flora
She giggles, helplessly, as the fluff of his hair brushes her forehead, each twitch of his laughter sending little puffs of warmth against her skin like dandelion seeds on a breeze, weightless and soft and too much all at once. Her fingers twist with his as if trying to anchor something, anything, even as her heart flutters like a caught bird, wings skimming ribs, and when she looks down and sees it—her ring pressed to the place where his will be, orange and blue grazing like a promise they've just made but already live by—she forgets how to breathe entirely. The world pulls in tight around the little patch of skin where their wrists touch, where the colours kiss, where they’ve left themselves visible on each other like sunprint shadows, and gods, it makes her stomach flip inside out in the most unreasonable way. Like falling. Like flying. Like she’ll never quite hit the ground again.
"You know what I just realized?" she breathes, the words drifting out like petals. "That one day, we’re gonna look back at this exact moment," she says, squeezing his hand so he knows she means now, with their legs tangled and hair messy and her whole soul curled around the sound of his heartbeat, "and say ohhh, we were so young, and we’ll reminiscece about all the things we've done since and how many wrinkles we have." Her throat tightens suddenly, not with sadness but with wonder, her lashes fluttering as she swallows it down, the moment crystallising even as it breathes beneath her. "But it’ll always be this moment," she whispers, her eyes darting over his face like she’s trying to memorise the angles of it—not just how he looks, but how he feels, how this feels—"this exact heartbeat, this exact breath, that changed everything. And I'm never going to forget it." Her smile flickers with something caught between awe and disbelief, as if the weight of knowing a memory while it’s still unfolding might shatter her if she holds it too tightly.
As he closes one eye—that sleepy, boyish squint that makes her chest ache—she reaches up to gently run her finger beneath his lashes, slow and featherlight, as though she could commit them to memory by touch alone. He peeks at her and she freezes mid-motion, caught, wide-eyed, like a girl who'd been caught in the act of scribbling a boy's last name next to hers. The reverence of it all blooms too brightly in her chest and she lets her hand slip quietly back to his heart, tucking herself into the safety of his warmth with a breath that’s just shy of shaky.
"I was thinking that too," she says, quieter now, as if something fragile has crept into the space between them. Her thumb traces idle circles over the beat beneath her palm. "How wild it is. That out of everyone in the world, and all the places we could have ended up, we still found each other." Her voice hums with disbelief and softness, with the kind of love that has teeth and history and still somehow feels too miraculous to name. Her eyes don’t stay in one place, they skip and bounce across his face like stones over water, catching on the corner of his mouth, the line of his cheek, the lashes she just touched, the impossible tenderness she feels for all of it. "That first night," she murmurs, almost bashfully, "I said I wanted you like you loved me." The memory tastes sweet on her tongue, especially now. "And you said you didn’t know another way."
Her voice falters for a moment, not because she doubts it, but because she doesn’t. Because she still feels it, all of it, every bit of the way he looked at her like she was something he’d been aching to love his whole life. She bites at the inside of her lip, a flush creeping along her cheeks, and leans in to brush her nose against his—not quite a kiss, not quite not—her breath feathering against his. "I believed you then," she says, laughing softly, a private, glowing thing. "Even before you shouted it in the marketplace."
There had been lows, gods had there been lows. Shouting and silence and too many maybes. Times they’d hurt each other, or just missed each other completely, like ships passing in opposite storms. And yet. And yet. "I wouldn’t change any of it," she whispers, her voice fierce with conviction now, her arms tightening slightly around him. "Because it’s all part of our story."
"You know what I just realized?" she breathes, the words drifting out like petals. "That one day, we’re gonna look back at this exact moment," she says, squeezing his hand so he knows she means now, with their legs tangled and hair messy and her whole soul curled around the sound of his heartbeat, "and say ohhh, we were so young, and we’ll reminiscece about all the things we've done since and how many wrinkles we have." Her throat tightens suddenly, not with sadness but with wonder, her lashes fluttering as she swallows it down, the moment crystallising even as it breathes beneath her. "But it’ll always be this moment," she whispers, her eyes darting over his face like she’s trying to memorise the angles of it—not just how he looks, but how he feels, how this feels—"this exact heartbeat, this exact breath, that changed everything. And I'm never going to forget it." Her smile flickers with something caught between awe and disbelief, as if the weight of knowing a memory while it’s still unfolding might shatter her if she holds it too tightly.
As he closes one eye—that sleepy, boyish squint that makes her chest ache—she reaches up to gently run her finger beneath his lashes, slow and featherlight, as though she could commit them to memory by touch alone. He peeks at her and she freezes mid-motion, caught, wide-eyed, like a girl who'd been caught in the act of scribbling a boy's last name next to hers. The reverence of it all blooms too brightly in her chest and she lets her hand slip quietly back to his heart, tucking herself into the safety of his warmth with a breath that’s just shy of shaky.
"I was thinking that too," she says, quieter now, as if something fragile has crept into the space between them. Her thumb traces idle circles over the beat beneath her palm. "How wild it is. That out of everyone in the world, and all the places we could have ended up, we still found each other." Her voice hums with disbelief and softness, with the kind of love that has teeth and history and still somehow feels too miraculous to name. Her eyes don’t stay in one place, they skip and bounce across his face like stones over water, catching on the corner of his mouth, the line of his cheek, the lashes she just touched, the impossible tenderness she feels for all of it. "That first night," she murmurs, almost bashfully, "I said I wanted you like you loved me." The memory tastes sweet on her tongue, especially now. "And you said you didn’t know another way."
Her voice falters for a moment, not because she doubts it, but because she doesn’t. Because she still feels it, all of it, every bit of the way he looked at her like she was something he’d been aching to love his whole life. She bites at the inside of her lip, a flush creeping along her cheeks, and leans in to brush her nose against his—not quite a kiss, not quite not—her breath feathering against his. "I believed you then," she says, laughing softly, a private, glowing thing. "Even before you shouted it in the marketplace."
There had been lows, gods had there been lows. Shouting and silence and too many maybes. Times they’d hurt each other, or just missed each other completely, like ships passing in opposite storms. And yet. And yet. "I wouldn’t change any of it," she whispers, her voice fierce with conviction now, her arms tightening slightly around him. "Because it’s all part of our story."
Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness
'Cause it's all over now, all out to sea
'Cause it's all over now, all out to sea
