Flora
She nods silently, a small, fragile gesture of agreement that costs far more than it seems. He’s right; she’d have blown him off at the masquerade if he'd found her, armour already cracked and crumbling under the weight of everything she'd worked herself up about to speak with him properly.
A hiccup breaks through her ribs, not quite a sob but close enough to shake her, her shoulder pressed into his side as if she might hide there, as if that might be enough. But nothing feels like enough anymore—not her apologies, not her choices, not even this terrible, truthful ache that refuses to quiet. Her voice slips out low, uncertain, so quiet he might not even hear it unless he's still listening like he always does. "Would it matter to you? How long it had been, how hurt you were, if it was me?"
Because that’s the marrow of it. The rot beneath every beautiful thing they’ve tried to build. Flora had waited for Jack in all the ways Kaisel could only promise he would wait. It wasn't just lip service, for her to say that she'd rather be wrecked by Jack than be without him; she'd lived it, burned through it for years now. What was poetic and sweet coming from Kaisel's mouth had been Flora's hell, but gods, that's what made it so impossible to walk away from. She’d wanted someone who made her cry and bleed and burn, because at some terrible, unhealed level, that’s what love had always meant to her. Not because she wanted the wreckage, but because she didn’t know what to do with anything soft; anything that wasn't storm blue and hard-won.
When Kaisel stands, her relief is so immediate it feels like air flooding back into her lungs, but it makes her dizzy instead of sure. Standing on her own feels wrong now, like the ground isn’t where she’s supposed to be anymore. Her knees tremble under the sudden demand of her weight, and she holds tighter to his hand, her fingers twining fast and thoughtless around his like a lifeline. Her gaze flits up, and despite the storm of salt and sorrow that clouds her eyes, she offers him the first direction she can find.
"We could go to the water," she whispers, unsure, "but I know you hate the sand. The Sugartide’s not far, but...the house is closer." She watches him for a sign—any sign—of what he needs, because gods know she’s lost her own compass in all of this. The moment stretches long between them, brittle and burning, and she does nothing to break it except keep holding his hand like it might keep both of them from falling all the way apart.
A hiccup breaks through her ribs, not quite a sob but close enough to shake her, her shoulder pressed into his side as if she might hide there, as if that might be enough. But nothing feels like enough anymore—not her apologies, not her choices, not even this terrible, truthful ache that refuses to quiet. Her voice slips out low, uncertain, so quiet he might not even hear it unless he's still listening like he always does. "Would it matter to you? How long it had been, how hurt you were, if it was me?"
Because that’s the marrow of it. The rot beneath every beautiful thing they’ve tried to build. Flora had waited for Jack in all the ways Kaisel could only promise he would wait. It wasn't just lip service, for her to say that she'd rather be wrecked by Jack than be without him; she'd lived it, burned through it for years now. What was poetic and sweet coming from Kaisel's mouth had been Flora's hell, but gods, that's what made it so impossible to walk away from. She’d wanted someone who made her cry and bleed and burn, because at some terrible, unhealed level, that’s what love had always meant to her. Not because she wanted the wreckage, but because she didn’t know what to do with anything soft; anything that wasn't storm blue and hard-won.
When Kaisel stands, her relief is so immediate it feels like air flooding back into her lungs, but it makes her dizzy instead of sure. Standing on her own feels wrong now, like the ground isn’t where she’s supposed to be anymore. Her knees tremble under the sudden demand of her weight, and she holds tighter to his hand, her fingers twining fast and thoughtless around his like a lifeline. Her gaze flits up, and despite the storm of salt and sorrow that clouds her eyes, she offers him the first direction she can find.
"We could go to the water," she whispers, unsure, "but I know you hate the sand. The Sugartide’s not far, but...the house is closer." She watches him for a sign—any sign—of what he needs, because gods know she’s lost her own compass in all of this. The moment stretches long between them, brittle and burning, and she does nothing to break it except keep holding his hand like it might keep both of them from falling all the way apart.
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
