and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
But Flora doesn’t hand over the vial—not yet. Her fingers tighten around the glass like it’s something precious or flammable or both, and her gaze flickers to Koa’s outstretched hand with a tremble of hesitation before she moves instead. Not away, not far—just a quiet pivot as she turns toward the little rise nestled among the wildflowers and climbs it like it’s a place she’s known forever.
She drops into a cross-legged seat in the grass, the hem of her shorts brushing against clover and goldenroot. Her white tank is a soft contrast to the green, and she curls forward slightly, plucking a few strands of clover between her fingers. Her hands, normally so sure—adorned with rings of poison and glamour—are suddenly all nervous energy: twisting stems, weaving idle patterns, anything to occupy them while her thoughts trip over the cliffs inside her head.
She glances at the sun, narrowing one eye against the brightness. Two fingers raised. One hour.
Then she looks back to Koa—eyes clear, solemn, unguarded in a way they almost never are. "I want to talk about us," she says, and the words fall like stones into the quiet, slow and sinking. "But to do that...I have to talk about Jack." She doesn’t flinch when she says his name, though she does soften. "I know he’s probably the last person you want to hear about. But I can’t explain what happened to us, with us, without explaining him first."
Her braid falters: a daisy slips from the weave and flutters against her knee. Her fingers pause, and then—quietly—Flora lifts her gaze and holds out a hand toward Koa, palm up and open. An invitation, not a demand. A silent plea to sit beside her. To be beside her, if he can stomach it. "Please?" Her voice is gentler now, with none of the glamour or sparkle. "I don’t want to do this from far away."
She drops into a cross-legged seat in the grass, the hem of her shorts brushing against clover and goldenroot. Her white tank is a soft contrast to the green, and she curls forward slightly, plucking a few strands of clover between her fingers. Her hands, normally so sure—adorned with rings of poison and glamour—are suddenly all nervous energy: twisting stems, weaving idle patterns, anything to occupy them while her thoughts trip over the cliffs inside her head.
She glances at the sun, narrowing one eye against the brightness. Two fingers raised. One hour.
Then she looks back to Koa—eyes clear, solemn, unguarded in a way they almost never are. "I want to talk about us," she says, and the words fall like stones into the quiet, slow and sinking. "But to do that...I have to talk about Jack." She doesn’t flinch when she says his name, though she does soften. "I know he’s probably the last person you want to hear about. But I can’t explain what happened to us, with us, without explaining him first."
Her braid falters: a daisy slips from the weave and flutters against her knee. Her fingers pause, and then—quietly—Flora lifts her gaze and holds out a hand toward Koa, palm up and open. An invitation, not a demand. A silent plea to sit beside her. To be beside her, if he can stomach it. "Please?" Her voice is gentler now, with none of the glamour or sparkle. "I don’t want to do this from far away."
