flora
"Jack"
His name slips from her like the hush before a storm, soft and inevitable, carried on the wind that presses against the Sugartide’s rising sails. She takes a few steps toward him, careful not to let the ship’s climb steal her footing, though it’s her heart that falters more than her balance. It always seems to end this way between them—some truth too sharp, some silence too long, some tenderness turned sour in the space between words.
Fuck, she hates it. Hates that they can never hold anything fragile for long without watching it slip through their fingers. Hates how even now, with half the sky between them and everything they’d once been, she still wants something from him—his voice, his hand, his goddamned presence. Clearly not enough time had passed; maybe it never would. Maybe there would always be some corner of her ribcage carved out in the shape of him, still echoing with the weight of what they’d nearly been such that she could never not be like this.
The Sugartide tips upward, and Flora draws her blanket tighter around her shoulders, not for warmth but for armour. She follows his glance to the compass etched into his skin and nods faintly, like the gesture itself is too delicate for words. Her eyes trace the familiar lines—not just of the tattoo, but of the man she’s never quite stopped looking for, and likely always will. "Thanks for the help," she says at last, voice quiet, but threaded through with meaning that spreads beneath her tongue like salt on the tide. For the lift, for the work, for the brief flicker of something warm between them, even if it was only a shadow. Even if it had to end like this. Again.
~FIN
His name slips from her like the hush before a storm, soft and inevitable, carried on the wind that presses against the Sugartide’s rising sails. She takes a few steps toward him, careful not to let the ship’s climb steal her footing, though it’s her heart that falters more than her balance. It always seems to end this way between them—some truth too sharp, some silence too long, some tenderness turned sour in the space between words.
Fuck, she hates it. Hates that they can never hold anything fragile for long without watching it slip through their fingers. Hates how even now, with half the sky between them and everything they’d once been, she still wants something from him—his voice, his hand, his goddamned presence. Clearly not enough time had passed; maybe it never would. Maybe there would always be some corner of her ribcage carved out in the shape of him, still echoing with the weight of what they’d nearly been such that she could never not be like this.
The Sugartide tips upward, and Flora draws her blanket tighter around her shoulders, not for warmth but for armour. She follows his glance to the compass etched into his skin and nods faintly, like the gesture itself is too delicate for words. Her eyes trace the familiar lines—not just of the tattoo, but of the man she’s never quite stopped looking for, and likely always will. "Thanks for the help," she says at last, voice quiet, but threaded through with meaning that spreads beneath her tongue like salt on the tide. For the lift, for the work, for the brief flicker of something warm between them, even if it was only a shadow. Even if it had to end like this. Again.
~FIN
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
