lay your soul onto mine
If he’d said anything else—made a joke, deflected, asked her where or when—maybe she wouldn’t feel it so acutely. But Kaisel, sweet wonderful dumbass Kaisel, just says Let’s go then. Right now! And for a second, she really believes they could. For a second, it’s just them and nothing in the world is broken. Like she could grab the Sugar Tide’s wheel and steer toward nowhere in particular, with gummy worms and no plan and Kai’s ridiculous playlists echoing off the waves. For a second, she lets herself have that image. The two of them yelling at each other over burnt eggs one morning (because they'd both thought the other one was dealing with it and had gone back to bed) before stepping out onto the deck and realising they don’t recognise a single landmark. A mapless life, following the stars and inside jokes. Her fingers tighten gently around his.
And then it passes. Reality lands heavy on her shoulders like it always does, dense and bone-deep. Because they don’t live in a starlit joke. Because she’s the Doubletake and he's her cousin's ex. Because her crown never comes off, nor does her last name. The Sugar Tide might be hers, but that dream? That kind of happiness? That never really has been.
She swallows the ache and masks it with a smile, rolling her eyes as he lights up like a bonfire at the sight of the worms. "Obviously I got them. I’m not a monster," she says, and as he tips his head back to devour them like some sugar-starved gremlin, she plucks one neatly from his open mouth and pops it between her lips. A shared crime, if nothing else.
And then he’s talking about her breath. Her breath.
Flora gasps—full drama, mouth wide—and then immediately exhales straight toward him with the kind of performative vengeance that would be offensive if her breath weren’t already laced with the sweet tang of artificial raspberry. "I never have bad breath," she declares with the same indignant pride one might reserve for defending a nation, giving his shoulder a shove for good measure. "I brush my teeth three times a day and floss, you absolute garden gnome."
Still, her hip bumps his as they start walking, steps syncing. Flora leans against him lightly, stealing comfort without making a scene of it. "If you were a scent in a candle that nobody buys but that the store insists on keeping in stock year-round..what would you be?"
And then it passes. Reality lands heavy on her shoulders like it always does, dense and bone-deep. Because they don’t live in a starlit joke. Because she’s the Doubletake and he's her cousin's ex. Because her crown never comes off, nor does her last name. The Sugar Tide might be hers, but that dream? That kind of happiness? That never really has been.
She swallows the ache and masks it with a smile, rolling her eyes as he lights up like a bonfire at the sight of the worms. "Obviously I got them. I’m not a monster," she says, and as he tips his head back to devour them like some sugar-starved gremlin, she plucks one neatly from his open mouth and pops it between her lips. A shared crime, if nothing else.
And then he’s talking about her breath. Her breath.
Flora gasps—full drama, mouth wide—and then immediately exhales straight toward him with the kind of performative vengeance that would be offensive if her breath weren’t already laced with the sweet tang of artificial raspberry. "I never have bad breath," she declares with the same indignant pride one might reserve for defending a nation, giving his shoulder a shove for good measure. "I brush my teeth three times a day and floss, you absolute garden gnome."
Still, her hip bumps his as they start walking, steps syncing. Flora leans against him lightly, stealing comfort without making a scene of it. "If you were a scent in a candle that nobody buys but that the store insists on keeping in stock year-round..what would you be?"
