Flora
It’s the contrast that stings the most—that Kaisel lets everything show, wears his hurt like a heartbeat she can’t ignore. Jack may have held his pain behind his eyes, locked behind polished words and restraint that only cracked in the quietest hours, but Kaisel lays it bare here in the open, bruised and brilliant in the full light of day. And gods, it’s more than she deserves by far.
Her eyes drop, heavy with guilt, lashes sticking together where tears still cling. When he says he’d never put her in this position, her head tips slightly, the smallest movement, a quiet agreement that she doesn’t have the grace to voice aloud. Jack hadn’t meant to corner her though, not exactly—but intent doesn’t matter when the outcome still leaves someone bleeding. Biting the inside of her cheek until it stings, she turns her face toward him, not in protest but in softness, in apology.
"I’ve already hurt you," she says, low and wrecked, the words struggling free on an uneven breath. "Of course you deserve better than this."
She doesn’t reach for him right away, not until his hand comes up to brush the tears from her cheek, a gesture so impossibly tender it steals whatever strength she had left. Her own hand moves instinctively, covering his with a soft, trembling pressure—but he pulls too soon, and her hand is left sinking slowly into her lap. The sea is her only anchor then, vast and merciless, and she turns toward it, blinking rapidly against the fresh heat in her eyes that threatens to spill over all over again.
If she trusted herself not to make it worse, not to let the shape of a kiss be mistaken for a decision, she’d lean in. She’d cradle his face the way she once did when words weren’t needed. Gods, there had been a time when a brush of her fingers or the press of her nose to his shoulder had been enough to fix things. He’d once reached out with just a toe, and that had been all it took.
But not now.
Now every gesture feels too loud, too final, too easily misunderstood. She can’t offer him a promise she might break—not with her hands, not with her mouth, not with her body. So instead, she sinks against his side like the tide rolling home, letting go of his hand only to wrap her arm tightly around the one closest to her, hugging it against her chest as though she might fuse their warmth together through sheer will. Her face presses into his shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric there, salt and sorrow and the last remnants of hope she’s trying desperately not to crush beneath her weight.
"I told you I’d always be here," she whispers, voice nearly lost to the wind. "And I meant it." Not like this, not in this broken and bleeding version of togetherness, but it’s all she has to give him now. No olive branch. No fix. Just her—clinging, crying, and trying, despite being the one holding the knife that was killing everyone.
Her eyes drop, heavy with guilt, lashes sticking together where tears still cling. When he says he’d never put her in this position, her head tips slightly, the smallest movement, a quiet agreement that she doesn’t have the grace to voice aloud. Jack hadn’t meant to corner her though, not exactly—but intent doesn’t matter when the outcome still leaves someone bleeding. Biting the inside of her cheek until it stings, she turns her face toward him, not in protest but in softness, in apology.
"I’ve already hurt you," she says, low and wrecked, the words struggling free on an uneven breath. "Of course you deserve better than this."
She doesn’t reach for him right away, not until his hand comes up to brush the tears from her cheek, a gesture so impossibly tender it steals whatever strength she had left. Her own hand moves instinctively, covering his with a soft, trembling pressure—but he pulls too soon, and her hand is left sinking slowly into her lap. The sea is her only anchor then, vast and merciless, and she turns toward it, blinking rapidly against the fresh heat in her eyes that threatens to spill over all over again.
If she trusted herself not to make it worse, not to let the shape of a kiss be mistaken for a decision, she’d lean in. She’d cradle his face the way she once did when words weren’t needed. Gods, there had been a time when a brush of her fingers or the press of her nose to his shoulder had been enough to fix things. He’d once reached out with just a toe, and that had been all it took.
But not now.
Now every gesture feels too loud, too final, too easily misunderstood. She can’t offer him a promise she might break—not with her hands, not with her mouth, not with her body. So instead, she sinks against his side like the tide rolling home, letting go of his hand only to wrap her arm tightly around the one closest to her, hugging it against her chest as though she might fuse their warmth together through sheer will. Her face presses into his shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric there, salt and sorrow and the last remnants of hope she’s trying desperately not to crush beneath her weight.
"I told you I’d always be here," she whispers, voice nearly lost to the wind. "And I meant it." Not like this, not in this broken and bleeding version of togetherness, but it’s all she has to give him now. No olive branch. No fix. Just her—clinging, crying, and trying, despite being the one holding the knife that was killing everyone.
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
