flora
Flora almost takes the bait—her lips part like she’s ready to leap to the Greatwood’s defence—before she rolls her eyes instead, curls tumbling as she shakes her head. "Or," she counters, the tilt of her voice sharp with mock-sweetness, "maybe it just sounds like you need to get out more."
But the moment he says it didn’t end there, the light of her thoughts dims, gold turning shadowed as though a cloud has drifted over the sun. Her shoulders soften with the sound of her swallow, and she shakes her head gently against his shoulder. "No. It didn’t." The words are quiet, pulled from a place that doesn’t usually make it into her voice. "If anything, it probably ended in Stormbreak." Her eyes slip half-closed, not needing to explain that she means Dahlia, that particular deal inked into her skin and her fate before she’d even understood it.
Her hand, which might have slid lower to try her hand at coercion, stills instead, fingers spread over his heart. It’s the same arrangement she’d once imagined would be the placement of their matching tattoos, though now her fingers flex faintly as though she isn’t sure whether to hold or pull back.
Jack’s eyes look softer now, shaded by the drowsy pull of rest rather than the sharp glint of plans, and Flora finds herself caught in the lull of it. Her lips part to answer the unspoken question tangled in his tone, but for a moment nothing comes. She’s already said the rooms are for people she cares about—surely that’s answer enough? Her aqua eyes search his, testing whether he’s just needling her or if he actually wants more.
Finally, she shrugs, small and almost imperceptible against him. "Technically, all those tradesmen I stole from the port are the ones who made it," she says, voice lighter, humour brushing the edges again, though her fingers twitch where they rest over his skin. "But, yeah....Of course I made you a room."
But the moment he says it didn’t end there, the light of her thoughts dims, gold turning shadowed as though a cloud has drifted over the sun. Her shoulders soften with the sound of her swallow, and she shakes her head gently against his shoulder. "No. It didn’t." The words are quiet, pulled from a place that doesn’t usually make it into her voice. "If anything, it probably ended in Stormbreak." Her eyes slip half-closed, not needing to explain that she means Dahlia, that particular deal inked into her skin and her fate before she’d even understood it.
Her hand, which might have slid lower to try her hand at coercion, stills instead, fingers spread over his heart. It’s the same arrangement she’d once imagined would be the placement of their matching tattoos, though now her fingers flex faintly as though she isn’t sure whether to hold or pull back.
Jack’s eyes look softer now, shaded by the drowsy pull of rest rather than the sharp glint of plans, and Flora finds herself caught in the lull of it. Her lips part to answer the unspoken question tangled in his tone, but for a moment nothing comes. She’s already said the rooms are for people she cares about—surely that’s answer enough? Her aqua eyes search his, testing whether he’s just needling her or if he actually wants more.
Finally, she shrugs, small and almost imperceptible against him. "Technically, all those tradesmen I stole from the port are the ones who made it," she says, voice lighter, humour brushing the edges again, though her fingers twitch where they rest over his skin. "But, yeah....Of course I made you a room."
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
