and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
Flora looks down at Kaisel and, for a moment, the world narrows to the quiet gravity of his face beneath hers. It isn’t just what he looks like—though the moonlight sketches him handsomely, catching on the line of his jaw, the softness of his mouth when he isn’t guarding it with humour, the familiar strength of him laid open and unarmoured—it’s the way he feels to her. The way his presence steadies something restless inside her, the way her chest loosens simply because he is here, because he is looking at her like this, because loving him has never felt like falling so much as finally landing somewhere solid.
His fingers move through her curls with that slow, careful tenderness of his, and she smiles into it, eyes half-lidded, letting herself be held there. For just a heartbeat, doubt flickers in, sharp and unwanted. Not because she doubts him, but because he has said it before, said he would marry her easily, said it like a certainty rather than a dream. And now he says again that he would do it with nothing more than a hairtie, when there are half a dozen within reach, when the option is right there, and yet he doesn’t. Which, of course he doesn't, not on a night like this, but a thought slips in sideways anyway, quiet and insidious: that maybe you deserve more is another way of saying not yet, that maybe he wants her but isn’t ready for the rest of it.
Flora doesn’t let the thought stay long enough to settle. She knows how dangerous it is to let fear dress itself up as reason, especially on a night already bruised and raw. Her hand rises to his cheek, thumb warm against his skin, anchoring herself in the truth of him instead of the spiral of what-ifs. "What I want," she says quietly, firmly, "is to spend the rest of my life with you."
She shakes her head a little, as if clearing away the noise, her curls slipping free again beneath his touch. "I’ve never been engaged before, so maybe I’m supposed to care about the perfect story," she admits, a small, self-aware smile curving her mouth. "But right now it just feels like..." Her thumb traces his cheekbone, her gaze unwavering. "Being able to tell people how wonderful you are, or how stupidly, madly in love with you I am is what I'm really going to want to tell them." Her smile softens into something achingly sincere, her weight settling more comfortably against him. "Besides, how could the moment you actually ask not be special?"
His fingers move through her curls with that slow, careful tenderness of his, and she smiles into it, eyes half-lidded, letting herself be held there. For just a heartbeat, doubt flickers in, sharp and unwanted. Not because she doubts him, but because he has said it before, said he would marry her easily, said it like a certainty rather than a dream. And now he says again that he would do it with nothing more than a hairtie, when there are half a dozen within reach, when the option is right there, and yet he doesn’t. Which, of course he doesn't, not on a night like this, but a thought slips in sideways anyway, quiet and insidious: that maybe you deserve more is another way of saying not yet, that maybe he wants her but isn’t ready for the rest of it.
Flora doesn’t let the thought stay long enough to settle. She knows how dangerous it is to let fear dress itself up as reason, especially on a night already bruised and raw. Her hand rises to his cheek, thumb warm against his skin, anchoring herself in the truth of him instead of the spiral of what-ifs. "What I want," she says quietly, firmly, "is to spend the rest of my life with you."
She shakes her head a little, as if clearing away the noise, her curls slipping free again beneath his touch. "I’ve never been engaged before, so maybe I’m supposed to care about the perfect story," she admits, a small, self-aware smile curving her mouth. "But right now it just feels like..." Her thumb traces his cheekbone, her gaze unwavering. "Being able to tell people how wonderful you are, or how stupidly, madly in love with you I am is what I'm really going to want to tell them." Her smile softens into something achingly sincere, her weight settling more comfortably against him. "Besides, how could the moment you actually ask not be special?"
