you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
The quiet between them holds for a time, but Flora doesn’t let her thoughts falter or dim. She keeps them golden, deliberately sun-warmed and bright, the way she might keep a candle lit through a storm—fragile but determined, refusing to flicker out just because silence has settled in. She doesn’t push, doesn’t prod at Jack’s hesitance, because she knows better than to expect his fEeLiNgS to come freely when pressed. That wasn’t why she’d shared her gratitude in the first place. She hadn’t meant it as a key to unlock him. Just…as truth.
Even so, a small smile plays at the corner of her mouth when his voice finally returns to her, low and reluctant, shaped like something close to a confession. She doesn’t look at him right away, but there’s a softening in her expression, an unspoken thank you threaded through her breathing as she watches the shifting dapple of imagined light against the bedsheets.
When he settles near her, she turns her body slightly—not enough to tug the claw marks that line her back, but just enough that he remains in her periphery, like a lighthouse she’s quietly orienting herself toward. Her lashes lower as she murmurs, [ay]“I’m sure Ronin or Remi would have told you I was alright…” Her tone is casual, airy almost, but the thought trailing behind it flickers with quiet intent, a ribbon curling lazily toward him in her mind, looking for confirmation, craving the admission she’s hoping he’ll give her.
That he had to see for himself.
And then he speaks Dahlia’s name, and the warmth in her mind retracts like a tide drawn back from the shore. Flora stills, her lips pressing together as the sea-glass shimmer of her thoughts darkens to something sharper, cooler—edges forming where there had only been softness before. Her brows lift, not in surprise at the news itself, but at the ease with which it’s spoken. “Is that so,” she murmurs, and though the words are quiet, there’s a current beneath them that suggests this particular stillness will not last.
“I’m surprised that wasn’t your first stop,” she adds, the words almost languid but unmistakably edged, her eyes meeting his now, unwavering and far too clear. “It’s going to be mine.”
Even so, a small smile plays at the corner of her mouth when his voice finally returns to her, low and reluctant, shaped like something close to a confession. She doesn’t look at him right away, but there’s a softening in her expression, an unspoken thank you threaded through her breathing as she watches the shifting dapple of imagined light against the bedsheets.
When he settles near her, she turns her body slightly—not enough to tug the claw marks that line her back, but just enough that he remains in her periphery, like a lighthouse she’s quietly orienting herself toward. Her lashes lower as she murmurs, [ay]“I’m sure Ronin or Remi would have told you I was alright…” Her tone is casual, airy almost, but the thought trailing behind it flickers with quiet intent, a ribbon curling lazily toward him in her mind, looking for confirmation, craving the admission she’s hoping he’ll give her.
That he had to see for himself.
And then he speaks Dahlia’s name, and the warmth in her mind retracts like a tide drawn back from the shore. Flora stills, her lips pressing together as the sea-glass shimmer of her thoughts darkens to something sharper, cooler—edges forming where there had only been softness before. Her brows lift, not in surprise at the news itself, but at the ease with which it’s spoken. “Is that so,” she murmurs, and though the words are quiet, there’s a current beneath them that suggests this particular stillness will not last.
“I’m surprised that wasn’t your first stop,” she adds, the words almost languid but unmistakably edged, her eyes meeting his now, unwavering and far too clear. “It’s going to be mine.”
