a cold shoulder at closin' time
Vesper's jaw tightens before anything else does, tongue pressing slow along the inside of his teeth in a gesture that’s as much bracing as it is derisive, a quiet cluck of disappointment slipping out beneath his breath. When he lifts his gaze back to her, the look he levels is cool enough to frost over the Glade’s warm air. "Good to know the way I feel counts as bullshit in your mind."
The words leave him in a smooth, unbroken current, not raised, not sharp, but carrying the heavy drag of something weighted and worn. Her scoff about the letter cuts through that current, and he inhales a hiss through his teeth, rolling his eyes toward the canopy with a short, bitter exhale before cutting cleanly across her words. "Or any godsdamn thing that wouldn't make it seem like you just used me, Colt," he snaps, the pace still controlled, still unbroken, even as the emotion sits raw beneath it. "Without a single fuckin’ thought for what it might do to me."
She throws her shame at him like a lantern into oil, telling him she’d cried over him, slept with the ache of missing him, and he doesn’t let the blow land anywhere soft. His head shakes once, stiff and minimal, offering no comfort, no bridge, not even a quiet space to place her hurt. Whatever pain she’d shouldered after that connection had been her decision, and it had sliced through them both in ways he’s still fighting not to acknowledge especially since she clearly won't.
It might have been different if the timeline didn’t line up exactly the way it does in his mind, if he hadn’t left her farmhouse with the faintest spark of hope that she would come visit, if he hadn’t been yanked back into her world by the channeling she now tries to minimize, if she hadn’t vanished after that without so much as a breath of explanation or intention. And then the festival—bright lights, the roar of the crowd, the kiss he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from no matter how much he’d wanted to, the precise, deliberate slide of her mouth against Thal’s—all of it unfurling in a way that makes Thalassa's part in it impossible to ignore.
So when she demands to know why she should come running to him with questions, why she should seek out his side of things as if every fight in the world requires a debrief, his jaw feathers with the strain of holding everything steady. As her frustration spikes, her disbelief flaring bright against the edges of his mind even without his telepathy, it hits him with the force of a tide against rock. His fingers rise to rake through his hair, not with flourish but with a restless, fraying need to find something resembling silence in the noise of her emotions crashing through his telepathy like a storm.
And then she laughs—sharp and sour and aimed straight at him—and whatever grip he had on composure slips just enough to break the last thread holding him there. He shakes his head, slow at first and then harder, a refusal that travels through his shoulders and down the set of his spine. The space between them seems to tighten before he pulls out of it entirely, turning away with a clean, final pivot that leaves the air cold where he’d been standing. "I ain’t doin’ this with you, Colt." It isn't an ultimatum nor a retreat meant to pull her after him. Just a line drawn with the same precision he uses for every cut that lands exactly where he means it to.
The words leave him in a smooth, unbroken current, not raised, not sharp, but carrying the heavy drag of something weighted and worn. Her scoff about the letter cuts through that current, and he inhales a hiss through his teeth, rolling his eyes toward the canopy with a short, bitter exhale before cutting cleanly across her words. "Or any godsdamn thing that wouldn't make it seem like you just used me, Colt," he snaps, the pace still controlled, still unbroken, even as the emotion sits raw beneath it. "Without a single fuckin’ thought for what it might do to me."
She throws her shame at him like a lantern into oil, telling him she’d cried over him, slept with the ache of missing him, and he doesn’t let the blow land anywhere soft. His head shakes once, stiff and minimal, offering no comfort, no bridge, not even a quiet space to place her hurt. Whatever pain she’d shouldered after that connection had been her decision, and it had sliced through them both in ways he’s still fighting not to acknowledge especially since she clearly won't.
It might have been different if the timeline didn’t line up exactly the way it does in his mind, if he hadn’t left her farmhouse with the faintest spark of hope that she would come visit, if he hadn’t been yanked back into her world by the channeling she now tries to minimize, if she hadn’t vanished after that without so much as a breath of explanation or intention. And then the festival—bright lights, the roar of the crowd, the kiss he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from no matter how much he’d wanted to, the precise, deliberate slide of her mouth against Thal’s—all of it unfurling in a way that makes Thalassa's part in it impossible to ignore.
So when she demands to know why she should come running to him with questions, why she should seek out his side of things as if every fight in the world requires a debrief, his jaw feathers with the strain of holding everything steady. As her frustration spikes, her disbelief flaring bright against the edges of his mind even without his telepathy, it hits him with the force of a tide against rock. His fingers rise to rake through his hair, not with flourish but with a restless, fraying need to find something resembling silence in the noise of her emotions crashing through his telepathy like a storm.
And then she laughs—sharp and sour and aimed straight at him—and whatever grip he had on composure slips just enough to break the last thread holding him there. He shakes his head, slow at first and then harder, a refusal that travels through his shoulders and down the set of his spine. The space between them seems to tighten before he pulls out of it entirely, turning away with a clean, final pivot that leaves the air cold where he’d been standing. "I ain’t doin’ this with you, Colt." It isn't an ultimatum nor a retreat meant to pull her after him. Just a line drawn with the same precision he uses for every cut that lands exactly where he means it to.
you were beggin' me to stay 'til the sun rose
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
