flora
"Yours weren't accidents." The memories of hearing about Jack's rendezvous' with Safrin thread through her like a blade honed on silence, smooth and damning. They flash across her mind with the sharp clarity of truth, her thoughts tightening into a darker hue—more ink than gold now, and thick with the kind of weight that comes with knowing too much and meaning to say too little. Another fight waits there if he wants it, neatly packaged and gift-wrapped in the trend of her thoughts, if he'd care to continue to pick out this particular stitch.
As she glances toward the stairs, where the wind moans faintly against the hull, her mindscape shivers open in response—sleek, vast, and hollow, like an ocean drained of tide, the moon gone missing from the sky. "Yeah," she murmurs, clearing her throat, "no point hanging around longer than necessary." Y'know, together, or whatever.
Flora doesn’t look at Jack as she pushes off from the counter, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like armour spun in cotton and salt. But when he presses, her breath catches in her throat before she wrestles it down. "It’s nothing," she lies with a small, brittle smile. Her voice is smooth, even believable, were Jack not a telepath; the kind of smooth you only get from holding broken things together with your teeth. Hers weren't Jack's problems to pretend to care about anymore anyway, which was a thought as sulky as it was accurate.
As she glances toward the stairs, where the wind moans faintly against the hull, her mindscape shivers open in response—sleek, vast, and hollow, like an ocean drained of tide, the moon gone missing from the sky. "Yeah," she murmurs, clearing her throat, "no point hanging around longer than necessary." Y'know, together, or whatever.
Flora doesn’t look at Jack as she pushes off from the counter, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like armour spun in cotton and salt. But when he presses, her breath catches in her throat before she wrestles it down. "It’s nothing," she lies with a small, brittle smile. Her voice is smooth, even believable, were Jack not a telepath; the kind of smooth you only get from holding broken things together with your teeth. Hers weren't Jack's problems to pretend to care about anymore anyway, which was a thought as sulky as it was accurate.
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
