and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
Flora scoffs—soft and breathless, a sound shaped more by exhaustion than humour. "Yeah," she murmurs, a dry kind of agreement curling at the corners of her mouth. It is a lot. And still, he doesn’t even know the half of it.
She doesn’t say that, though, because Koa’s already moving, already kneeling in front of her like a prayer folded in human shape, reaching for the hand that’s still buried in clover. Her fingers slip into his as though they’d never left, as though their palms still remember how to hold each other without instruction. It’s instinctive, warm, and familiar. But it doesn’t spark anything bright in her just now, not like the way it normally would. She’s tired in a way that has nothing to do with the Wicker Woman or the walk or the argument. Flora's tired in her bones, tired in her hope.
Even as Koa’s voice rises with quiet conviction, all full of sunshine and defiance—fuck that guy, and you’re incredible, and never change—her eyes don’t light. They soften. They shimmer at the edges, maybe, but they don’t brighten. It’s a kindness he’s offering, the kind he’s always been good at giving, even when they were young and stupid and trying to fumble their way through love without knowing what it was. But Flora doesn’t need sunshine right now, she just needs him to understand that all of this is her fault. Not his, not even Jack's.
Her thumb brushes lightly over his, and she exhales slowly, her voice gentler now, steadier, like the hush of a tide drawing in. "Thanks," she murmurs, not looking away, but not clinging to the moment either. The softness of his hands in hers is grounding, but it’s not enough to keep her from finding her spine again, not enough to keep the weight of everything else from pushing forward. "But..this wasn’t supposed to be about me," she says at last, the words slow and deliberate, like she’s unfolding a truth she’s been holding too tightly for too long. "At least—not entirely. It was only ever meant to help you understand that you didn’t do anything wrong. That you couldn’t have done anything differently. That...it wasn’t your timing, or something you missed or failed to do. It was never about that."
She stops, just for a second, her mouth pressing into a line, her throat tightening with the effort of keeping herself composed. The wind plays gently in the leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls, oblivious.
"And when this is all done," she continues, voice softer still, "when you don't even remember we talked, I just want you to be able to ahead with Sohalia without any of this dragging behind you." She lets that hang in the air for a beat, not specifying it, assuming he knows; assuming that is the weight she’s helping him set down. The hurt. The self-doubt. The ache of never quite knowing why it hadn’t worked out. Not love; not anything he might still be holding in the deeper parts of himself. She doesn’t think to consider that those might be what lingers. She doesn’t let herself wonder if it’s more than just loose ends he’s trying to tie. Because if she did, she might not be able to finish. And gods—this has to be finished.
She doesn’t say that, though, because Koa’s already moving, already kneeling in front of her like a prayer folded in human shape, reaching for the hand that’s still buried in clover. Her fingers slip into his as though they’d never left, as though their palms still remember how to hold each other without instruction. It’s instinctive, warm, and familiar. But it doesn’t spark anything bright in her just now, not like the way it normally would. She’s tired in a way that has nothing to do with the Wicker Woman or the walk or the argument. Flora's tired in her bones, tired in her hope.
Even as Koa’s voice rises with quiet conviction, all full of sunshine and defiance—fuck that guy, and you’re incredible, and never change—her eyes don’t light. They soften. They shimmer at the edges, maybe, but they don’t brighten. It’s a kindness he’s offering, the kind he’s always been good at giving, even when they were young and stupid and trying to fumble their way through love without knowing what it was. But Flora doesn’t need sunshine right now, she just needs him to understand that all of this is her fault. Not his, not even Jack's.
Her thumb brushes lightly over his, and she exhales slowly, her voice gentler now, steadier, like the hush of a tide drawing in. "Thanks," she murmurs, not looking away, but not clinging to the moment either. The softness of his hands in hers is grounding, but it’s not enough to keep her from finding her spine again, not enough to keep the weight of everything else from pushing forward. "But..this wasn’t supposed to be about me," she says at last, the words slow and deliberate, like she’s unfolding a truth she’s been holding too tightly for too long. "At least—not entirely. It was only ever meant to help you understand that you didn’t do anything wrong. That you couldn’t have done anything differently. That...it wasn’t your timing, or something you missed or failed to do. It was never about that."
She stops, just for a second, her mouth pressing into a line, her throat tightening with the effort of keeping herself composed. The wind plays gently in the leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls, oblivious.
"And when this is all done," she continues, voice softer still, "when you don't even remember we talked, I just want you to be able to ahead with Sohalia without any of this dragging behind you." She lets that hang in the air for a beat, not specifying it, assuming he knows; assuming that is the weight she’s helping him set down. The hurt. The self-doubt. The ache of never quite knowing why it hadn’t worked out. Not love; not anything he might still be holding in the deeper parts of himself. She doesn’t think to consider that those might be what lingers. She doesn’t let herself wonder if it’s more than just loose ends he’s trying to tie. Because if she did, she might not be able to finish. And gods—this has to be finished.
