i see nothing better, i'll keep him forever, like a vendetta
The weight of Jack’s steps travels through her boards and into the long curve of her spine, and she tracks it the way the tide tracks the moon such that by the time he reaches his cabin, she’s already there. The exchange still hums through her timbers, though; the sharpness of it, the way voices cut and pressed and circled. It sits in her like a reef just beneath the surface, not rage, not quite, but a tightness in the grain.
So she lists just enough to knock the coin from Jack’s desk, the small metallic strike against wood bright and precise, and as he steps in front of his door it opens for him without hesitation. Lanternlight spills across polished grain and chart edges, across the quiet discipline of his space, and there she is, seated atop his desk as though she has always belonged there, as though the wood rose to cradle her instead of the other way round. Her posture isn’t loose, though. There’s a coiled stillness in it, a held line with her shoulders squared just slightly, chin lifted a fraction too high. Annoyance lives in the set of her mouth, in the faint narrowing of her eyes, the memory of that negotiation still pricking beneath her skin.
But when he appears in the doorway, all of it tightens into focus and then everything else falls away. On the desk beside her waits a shot of dark rum in a chilled glass, one she plucks up to hold out for him, her gaze fixed and unwavering now, the sea’s quiet claim resting in the curve of her mouth as she waits for him to step fully inside.
So she lists just enough to knock the coin from Jack’s desk, the small metallic strike against wood bright and precise, and as he steps in front of his door it opens for him without hesitation. Lanternlight spills across polished grain and chart edges, across the quiet discipline of his space, and there she is, seated atop his desk as though she has always belonged there, as though the wood rose to cradle her instead of the other way round. Her posture isn’t loose, though. There’s a coiled stillness in it, a held line with her shoulders squared just slightly, chin lifted a fraction too high. Annoyance lives in the set of her mouth, in the faint narrowing of her eyes, the memory of that negotiation still pricking beneath her skin.
But when he appears in the doorway, all of it tightens into focus and then everything else falls away. On the desk beside her waits a shot of dark rum in a chilled glass, one she plucks up to hold out for him, her gaze fixed and unwavering now, the sea’s quiet claim resting in the curve of her mouth as she waits for him to step fully inside.
i see how this is gonna go, touch me and you'll never be alone
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
