flora
A humourless little laugh slips out of her, more breath than sound, as she nudges Jack beneath the blanket with the side of her leg and lets a wry smile find her mouth. "Noooo, that isn’t it," rolling her eyes with fond exasperation, Flora grins. "For starters, there’s now absolutely no excuse for you ever showing up without flowers" The tease comes easy, a cover for the ache lodged deep in her chest.
When he talks about suffering him while he works through it, her gaze drops to her hands, fingers knotting together in her lap. Questions unfurl sharp and insistent in her mind, ones he can’t possibly answer—how long will it take? do you promise you can? are you sure?—and all she can do is exhale softly against the quiet. With a sudden shuffle she slides from the bed, dragging the sheet with as she crosses to grab the smaller bottle of rum he’d poured earlier from his desk.
The cork gives with a pop, and she takes a long swallow straight from the neck before padding back to him, this time sitting on the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, she offers the bottle over. "So," she says at last, her voice softer now, worn down to something painfully fragile, "how long’s it take to fly to Stormbreak?" She tilts her head, not quite meeting his eyes, trying to weigh whether that would be enough time for them both to put their lists together—everything they’d need, everything they’d have to change—to try and make this work.
When he talks about suffering him while he works through it, her gaze drops to her hands, fingers knotting together in her lap. Questions unfurl sharp and insistent in her mind, ones he can’t possibly answer—how long will it take? do you promise you can? are you sure?—and all she can do is exhale softly against the quiet. With a sudden shuffle she slides from the bed, dragging the sheet with as she crosses to grab the smaller bottle of rum he’d poured earlier from his desk.
The cork gives with a pop, and she takes a long swallow straight from the neck before padding back to him, this time sitting on the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, she offers the bottle over. "So," she says at last, her voice softer now, worn down to something painfully fragile, "how long’s it take to fly to Stormbreak?" She tilts her head, not quite meeting his eyes, trying to weigh whether that would be enough time for them both to put their lists together—everything they’d need, everything they’d have to change—to try and make this work.
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
