Flora
Flora arches one brow in theatrical challenge at the side-eye he levels her, as if to say, you’re the one who said you liked my hands, before giving a dramatic little shrug that sets her curls bouncing. "You clearly don’t appreciate the fine art of single-ingredient sandwiches," she huffs, nose tilting in mock disdain. "Besides, the different colours of gummy worms obviously count as different ingredients. That’s what makes it gourmet."
And gods, the look she gives him when he starts lecturing her about the taxonomy of gummy worms. "Fine, they’d get all slimy and slippery in soup, which is even worse. And anyway, when I split one in half, it’s a quick death. A mercy. Not drowning in hot water like some kind of candy war crime." She says it with ease, as always, tossing barbs like petals in the wind. But even as her mouth moves, her body knows they’ve crossed something. Not just the deck, not just the distance between arguing in the mountains and agreeing to something on the seashore. They've not just crossed the line, they've left it behind; not tiptoed up to it, not brushed against it by accident with hands and lips. They crossed it, with words and decisions that knew exactly what they were doing. And now that they’re on the other side, there’s no familiar border to keep her grounded, no safe edge to press her back against. Just open space. Like floating in the middle of the sea with no horizon in sight. Limitless and terrifying all at once.
She knows it’ll pass. Once they talk—really talk—it’ll settle. The tide will smooth, the drift will slow, and the fear of getting lost in it will fade. But right now, standing in her own little ship with Kaisel's voice echoing softly behind her, she feels unmoored, every thought catching on the way her future had just changed in the span of an afternoon.
So when he says the bed sounds far nicer, her smile twitches. Not teasing. Not suggestive. Just quiet. She nods, and though she doesn’t turn to face him yet, she knows he’ll see soon enough what colours her cheeks, because she knows what's still mapped across her skin. Presumably, when he'd said he wanted to shower he'd meant together, and genuinely she doesn't know which will hurt him more: having had to hear her defend Jack with the taste of her tears and her kiss still on his mouth, or to see the constellation of the captain's fingertips across her hips and the markings his mouth had left on her skin not days before.
So she turns away, not to hide but to focus, letting her fingers busy themselves with the crinkle of half-eaten chip bags while the flush on her cheeks fades into the shadows of the galley. "There’s some hot sauce in the fridge," she calls over her shoulder, a little too brightly. She doesn’t wait to see if he answers before yanking open a drawer to grab a pan and foil, leaving him to deal with the meat and the one sad pepper left in the bottom drawer.
When she starts grating cheese—and gods, there's a lot of it—the motion feels grounding. Cheese never broke anyone's heart, after all. "I’m just saying," she adds with a forced little hum, "as long as there’s enough cheese, anything’ll taste good."
And gods, the look she gives him when he starts lecturing her about the taxonomy of gummy worms. "Fine, they’d get all slimy and slippery in soup, which is even worse. And anyway, when I split one in half, it’s a quick death. A mercy. Not drowning in hot water like some kind of candy war crime." She says it with ease, as always, tossing barbs like petals in the wind. But even as her mouth moves, her body knows they’ve crossed something. Not just the deck, not just the distance between arguing in the mountains and agreeing to something on the seashore. They've not just crossed the line, they've left it behind; not tiptoed up to it, not brushed against it by accident with hands and lips. They crossed it, with words and decisions that knew exactly what they were doing. And now that they’re on the other side, there’s no familiar border to keep her grounded, no safe edge to press her back against. Just open space. Like floating in the middle of the sea with no horizon in sight. Limitless and terrifying all at once.
She knows it’ll pass. Once they talk—really talk—it’ll settle. The tide will smooth, the drift will slow, and the fear of getting lost in it will fade. But right now, standing in her own little ship with Kaisel's voice echoing softly behind her, she feels unmoored, every thought catching on the way her future had just changed in the span of an afternoon.
So when he says the bed sounds far nicer, her smile twitches. Not teasing. Not suggestive. Just quiet. She nods, and though she doesn’t turn to face him yet, she knows he’ll see soon enough what colours her cheeks, because she knows what's still mapped across her skin. Presumably, when he'd said he wanted to shower he'd meant together, and genuinely she doesn't know which will hurt him more: having had to hear her defend Jack with the taste of her tears and her kiss still on his mouth, or to see the constellation of the captain's fingertips across her hips and the markings his mouth had left on her skin not days before.
So she turns away, not to hide but to focus, letting her fingers busy themselves with the crinkle of half-eaten chip bags while the flush on her cheeks fades into the shadows of the galley. "There’s some hot sauce in the fridge," she calls over her shoulder, a little too brightly. She doesn’t wait to see if he answers before yanking open a drawer to grab a pan and foil, leaving him to deal with the meat and the one sad pepper left in the bottom drawer.
When she starts grating cheese—and gods, there's a lot of it—the motion feels grounding. Cheese never broke anyone's heart, after all. "I’m just saying," she adds with a forced little hum, "as long as there’s enough cheese, anything’ll taste good."
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
