we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora shakes her head, curls flinging seawater like little sparks into the dark, though nothing about the gesture feels sharp. If anything, it’s too slow—confused more than upset—not yet sure where this is all landing. The mention of Frey immediately sets a few stars blinking on in her brain, illuminating the obvious: the channeling was about sex. Mention of her dads is a bit of a curveball, one she doesn't have time to consider.
She keeps treading water, feet barely skimming sand when the waves lean in her favour, the sea lifting and lowering her like it’s cradling a question she hasn’t figured out how to ask yet. What had he expected to get from Melita in six seconds? What could she possibly have offered that he didn’t already have right in front of him, naked and ready and so in love with him she can barely breathe?
Because if it was modesty, or nerves, or just the sheer panic of being seen by someone on the shoreline, then surely he would have waited to channel until they were on the sand? She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—gods, she hates how easily her brain jumps—but there’s something scratching at the edge of her heart, something she can’t quite laugh off, can’t quite look away from. Had she said too much? Teased too hard? Had the game tipped too far into something that didn’t feel like fun anymore for him?
Or maybe—maybe—there was just something he wanted that she couldn’t give, like being a fork when what he wanted was steak. It makes sense, then, why he might channel in a knife.
"Oh." The word spills out before she can catch it, soft and uneven. She lifts her hand to wipe her mouth even though there’s nothing there but salt, stalling for a second longer before the real question stirs up behind her teeth. "Did..." Her voice cracks gently over the word, not from pain, just uncertainty. She squares her shoulders, even with the water dragging at her jewellery and her pride, and tries again. "Did you want her here?"
She keeps treading water, feet barely skimming sand when the waves lean in her favour, the sea lifting and lowering her like it’s cradling a question she hasn’t figured out how to ask yet. What had he expected to get from Melita in six seconds? What could she possibly have offered that he didn’t already have right in front of him, naked and ready and so in love with him she can barely breathe?
Because if it was modesty, or nerves, or just the sheer panic of being seen by someone on the shoreline, then surely he would have waited to channel until they were on the sand? She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—gods, she hates how easily her brain jumps—but there’s something scratching at the edge of her heart, something she can’t quite laugh off, can’t quite look away from. Had she said too much? Teased too hard? Had the game tipped too far into something that didn’t feel like fun anymore for him?
Or maybe—maybe—there was just something he wanted that she couldn’t give, like being a fork when what he wanted was steak. It makes sense, then, why he might channel in a knife.
"Oh." The word spills out before she can catch it, soft and uneven. She lifts her hand to wipe her mouth even though there’s nothing there but salt, stalling for a second longer before the real question stirs up behind her teeth. "Did..." Her voice cracks gently over the word, not from pain, just uncertainty. She squares her shoulders, even with the water dragging at her jewellery and her pride, and tries again. "Did you want her here?"
