lay your soul onto mine
"Yeah, Torchline is a small place," she mutters, sharper than she means it to be. "When you’re banned from half of it." The words come out too hard, too fast, but she doesn’t take them back. Can’t. Not when she’s already feeling the slow compression of every well-meaning comment, every sideways glance, every are you sure this is the right choice, Flora? that’s been following her like a shadow across the sand. Her exile from the city wasn’t supposed to feel like a punishment, not when she was doing it to protect people, but it does. Lately, everything does.
She startles a little when his fingers wrap around hers. At first, her own don’t respond—hollow and unbothered like a limp leaf drifting on the tide. Too many things lately have reached for her only to push her away, and she’s tired. Tired in a way that even her own brightness can’t always mask. Between the Koa and Sohalia of it all, Jack, her fight with Ronin, and now whatever the fuck had just tried to bristl between she and Kai, her trust is splintered in too many places to name and fuck if she isn't just over all of it.
But then again, Kai had never been someone she could be cross at for long, not with his stupid face that she adored and his even more stupid antics. So, after a moment, her fingers curl in, slow and soft and warm again. "I need a vacation," she murmurs instead, voice dry with that humourless kind of laughter that only comes from being one step away from throwing yourself into the sea.
Then, pulling her bag open with her free hand, she rummages for a moment before pressing a slightly smushed bag of gummy worms against his chest. Her mouth curls into something sly, a flicker of her usual self resurfacing. "Alright, you’ve suffered enough. Even I’m not cruel enough to leave you without a palate cleanser." She rises before he can offer a comeback, brushing sand from the hem of her sundress and grabbing his hand again to drag him up with her. There’s no dramatic flourish to it—just the resigned strength of someone who’s decided they’re done marinating in the mess of it all.
Casually, as they start to walk, she says, "Sooo, I was sparring the other day. With this hot ex-dragoon—y’know, the kind that probably has a tragic past and a six-pack made of angst." Her fingers flick in a dismissive gesture, though her voice stays light, almost amused. "Anyway, we’re in the sand, he ends up on top of me like a scene out of one of Mateo's books, everyone sweaty and breathing hard, and so I leaned up to kiss him." Flora shakes her head, scoffing under her breath. "He shoved himself off like I was hot oil. Literally scrambled backward. And the worst part?" She gives her head another disbelieving shake, her brows raised. "He sent me an apology letter after. Like that somehow that should make me feel less pathetic."
She startles a little when his fingers wrap around hers. At first, her own don’t respond—hollow and unbothered like a limp leaf drifting on the tide. Too many things lately have reached for her only to push her away, and she’s tired. Tired in a way that even her own brightness can’t always mask. Between the Koa and Sohalia of it all, Jack, her fight with Ronin, and now whatever the fuck had just tried to bristl between she and Kai, her trust is splintered in too many places to name and fuck if she isn't just over all of it.
But then again, Kai had never been someone she could be cross at for long, not with his stupid face that she adored and his even more stupid antics. So, after a moment, her fingers curl in, slow and soft and warm again. "I need a vacation," she murmurs instead, voice dry with that humourless kind of laughter that only comes from being one step away from throwing yourself into the sea.
Then, pulling her bag open with her free hand, she rummages for a moment before pressing a slightly smushed bag of gummy worms against his chest. Her mouth curls into something sly, a flicker of her usual self resurfacing. "Alright, you’ve suffered enough. Even I’m not cruel enough to leave you without a palate cleanser." She rises before he can offer a comeback, brushing sand from the hem of her sundress and grabbing his hand again to drag him up with her. There’s no dramatic flourish to it—just the resigned strength of someone who’s decided they’re done marinating in the mess of it all.
Casually, as they start to walk, she says, "Sooo, I was sparring the other day. With this hot ex-dragoon—y’know, the kind that probably has a tragic past and a six-pack made of angst." Her fingers flick in a dismissive gesture, though her voice stays light, almost amused. "Anyway, we’re in the sand, he ends up on top of me like a scene out of one of Mateo's books, everyone sweaty and breathing hard, and so I leaned up to kiss him." Flora shakes her head, scoffing under her breath. "He shoved himself off like I was hot oil. Literally scrambled backward. And the worst part?" She gives her head another disbelieving shake, her brows raised. "He sent me an apology letter after. Like that somehow that should make me feel less pathetic."
