flora
The warmth of his hands should’ve helped, should’ve done something to ease the frigid crack she feels splitting down the middle of her chest, but it doesn’t. Instead, something frostbitten creeps along her spine, sharp and crystalline and so at odds with the tears she hasn’t even blinked away yet. Kaisel doesn’t retract as she had expected him to, doesn't put his palm to his forehead with a d'oh! saying what a fucking idiot he was, he just...confirms it. With a careful tone and sympathetic eyes, he tells her that yes, this is what he thought her capable of. That it made sense. That it tracked. That that’s how he explains the bruises; when things got hard, she would get on her knees and spread her legs and call it leadership.
Her frown deepens as his palms cradle hers. Slowly—gently, but without hesitation—she draws her hand out from between his, gaze sharpening as she lifts her chin. The growing pressure in her ribs doesn’t burst, doesn’t scream or sob or throw anything, it just hardens. Smooths itself over like stone under a tide. Her aqua eyes go flat as she glances away, past Kaisel’s shoulder toward the far wall, as if looking anywhere else might help settle the betrayal uncoiling in her throat.
She knew they'd fight eventually. Everyone did, but she'd imagined it over something stupid, like who got the last ice cream bar, or which route was faster through the market. Not this. Not the realisation that somewhere in Kaisel’s mind, Flora was just another pawn in her own game. That her body was currency. That her love not only could be forged from bruises and politics and pain, but that it could remain that way.
It’s too much to keep looking at him—sprawled in her gown like some exhausted princess, sequins stretched across his chest, still burrowing himself deeper into the hole he’d made—so Flora pushes up from the bed in a fluid motion, her bare legs swinging down to the floor as she crosses the room. She doesn’t turn around when she reaches the bay window, just wraps her arms around herself, bracing as if the sight of the sea might calm the ice in her belly. It doesn’t. The horizon blurs, and suddenly the world feels too big again. Much as she wants to ask what the hell getting his toes sucked meant, the burn in her cheeks keeps her focus far too narrow for the moment.
Her voice comes quieter than she means it to, but not soft. Not delicate. It lands heavy in the hush between them, the words a slow, curling smoke of hurt that she’s too proud to put out. "Nice to know what you really think of me."
Her frown deepens as his palms cradle hers. Slowly—gently, but without hesitation—she draws her hand out from between his, gaze sharpening as she lifts her chin. The growing pressure in her ribs doesn’t burst, doesn’t scream or sob or throw anything, it just hardens. Smooths itself over like stone under a tide. Her aqua eyes go flat as she glances away, past Kaisel’s shoulder toward the far wall, as if looking anywhere else might help settle the betrayal uncoiling in her throat.
She knew they'd fight eventually. Everyone did, but she'd imagined it over something stupid, like who got the last ice cream bar, or which route was faster through the market. Not this. Not the realisation that somewhere in Kaisel’s mind, Flora was just another pawn in her own game. That her body was currency. That her love not only could be forged from bruises and politics and pain, but that it could remain that way.
It’s too much to keep looking at him—sprawled in her gown like some exhausted princess, sequins stretched across his chest, still burrowing himself deeper into the hole he’d made—so Flora pushes up from the bed in a fluid motion, her bare legs swinging down to the floor as she crosses the room. She doesn’t turn around when she reaches the bay window, just wraps her arms around herself, bracing as if the sight of the sea might calm the ice in her belly. It doesn’t. The horizon blurs, and suddenly the world feels too big again. Much as she wants to ask what the hell getting his toes sucked meant, the burn in her cheeks keeps her focus far too narrow for the moment.
Her voice comes quieter than she means it to, but not soft. Not delicate. It lands heavy in the hush between them, the words a slow, curling smoke of hurt that she’s too proud to put out. "Nice to know what you really think of me."
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
