flora
Her arms slide away just long enough to let him sit, her body yielding only in the way a tide does; making space not to recede, but to draw him deeper in. As Kaisel settles, Flora swings her legs up and over his lap without ceremony, draping them loosely across either side of him. Her toes hook behind the chair legs; her torso folds forward like she’s anchoring herself to his heartbeat. It’s warmer here, quieter. He makes the space feel padded somehow, like the sharp edges of grief dull the longer she’s curled into him.
His words thread around her with the same rhythm as his fingers tapping on her knee, and when he admits he hasn’t told her anything that he thinks matters, her ring stays cool. No flash of heat, no subtle twinge. It confirms what she already suspects: this isn’t about secrets, not really. Just oversight, or the kind of emotional context that doesn’t feel important until it gets set on fire.
And gods, that—the way he says it—pulls a dry, soundless laugh from her lips. There’s a weary affection in it, quiet but piercing, the kind that knots into the spaces between her ribs and squeezes until it’s almost too much. She exhales a whispered, "Oh, babe…" fingers drifting over the front of his shirt. It’s not pity, or exasperation, just...aching, a little, at how obvious it is now. Of course Caly would’ve been upset. Of course it hurt to see the lines between friend and lover blur only to be redrawn in someone else’s colours.
She doesn’t excuse it—burning down her bar was a bitch move—but she can’t really blame her, either. Because what Kaisel had offered Caly was a future built on contingencies and careful caveats. What he gave Flora, even if messy, even if chaotic, had never been hedged. No ifs, no safeties. He’d burned the bridge behind him to meet her here. Gasoline in one hand, a match in the other, and he hadn't thought twice about it.
"I get it," she murmurs softly, brushing her thumb over the side of his hand as she draws it into the strange little no-man’s-land between their chairs. There’d still been a spark between he and Caly; something he’d been trying to kindle with one hand, while holding gasoline in the other that was always meant for someone else. And when he told Caly they couldn’t even be friends anymore…it probably hadn’t sounded like boundaries. It had probably sounded like betrayal. Like: not only do I choose Flora, but I’m unchoosing you now too. Flora can feel how that would land. Can taste the humiliation of it, the slow burn of being measured and found wanting, of being loved less than someone else.
But the ease of it, the small bubble of clarity they’ve found together, pricks and shudders the moment he mentions Jack, and her whole body stills in response. "I mean, he’s their dad," she says quietly, not defensive, not quite anything, but it’s clear the words have to come out before she can think any deeper. Her gaze unfocuses slightly, looking past him, through him, to the place where smoke still lingers in memory. Her fingers, still clutching his, don’t move. "So..do you think she blames me, then?" The question barely lifts from her throat. "For him leaving Torchline?"
His words thread around her with the same rhythm as his fingers tapping on her knee, and when he admits he hasn’t told her anything that he thinks matters, her ring stays cool. No flash of heat, no subtle twinge. It confirms what she already suspects: this isn’t about secrets, not really. Just oversight, or the kind of emotional context that doesn’t feel important until it gets set on fire.
And gods, that—the way he says it—pulls a dry, soundless laugh from her lips. There’s a weary affection in it, quiet but piercing, the kind that knots into the spaces between her ribs and squeezes until it’s almost too much. She exhales a whispered, "Oh, babe…" fingers drifting over the front of his shirt. It’s not pity, or exasperation, just...aching, a little, at how obvious it is now. Of course Caly would’ve been upset. Of course it hurt to see the lines between friend and lover blur only to be redrawn in someone else’s colours.
She doesn’t excuse it—burning down her bar was a bitch move—but she can’t really blame her, either. Because what Kaisel had offered Caly was a future built on contingencies and careful caveats. What he gave Flora, even if messy, even if chaotic, had never been hedged. No ifs, no safeties. He’d burned the bridge behind him to meet her here. Gasoline in one hand, a match in the other, and he hadn't thought twice about it.
"I get it," she murmurs softly, brushing her thumb over the side of his hand as she draws it into the strange little no-man’s-land between their chairs. There’d still been a spark between he and Caly; something he’d been trying to kindle with one hand, while holding gasoline in the other that was always meant for someone else. And when he told Caly they couldn’t even be friends anymore…it probably hadn’t sounded like boundaries. It had probably sounded like betrayal. Like: not only do I choose Flora, but I’m unchoosing you now too. Flora can feel how that would land. Can taste the humiliation of it, the slow burn of being measured and found wanting, of being loved less than someone else.
But the ease of it, the small bubble of clarity they’ve found together, pricks and shudders the moment he mentions Jack, and her whole body stills in response. "I mean, he’s their dad," she says quietly, not defensive, not quite anything, but it’s clear the words have to come out before she can think any deeper. Her gaze unfocuses slightly, looking past him, through him, to the place where smoke still lingers in memory. Her fingers, still clutching his, don’t move. "So..do you think she blames me, then?" The question barely lifts from her throat. "For him leaving Torchline?"
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
