your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
It isn’t the words themselves that land the hardest—though gods know sticking it in our daughter will echo far longer than it should—it’s the way Ronin shrugs them off like they were nothing more than a slip of old habits that she's absolutely certain he doesn't have.
Flora stares at him across the kitchen, her expression slowly hardening with each second that passes, because what hurts more than the vulgarity is the realisation that he doesn’t seem to care that in making Kaisel the butt of his joke, he dragged her dignity through the oil right alongside him. That in this house she built, this room she filled with warmth and effort and people she loves, he could still talk about her like she was just some object that Kaisel's dick had come across.
Her breath tightens in her chest as a sharp prickle begins to burn at the corners of her eyes, the kind of ache that promises tears not from fragility but from the tension of holding them back. She doesn’t want to cry, not here, not over this, and certainly not in front of someone who’s just proven he thinks so little of her that he can use her body as a punchline and still expect her to smile.
But then Kaisel's hand finds hers.
It isn’t flashy, not some grand gesture to draw the room's attention, but it hits her with all the force of a rescue. His fingers close around hers and she clings back instinctively, the first quick squeeze shaky with emotion, the second more certain, the third sealing something unspoken between them. As she turns toward him, her gaze lifts to meet his, and though she has no idea how much of what she’s feeling he’ll be able to read on her face, she offers it all to him freely. The grief blooming in her chest, the sense of betrayal and disappointment in Ronin that chokes at the back of her throat, the gratitude that surges through her at the way he stood beside her with easy charm instead of retreating, and the comfort—gods, the relief—that he is here, steady and whole, and still hers.
His smile is soft, so casual it might pass for nothing at all, but the moment it lands on her it melts the frost that had begun to wrap itself around her ribs. The bitterness doesn’t vanish entirely. but it recedes enough for her to exhale and let something gentler return to her voice. "End of Leafchange," she echoes, her head tilting slightly as her eyes remain locked on his. The corner of her mouth curves upward, not into a smirk or a grin but into something tender. "It feels like so much longer than that, though."
Flora stares at him across the kitchen, her expression slowly hardening with each second that passes, because what hurts more than the vulgarity is the realisation that he doesn’t seem to care that in making Kaisel the butt of his joke, he dragged her dignity through the oil right alongside him. That in this house she built, this room she filled with warmth and effort and people she loves, he could still talk about her like she was just some object that Kaisel's dick had come across.
Her breath tightens in her chest as a sharp prickle begins to burn at the corners of her eyes, the kind of ache that promises tears not from fragility but from the tension of holding them back. She doesn’t want to cry, not here, not over this, and certainly not in front of someone who’s just proven he thinks so little of her that he can use her body as a punchline and still expect her to smile.
But then Kaisel's hand finds hers.
It isn’t flashy, not some grand gesture to draw the room's attention, but it hits her with all the force of a rescue. His fingers close around hers and she clings back instinctively, the first quick squeeze shaky with emotion, the second more certain, the third sealing something unspoken between them. As she turns toward him, her gaze lifts to meet his, and though she has no idea how much of what she’s feeling he’ll be able to read on her face, she offers it all to him freely. The grief blooming in her chest, the sense of betrayal and disappointment in Ronin that chokes at the back of her throat, the gratitude that surges through her at the way he stood beside her with easy charm instead of retreating, and the comfort—gods, the relief—that he is here, steady and whole, and still hers.
His smile is soft, so casual it might pass for nothing at all, but the moment it lands on her it melts the frost that had begun to wrap itself around her ribs. The bitterness doesn’t vanish entirely. but it recedes enough for her to exhale and let something gentler return to her voice. "End of Leafchange," she echoes, her head tilting slightly as her eyes remain locked on his. The corner of her mouth curves upward, not into a smirk or a grin but into something tender. "It feels like so much longer than that, though."
