where Jack was a storm. That he’d have built a life with her that felt like sunlight and sea salt and belonging instead of secrets and silence and the ever-growing ache of being chosen too late or not at all. But the moment passed. The door closed. And to ask him to look back now, to look at her now, would be selfish in the most cruel way—would be standing between two people she loves and asking them to choose.
So she doesn’t, won't.
Her fingers tighten in her lap, nails biting into the soft skin of her palm. You were almost everything, she wants to tell him, knowing that for both better and worse, Koa is no telepath, so instead she forces herself to say, "and I know you love her too much to ask me that again."
