you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
Flora’s glare cuts through her tears like a beam of late afternoon sun—unwelcome, blinding, and altogether too full of feeling. She doesn't bother to say it aloud, doesn’t waste breath telling him how wrong he is to think any of it would’ve mattered to her. She’d never cared about the ship or the blood or the nights he didn’t come home. He could have come home caked in blood or salt or regret and she still would’ve waited at the docks with her arms crossed and a drink in hand, waiting to argue and kiss him in the same breath
And then—gods damn him—he makes her smile. Not with softness, but with that lopsided, too-familiar humour that makes her want to kiss him and strangle him in the same breath. She could’ve slapped him if her hands weren’t already wrapped around his, unwilling to let go. And so instead, she leans into the weight of his hand against her cheek, lets herself melt into the kindness of it, the rare and ragged tenderness that he’s always pretended wasn’t there.
When she finally lets go, it’s only to wind her arms up around his neck, sliding closer until there’s nothing between them but the ache Flora has been trying not to name. He can’t even hold her properly—not with the damage Dahlia left behind—and she’s never hated the Reaper more than she does now. Not for the pain or the cost, but for stealing even this last what-if. This last maybe.
She presses her face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in, the sea and the storm of him, the trace of something still electric beneath his skin. "I’d kill anyone who tried to make me forget you," she whispers, and it isn’t sharp, just quiet and steady and full of a thousand truths she’ll never stop carrying.
There was a time when she would’ve said yes without even thinking—when caution was something to dance around, not something to carry. But that was before she'd had months of danger, of leaving everything she'd known, of bruises and heartbreak and too many moments of picking herself up after the wind had spat her back out.
She pulls away just enough to see him again, mascara smudged in the corners of her eyes, mouth trembling with the weight of holding too much. "Understanding how your mind works won't make me any less crazy," she says with a soft, unsteady smile. "I'll still pick stupid fights with you and still want too much." She'd still drive him crazy all day long with her nonsense and expect him to cuddle her all night, and he'd still feel like shit everytime she dreamed of more without meaning to.
And then—gods damn him—he makes her smile. Not with softness, but with that lopsided, too-familiar humour that makes her want to kiss him and strangle him in the same breath. She could’ve slapped him if her hands weren’t already wrapped around his, unwilling to let go. And so instead, she leans into the weight of his hand against her cheek, lets herself melt into the kindness of it, the rare and ragged tenderness that he’s always pretended wasn’t there.
When she finally lets go, it’s only to wind her arms up around his neck, sliding closer until there’s nothing between them but the ache Flora has been trying not to name. He can’t even hold her properly—not with the damage Dahlia left behind—and she’s never hated the Reaper more than she does now. Not for the pain or the cost, but for stealing even this last what-if. This last maybe.
She presses her face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in, the sea and the storm of him, the trace of something still electric beneath his skin. "I’d kill anyone who tried to make me forget you," she whispers, and it isn’t sharp, just quiet and steady and full of a thousand truths she’ll never stop carrying.
There was a time when she would’ve said yes without even thinking—when caution was something to dance around, not something to carry. But that was before she'd had months of danger, of leaving everything she'd known, of bruises and heartbreak and too many moments of picking herself up after the wind had spat her back out.
She pulls away just enough to see him again, mascara smudged in the corners of her eyes, mouth trembling with the weight of holding too much. "Understanding how your mind works won't make me any less crazy," she says with a soft, unsteady smile. "I'll still pick stupid fights with you and still want too much." She'd still drive him crazy all day long with her nonsense and expect him to cuddle her all night, and he'd still feel like shit everytime she dreamed of more without meaning to.
