flora
The whiplash of it all spins in her chest, leaving her disoriented, breathless, like she’s been tossed between waves and told to choose which one to drown in. When he reaches for her, she looks down at his hand—eyes shiny and lashes heavy with tears she’s still refusing to let fall—and bypasses it completely. She steps in, closing the space between them like it’s something she can't help but do, her hands lifting to cup his cheeks. A single tear breaks free, cutting down her cheek like the first crack in glass. She doesn’t wipe it away, but instead shakes her head and stretches onto her toes, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s soft and trembling, warm with sorrow; brief, and barely there.
"I didn’t think it would upset you like this," she whispers, her voice fragile but honest, as if truth might help stitch the pieces back together. She'd imagined him grinning and ridiculous, stripping off his boardshorts with a showman's flair and twirling them above his head before flopping into the hot tub like a sun-drunk merman. Maybe doing the helicopter. Definitely doing the helicopter. That’s the version she’d expected; the one who always met the world with bright eyes and crooked grins. But this version? This sharp, distant one who’d told her to go? She doesn’t know what to do with him, but nor can she stand the distance between them.
She sinks back down onto her heels, her hands slipping from his jaw to rest over his chest like she’s trying to feel if the heartbeat beneath it still matches hers. "I still don’t really understand," she murmurs, and the words feel like a failing. She didn't understand if it was nudity in general, or because the hottub was small, or if it was Danta and Asta, or if it was her, or some combination of it all. In the long run it probably mattered, but right now her skin still echoes with the way his voice went cold, and she still feels the splinters of just go buried beneath her ribs, opening up old wounds and exposing her deepest insecurities to the starless night. "But we don't have to go in. I want to stay with you."
When he says she’s never been like this either, her breath catches. Her lashes flicker upward, something defensive stirring, but it dies quickly, drowned out by the sickly feeling of being in an actual fight with him. She shakes her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I’m sorry." She swallows, her arms curling in slightly as if she might hold herself still against the shiver that keeps rising in her spine. "Their comfort isn’t all that matters to me," she says. "At least...not more than yours."
"I didn’t think it would upset you like this," she whispers, her voice fragile but honest, as if truth might help stitch the pieces back together. She'd imagined him grinning and ridiculous, stripping off his boardshorts with a showman's flair and twirling them above his head before flopping into the hot tub like a sun-drunk merman. Maybe doing the helicopter. Definitely doing the helicopter. That’s the version she’d expected; the one who always met the world with bright eyes and crooked grins. But this version? This sharp, distant one who’d told her to go? She doesn’t know what to do with him, but nor can she stand the distance between them.
She sinks back down onto her heels, her hands slipping from his jaw to rest over his chest like she’s trying to feel if the heartbeat beneath it still matches hers. "I still don’t really understand," she murmurs, and the words feel like a failing. She didn't understand if it was nudity in general, or because the hottub was small, or if it was Danta and Asta, or if it was her, or some combination of it all. In the long run it probably mattered, but right now her skin still echoes with the way his voice went cold, and she still feels the splinters of just go buried beneath her ribs, opening up old wounds and exposing her deepest insecurities to the starless night. "But we don't have to go in. I want to stay with you."
When he says she’s never been like this either, her breath catches. Her lashes flicker upward, something defensive stirring, but it dies quickly, drowned out by the sickly feeling of being in an actual fight with him. She shakes her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I’m sorry." She swallows, her arms curling in slightly as if she might hold herself still against the shiver that keeps rising in her spine. "Their comfort isn’t all that matters to me," she says. "At least...not more than yours."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
