flora
She stands there like a lone sandbar in a rising tide, surrounded by shimmer and silk and sequins that once felt like armour and now just feel like mockery. Useless things, all of it. Her chest is drawn tight with pressure, like something is coiled inside her ribs begging to crack. Sowhen Kaisel moves—when he sets the wine down like it’s nothing, like she’s everything—her breath catches in her throat. The second his arms fold around her, the dam breaks.
The tears bite first, sharp as seawater in an open wound, but their fall is a mercy. She buries her face against him, her arms locking around his ribs in a clutch that’s all desperation and disbelief that he’s here, that he’s real, that she’s allowed to fall apart in front of someone without fear of being too much.
It’s safe, with him, and quiet. Not the brittle kind she’s learned to fear: Jack’s silences always meant storms and Sohalia’s meant exhaustion, as if Flora’s grief was something too heavy if only because the Luminary had been asked to do so so many times. But Kaisel...Kaisel just holds her like the weight’s nothing. Like she could hand him every heartbreak and he’d shoulder it without flinching.
Her tears stain his shirt, bright salt-dark splotches soaking into the ridiculous lime green like flowers blooming in reverse. Her breath shudders out, then back in, ribs tightening again as he leans away—but only a little, just enough to make space for light. The stretch of fabric between his hands draws her gaze. It’s such a stupid offer, so deeply him—gentle and ridiculous and kind—and something in her almost laughs.
The smile that finds its way onto her lips is barely there, but it lifts the weight on her face, and her eyes—red and shiny—sparkle with something closer to herself. She ducks her head, scooping under the hem of his shirt like a child burrowing into blankets, snuggling up until her cheek is pressed against his chest, as high as she can get. A long sigh escapes her, a weight exhaled. The tears are still there, but softer now, washed out by the warmth of his skin, by the ridiculous comfort of being inside his shirt and pressed full-body to someone who never asks her to shrink.
"Gods, I love you," she mumbles into him, lips brushing his chest, the words crumpled by emotion but still clear. Her shoulders sag as she melts against him again, every part of her unravelling in the safety of his arms.
Tucked beneath the fabric so that Kaisel is safe to make whatever face he wants to given the name she's about to mention, Flora whispers, "Jack left Torchline." It comes small and sore, barely audible, but it matters—like a crack in a dam that explains part of the flood. "It feels like everything is falling apart," she adds, breath catching again. "And it’s my fault."
The tears bite first, sharp as seawater in an open wound, but their fall is a mercy. She buries her face against him, her arms locking around his ribs in a clutch that’s all desperation and disbelief that he’s here, that he’s real, that she’s allowed to fall apart in front of someone without fear of being too much.
It’s safe, with him, and quiet. Not the brittle kind she’s learned to fear: Jack’s silences always meant storms and Sohalia’s meant exhaustion, as if Flora’s grief was something too heavy if only because the Luminary had been asked to do so so many times. But Kaisel...Kaisel just holds her like the weight’s nothing. Like she could hand him every heartbreak and he’d shoulder it without flinching.
Her tears stain his shirt, bright salt-dark splotches soaking into the ridiculous lime green like flowers blooming in reverse. Her breath shudders out, then back in, ribs tightening again as he leans away—but only a little, just enough to make space for light. The stretch of fabric between his hands draws her gaze. It’s such a stupid offer, so deeply him—gentle and ridiculous and kind—and something in her almost laughs.
The smile that finds its way onto her lips is barely there, but it lifts the weight on her face, and her eyes—red and shiny—sparkle with something closer to herself. She ducks her head, scooping under the hem of his shirt like a child burrowing into blankets, snuggling up until her cheek is pressed against his chest, as high as she can get. A long sigh escapes her, a weight exhaled. The tears are still there, but softer now, washed out by the warmth of his skin, by the ridiculous comfort of being inside his shirt and pressed full-body to someone who never asks her to shrink.
"Gods, I love you," she mumbles into him, lips brushing his chest, the words crumpled by emotion but still clear. Her shoulders sag as she melts against him again, every part of her unravelling in the safety of his arms.
Tucked beneath the fabric so that Kaisel is safe to make whatever face he wants to given the name she's about to mention, Flora whispers, "Jack left Torchline." It comes small and sore, barely audible, but it matters—like a crack in a dam that explains part of the flood. "It feels like everything is falling apart," she adds, breath catching again. "And it’s my fault."
lust's a liar, a short lived fire
it isn't what you and I are at all
it isn't what you and I are at all
