flora
Flora’s frown deepens as she takes in the scrapes along his knees, the way his sleeve still smoulders despite his efforts to bat it out, and instinct nudges past sense before she can stop it. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and draws out a small flask, holding it out toward him without stepping any closer, careful not to close the distance he has so deliberately carved between them. "Torchline’s healing fountain water can be used anywhere now," she says quietly, the words half an offering and half an explanation, trailing off because she does not trust herself to say more without something in her chest giving way, or to use her healing ring.
Her gaze flicks back to the fire as it bends toward him, confusion knitting briefly between her brows. Fire had never been his to control, and the thought lodges somewhere to be worried over later when she has time to make the connection between the fire on board the Ark the letter she'd sent Jack, filed away with all the other things she has learned too late. Right now, she is caught between the sharp instinct to put distance between them before this becomes something volatile, and the aching pull of a moment she knows she will never get again.
He has what he came for, she can see that. The certainty of his leaving hums beneath everything, setting her nerves on edge as her thoughts ricochet through all the spaces left unfinished, the words unsaid, the locked room in her house she still cannot bring herself to empty, the way storms have learned how to sound like him and how some nights she still can't sleep because of them.
"Jack..." she says softly, his name a fragile thing in her mouth, trailing off, doubtful whether there is any chance at all that it would be enough to make him stay.
Her gaze flicks back to the fire as it bends toward him, confusion knitting briefly between her brows. Fire had never been his to control, and the thought lodges somewhere to be worried over later when she has time to make the connection between the fire on board the Ark the letter she'd sent Jack, filed away with all the other things she has learned too late. Right now, she is caught between the sharp instinct to put distance between them before this becomes something volatile, and the aching pull of a moment she knows she will never get again.
He has what he came for, she can see that. The certainty of his leaving hums beneath everything, setting her nerves on edge as her thoughts ricochet through all the spaces left unfinished, the words unsaid, the locked room in her house she still cannot bring herself to empty, the way storms have learned how to sound like him and how some nights she still can't sleep because of them.
"Jack..." she says softly, his name a fragile thing in her mouth, trailing off, doubtful whether there is any chance at all that it would be enough to make him stay.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
