Whether I'm gonna curse you out or
Take you back to my house
Take you back to my house
Flora opens her mouth like she might argue, but laughter bubbles out instead, soft and a little watery. "Better whiplash than finding out she passed out on the beach somewhere," she says, shaking her head. The image of Melita face-down in the sand draws another laugh from her, lighter this time, the sound lifting through the steam rising off the hot water he’s conjured.
When Sunjata pulls her close, she lets herself go boneless against him, cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. It’s easier not to fight it, easier to let him hold the weight she can’t quite scrub away. She nods, slow and sad, because she knows it’s childish—to think doing the right thing should mean the path would glow clean and easy, all sunshine and applause. Choices don’t work that way; she knows that now, in the ache between breaths.
Her gaze lifts when he talks about Haai and Nate, lashes still damp. She frowns softly, blinking back fresh tears. She’s never lost someone like that, not a bond burned out of her chest, but she knows the emptiness he means. The way it sets up shop in your ribs and refuses to leave. After Enzo, she’d done the same thing: locked every door she had and called it independence.
A quiet sniff escapes her before she speaks again, her voice small enough to almost get lost in his shirt. "I made a room for him," she admits, swallowing thickly. "For Jack. In my house." The confession trembles out of her, barely above a whisper. "He’s never seen it, and probably never will, but I can’t bring myself to empty it out or use it for anything else." Her eyes drop, fixed on the wall, on the way the mud slides sluggishly down the plaster as if it’s listening too.
When Sunjata pretends her nudge hurt, the corner of her mouth twitches, and this time the smile that blooms is real, small but sincere. She sniffles once, then chuckles, the sound half laugh, half sigh. "Hmmm," she says, nodding toward the stubborn smear of mud still clinging near the baseboard. "Think any of your clientele might have a thing for muddy walls?"
When Sunjata pulls her close, she lets herself go boneless against him, cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. It’s easier not to fight it, easier to let him hold the weight she can’t quite scrub away. She nods, slow and sad, because she knows it’s childish—to think doing the right thing should mean the path would glow clean and easy, all sunshine and applause. Choices don’t work that way; she knows that now, in the ache between breaths.
Her gaze lifts when he talks about Haai and Nate, lashes still damp. She frowns softly, blinking back fresh tears. She’s never lost someone like that, not a bond burned out of her chest, but she knows the emptiness he means. The way it sets up shop in your ribs and refuses to leave. After Enzo, she’d done the same thing: locked every door she had and called it independence.
A quiet sniff escapes her before she speaks again, her voice small enough to almost get lost in his shirt. "I made a room for him," she admits, swallowing thickly. "For Jack. In my house." The confession trembles out of her, barely above a whisper. "He’s never seen it, and probably never will, but I can’t bring myself to empty it out or use it for anything else." Her eyes drop, fixed on the wall, on the way the mud slides sluggishly down the plaster as if it’s listening too.
When Sunjata pretends her nudge hurt, the corner of her mouth twitches, and this time the smile that blooms is real, small but sincere. She sniffles once, then chuckles, the sound half laugh, half sigh. "Hmmm," she says, nodding toward the stubborn smear of mud still clinging near the baseboard. "Think any of your clientele might have a thing for muddy walls?"
flora
I haven't decided yet
But I'm gonna get you back
But I'm gonna get you back
