and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
Flora smiles before she can stop herself—small, reluctant, but real. Reflex, really. Because Koa’s smile had always been that kind. The kind that crept under defences without asking permission, like sunshine through shutters, and it’s just as disarming now as it ever was.
"It’s a Wickerwoman," she murmurs, voice low and close between them. "Enzo and I used to run into them sometimes when we lived here. We figured out they hated it when you ran. Got more aggressive, like they fed on panic. So we’d walk instead, hand in hand, one looking forward, one back. Like this." Her fingers press gently into his to punctuate the memory, a tactile echo of a thousand childhood escapes, of a rhythm that had once meant safety.
The woods shift around them in almost imperceptible ways, the light filtering thinner through the trees, shadows folding like secrets into the moss. As they weave between trunks and tangled roots, her gaze flicks over his shoulder now and then, half-expecting to see twisted limbs or glowing eyes—but there's only forest. Only quiet. And Koa.
Fingers loosening from his, Flora exhales and lifts a hand to her hair, gently tugging a twig free from where it had tangled itself into her curls. A nervous laugh bubbles out—too airy, too bright for the heaviness she feels in her chest—but it escapes anyway. And as she glances back over her shoulder to check the path behind them, it hits her all at once: The hush, the way a small stream cuts a silver ribbon through the undergrowth, the encircling arms of green and bark like the forest itself exhaled and made room for them upon a tiny flower filled glade only large enough for two. It’s too intimate. She hadn’t meant for that. Quickly, Flora drops Koa's hand with an apologetic smile.
This wasn’t the setting she’d imagined for the conversation she’d meant to have. She’d wanted quiet, sure. Privacy, yes. But not this. Not something that might be mistaken for a memory in the making, not least of all because of how things had progressed between Koa and Soh. "Fuuuuuuck, I hate those things," she mutters under her breath, dragging her hand down her face in one smooth gesture, as if it might smear the nerves off her skin along with the dirt.
"It’s a Wickerwoman," she murmurs, voice low and close between them. "Enzo and I used to run into them sometimes when we lived here. We figured out they hated it when you ran. Got more aggressive, like they fed on panic. So we’d walk instead, hand in hand, one looking forward, one back. Like this." Her fingers press gently into his to punctuate the memory, a tactile echo of a thousand childhood escapes, of a rhythm that had once meant safety.
The woods shift around them in almost imperceptible ways, the light filtering thinner through the trees, shadows folding like secrets into the moss. As they weave between trunks and tangled roots, her gaze flicks over his shoulder now and then, half-expecting to see twisted limbs or glowing eyes—but there's only forest. Only quiet. And Koa.
Fingers loosening from his, Flora exhales and lifts a hand to her hair, gently tugging a twig free from where it had tangled itself into her curls. A nervous laugh bubbles out—too airy, too bright for the heaviness she feels in her chest—but it escapes anyway. And as she glances back over her shoulder to check the path behind them, it hits her all at once: The hush, the way a small stream cuts a silver ribbon through the undergrowth, the encircling arms of green and bark like the forest itself exhaled and made room for them upon a tiny flower filled glade only large enough for two. It’s too intimate. She hadn’t meant for that. Quickly, Flora drops Koa's hand with an apologetic smile.
This wasn’t the setting she’d imagined for the conversation she’d meant to have. She’d wanted quiet, sure. Privacy, yes. But not this. Not something that might be mistaken for a memory in the making, not least of all because of how things had progressed between Koa and Soh. "Fuuuuuuck, I hate those things," she mutters under her breath, dragging her hand down her face in one smooth gesture, as if it might smear the nerves off her skin along with the dirt.
