flora
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her sends a ripple of anticipation along her spine, and Flora spins on instinct, already smoothing a hand over her hip as though that might somehow prepare her for whoever it is. Colour flushes hot and fast across her cheeks as her breath catches in a way that makes absolutely no sense at all, not when the man standing there has been dead for five years.
Her jaw drops before she can stop it, eyes wide and bright as they rake across him, and for one single, disorienting second all she can think is he looks good. Not in the abstract, respectful way one might say it about someone’s father’s friend or their mum’s coworker, but in a way that makes her stomach twist and her thoughts scatter like spilled petals on the wind. His hair is a little tousled, salt-kissed at the edges, and the black of his shirt only sharpens the sharpness of him—cheekbones and posture and that dry little smile that has her suddenly speechless.
It takes effort to blink past the surprise, her lashes fluttering just long enough to buy herself time before her mouth catches up. "H—hey," she laughs. "I was not expecting you," she admits with a nervous laugh, nose wrinkling as she offers a half-step closer, caught somewhere between amusement and awkward remembered affection.
Her smile softens, not quite sad but touched with something older than it should be, a little more worn at the edges than she means to show. "I was really sad when I heard. About the Sparkbird. About you." A pause, gentler now, and then her voice drops just slightly, sincere despite the colour still high in her cheeks. "I always bring a lantern for you, to the Festival of Lights." She shrugs lightly, like it isn’t a strange thing to say to a man she’s only met twice and who has somehow become myth and memory in equal measure if only because her 17-year-old heart had kept him that way.
Her jaw drops before she can stop it, eyes wide and bright as they rake across him, and for one single, disorienting second all she can think is he looks good. Not in the abstract, respectful way one might say it about someone’s father’s friend or their mum’s coworker, but in a way that makes her stomach twist and her thoughts scatter like spilled petals on the wind. His hair is a little tousled, salt-kissed at the edges, and the black of his shirt only sharpens the sharpness of him—cheekbones and posture and that dry little smile that has her suddenly speechless.
It takes effort to blink past the surprise, her lashes fluttering just long enough to buy herself time before her mouth catches up. "H—hey," she laughs. "I was not expecting you," she admits with a nervous laugh, nose wrinkling as she offers a half-step closer, caught somewhere between amusement and awkward remembered affection.
Her smile softens, not quite sad but touched with something older than it should be, a little more worn at the edges than she means to show. "I was really sad when I heard. About the Sparkbird. About you." A pause, gentler now, and then her voice drops just slightly, sincere despite the colour still high in her cheeks. "I always bring a lantern for you, to the Festival of Lights." She shrugs lightly, like it isn’t a strange thing to say to a man she’s only met twice and who has somehow become myth and memory in equal measure if only because her 17-year-old heart had kept him that way.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
