you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
As always, the casual lilt of love curls through her like warm wind through a curtain—light and ridiculous in how much it affects her, but she covers it well with a playful roll of her eyes, lips quirking in fond exasperation. "Alright, alright. Baby steps," she murmurs, the words brushed with humour and the unspoken agreement that maybe that’s all either of them is capable of right now anyway.
But as Jack shifts and starts to speak in earnest, something within her stills. The garden of her thoughts quiets to a hush, the imaginary sunlight softening against glassy leaves and warm soil, and Flora just listens. The neatness of his logic, the tangle of his resistance, the surprising clarity with which he admits it now. And when he clarifies—not sorry—she huffs out a laugh that carries more affection than frustration. "No, of course not," she echoes, teasing but soft.
She watches him for a moment longer, unsure what she wants from this—what she’s allowed to want. Her fingers toy lightly with a fold of the sheet, her body still curled inwards, cocooned but open. There are a dozen things she could say: ask him to lie down beside her, coax more feelings into the open, or defuse it all with something glib. But instead she lets the moment breathe and for once she doesn't immediately demand Jack put a label on what they were to one another.
When he turns their attention back to Dahlia, she nods slowly, lashes dipping before lifting again. "I didn’t mean sneaking in to try and crack her yourself," she clarifies. "Just...lurking around while someone else did the questioning so you could get the full picture of how she reacts." Then, after a moment of consideration: "If it’s Sunny doing the interrogating though, you wouldn’t have to hide at all."
But as Jack shifts and starts to speak in earnest, something within her stills. The garden of her thoughts quiets to a hush, the imaginary sunlight softening against glassy leaves and warm soil, and Flora just listens. The neatness of his logic, the tangle of his resistance, the surprising clarity with which he admits it now. And when he clarifies—not sorry—she huffs out a laugh that carries more affection than frustration. "No, of course not," she echoes, teasing but soft.
She watches him for a moment longer, unsure what she wants from this—what she’s allowed to want. Her fingers toy lightly with a fold of the sheet, her body still curled inwards, cocooned but open. There are a dozen things she could say: ask him to lie down beside her, coax more feelings into the open, or defuse it all with something glib. But instead she lets the moment breathe and for once she doesn't immediately demand Jack put a label on what they were to one another.
When he turns their attention back to Dahlia, she nods slowly, lashes dipping before lifting again. "I didn’t mean sneaking in to try and crack her yourself," she clarifies. "Just...lurking around while someone else did the questioning so you could get the full picture of how she reacts." Then, after a moment of consideration: "If it’s Sunny doing the interrogating though, you wouldn’t have to hide at all."
