i could be the reason you can't sleep at night
Flora’s jaw drops open, the reaction as immediate as it is unfiltered, though there’s something in it that isn’t just theatrics, something that lands a fraction heavier in her chest than she expects as the words burning down settle into place. She blinks at Colt, once, twice, as if that might rearrange the sentence into something less final, but it doesn’t, and the way Colt keeps moving, keeps dragging steel across stone like she’s listing off inventory instead of a life, makes something tighten quietly beneath Flora’s ribs.
"Oh fuck," she exhales, the word slipping out softer than usual as she shifts her weight, the easy lean she’d taken up at the table faltering just enough that she has to catch herself with a hand against the wood.
Her gaze drifts, not away, but closer, watching the set of Colt’s shoulders, the narrowing of her focus, the way everything about her pulls inward and sharpens down to the blade like it’s the only thing she can afford to feel properly. Flora’s mouth presses briefly to one side, a flicker of something more thoughtful than teasing threading through her expression, the pieces of it clicking together in the quiet spaces between Colt’s words.
And then the sky split; the sound rips through the harbour, high and wrong and screaming, and Flora recoils before she can stop herself, hands flying up to cover her ears as the afterimage burns bright and ugly behind her eyes. For a moment she just stands there, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a curse, the world ringing in a way that feels too sharp, too close. "Gods—" she hisses, dragging in a breath as the sound fades, shoulders lifting before she forces them back down again, fingers slipping away from her ears as though the air itself might still bite.
Her gaze flicks upward, briefly accusing, before she exhales and shakes her head, a wry, apologetic twist tugging at her mouth as she glances back to Colt like this might somehow be hers to answer for given they were in her region. "Yeah, sorry," she says, the words edged with a rueful sort of humour. "The rain’s been a bitch lately." The joke lands thin, and Flora doesn’t try to push it further. Instead, her attention drops quickly to Colt’s hand, to the bead of red welling where the blade slipped, and before she quite thinks about it she’s already reaching out, fingers closing gently but decisively around Colt’s. The ring on her hand pulses once, a soft, golden flicker beneath her skin as it works, knitting the cut cleanly back together in seconds.
Her lips twitch to the side as she releases her, gaze lifting again, sharper now, more deliberate. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, the question direct, no softness padding it out. "I could lean on the Gilded Market a bit, get materials, labour, whatever you need to rebuild. Or at least not start from nothing." A pause, brief but considering, her brows lifting slightly as another thought slots into place. "Do you need somewhere to stay?"
"Oh fuck," she exhales, the word slipping out softer than usual as she shifts her weight, the easy lean she’d taken up at the table faltering just enough that she has to catch herself with a hand against the wood.
Her gaze drifts, not away, but closer, watching the set of Colt’s shoulders, the narrowing of her focus, the way everything about her pulls inward and sharpens down to the blade like it’s the only thing she can afford to feel properly. Flora’s mouth presses briefly to one side, a flicker of something more thoughtful than teasing threading through her expression, the pieces of it clicking together in the quiet spaces between Colt’s words.
And then the sky split; the sound rips through the harbour, high and wrong and screaming, and Flora recoils before she can stop herself, hands flying up to cover her ears as the afterimage burns bright and ugly behind her eyes. For a moment she just stands there, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a curse, the world ringing in a way that feels too sharp, too close. "Gods—" she hisses, dragging in a breath as the sound fades, shoulders lifting before she forces them back down again, fingers slipping away from her ears as though the air itself might still bite.
Her gaze flicks upward, briefly accusing, before she exhales and shakes her head, a wry, apologetic twist tugging at her mouth as she glances back to Colt like this might somehow be hers to answer for given they were in her region. "Yeah, sorry," she says, the words edged with a rueful sort of humour. "The rain’s been a bitch lately." The joke lands thin, and Flora doesn’t try to push it further. Instead, her attention drops quickly to Colt’s hand, to the bead of red welling where the blade slipped, and before she quite thinks about it she’s already reaching out, fingers closing gently but decisively around Colt’s. The ring on her hand pulses once, a soft, golden flicker beneath her skin as it works, knitting the cut cleanly back together in seconds.
Her lips twitch to the side as she releases her, gaze lifting again, sharper now, more deliberate. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, the question direct, no softness padding it out. "I could lean on the Gilded Market a bit, get materials, labour, whatever you need to rebuild. Or at least not start from nothing." A pause, brief but considering, her brows lifting slightly as another thought slots into place. "Do you need somewhere to stay?"
