Baby in the sun like the Teletubbies

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

There will always be a next time. Sometimes his fault...most of the time his fault, but sometimes not! He just grunts in response, the humor not lost on him but not sticking either. Sure, it's a wake up call, and consider him thoroughly woken. It doesn't stop what he wants to do, but he recognizes now the steps he has to take before considering it again. Stronger—he has to become stronger.

He watches her carefully as she explains the whole package that is her static-charged ex. He doesn't fail to note the way she only describes how dangerous he is, the warning she's offering. There's none of the sadness he recalls from earlier, nor the ire he might expect given the situation. "You're talking to him again, aren't you?" There's a question there, but it's more of an accusation, wrapped a bit in disbelief as he shakes his head, like he already knows the answer. She was wrecked before, and though by now he'd hope she'd have the strength to pick herself up and move on, she doesn't sound like someone who's done with this lord of the underbelly.

If that's the case, did he just almost die for actually nothing? Not that he'd accomplished anything, but he wouldn't have even opened his fat mouth at all if he suspected.

Fuck's sake, he didn't want to keep wasting energy and breath on this piece of shit. Unfortunately, he has to know, bad enough that it overshadows the deep desire he always has for popsicles and just wasting the day with Flora like everything is alright and not askew. So while he glances the way she motions, he doesn't move to stand, not yet.

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

Her head jerks back like he’s just asked if she’d taken up knitting with Dahlia. [sayt]"What? No—well, yes, but not like that," she says, baffled by the sudden shift and the tone behind it.

Maybe she’s still riding the high of Sohalia’s support, or maybe it’s just that Kaisel’s disbelief needles something raw and sore inside her—but she finds herself getting defensive. "I talked to him," she says, arms folding tight across her chest. "When I saw him coming back from Starfall alone, because I knew Hadama had been headed that way and I wanted to know what had happened." Actually she'd tried to signal a mayday but got her flags wrong, but either way, the Ark had stopped. "I talked to him about how he didn't kill you."

But of course that wasn't where the story ended. Her shoulders sink slightly as she exhales. "And then we got into another fight about who was right or, I guess, the most wrong in our breakup. He said I meant nothing to him and told me to just go." Her voice is quieter now, bitter like seawater caught in the throat. "And then, like..like two days later I ran into him on the pier and he was just...nice. Like nothing had happened." Actually he hadn't been nice, he'd been in wild amounts of psychic pain that rendered him basically unable to argue with her, which sometimes amounted to the same thing.

Flora shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement, a scowl pulling at her lips. "If that counts as talking, then fine. Sure." Her gaze drifts past Kaisel to the horizon, her arms still crossed, body language stiff and shut. "But I didn’t exactly send him a letter sealed with hearts and rose petals, if that’s what you’re accusing me of."

The guilt creeps in then, twisting beneath her ribs, evident in the way she fidgets with one of her bracelets and doesn’t quite meet his eyes. If Kai had wanted to see if she was still upset about the captain well, congrats kiddo.

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

A bit of tension eases when she answers him, even if there’s an edge to it, even if it’s exactly what he didn’t want to hear said aloud. Still, she frames it well—whether for his benefit or her own. She makes it sound like each conversation had been necessary. Though, that’s the trick, isn’t it? Want something bad enough, even poison, and you’ll find a way to dress up want as need. The mind doesn’t even need permission, it disguises reality until you’re comfortable enough to believe it—just long enough to feel good.

"Didn't know Torchline was such a small place," he says dryly, "guess I really will have to watch my back around here if bumping into him is that easy." He doesn't miss the stress she places on the way these talks all happened in the past, suggesting she isn't planning to talk to him again any time soon, but Kaisel suspects that won't be the truth. Even if she doesn't mean to, she will. Because he's the one who left her, so her heart's still in it. Beaten up and bruised, sure, but still there, a part of it at least. Pain only lasts so long; it has to fade or you can't keep waking up every day and dealing with it. Your mind will start to build something around it all, to protect you, and looking back on it with that rosy tint sure feels a lot better than the stark truth of it.

Kaisel smirks, the heat, all the heat, starting to subside. "Yeah, when I met him on the beach, he was nice too." So she's not talking to him again, not exactly. But, she's not over him. She's not back under him though, and that's something he supposes.

He reaches out for her hand as she fidgets with her jewelry, just needing the touch, the reassurance that they're good now. That she got out everything that she wanted to yell at him about, and that he, weirdly, got out his annoyance that she still thinks so highly of her ex, something that he might realize later shouldn't have bothered him so much in the first place. Measuring strength and coming up short is never Kaisel's preference, and seeing his friends hurt is even lower on the list, but he wouldn't normally attempt to pick a fight over it.

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

"Yeah, Torchline is a small place," she mutters, sharper than she means it to be. "When you’re banned from half of it." The words come out too hard, too fast, but she doesn’t take them back. Can’t. Not when she’s already feeling the slow compression of every well-meaning comment, every sideways glance, every are you sure this is the right choice, Flora? that’s been following her like a shadow across the sand. Her exile from the city wasn’t supposed to feel like a punishment, not when she was doing it to protect people, but it does. Lately, everything does.

She startles a little when his fingers wrap around hers. At first, her own don’t respond—hollow and unbothered like a limp leaf drifting on the tide. Too many things lately have reached for her only to push her away, and she’s tired. Tired in a way that even her own brightness can’t always mask. Between the Koa and Sohalia of it all, Jack, her fight with Ronin, and now whatever the fuck had just tried to bristl between she and Kai, her trust is splintered in too many places to name and fuck if she isn't just over all of it.

But then again, Kai had never been someone she could be cross at for long, not with his stupid face that she adored and his even more stupid antics. So, after a moment, her fingers curl in, slow and soft and warm again. "I need a vacation," she murmurs instead, voice dry with that humourless kind of laughter that only comes from being one step away from throwing yourself into the sea.

Then, pulling her bag open with her free hand, she rummages for a moment before pressing a slightly smushed bag of gummy worms against his chest. Her mouth curls into something sly, a flicker of her usual self resurfacing. "Alright, you’ve suffered enough. Even I’m not cruel enough to leave you without a palate cleanser." She rises before he can offer a comeback, brushing sand from the hem of her sundress and grabbing his hand again to drag him up with her. There’s no dramatic flourish to it—just the resigned strength of someone who’s decided they’re done marinating in the mess of it all.

Casually, as they start to walk, she says, "Sooo, I was sparring the other day. With this hot ex-dragoon—y’know, the kind that probably has a tragic past and a six-pack made of angst." Her fingers flick in a dismissive gesture, though her voice stays light, almost amused. "Anyway, we’re in the sand, he ends up on top of me like a scene out of one of Mateo's books, everyone sweaty and breathing hard, and so I leaned up to kiss him." Flora shakes her head, scoffing under her breath. "He shoved himself off like I was hot oil. Literally scrambled backward. And the worst part?" She gives her head another disbelieving shake, her brows raised. "He sent me an apology letter after. Like that somehow that should make me feel less pathetic."

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

He regrets the prickle in his words the moment she responds. It’s not that he forgot, but he’s not the one burdened by it every day, like she is. He also hasn’t been here to see the subtle wear of it on her, and truth be told, he’s not sure he would’ve noticed—not if it happened gradually, like the sun setting while you're busy working. You acclimate to the small changes, not even realizing you're starting to squint, to lean in closer to the job, until suddenly you're hungry and you look up and its dark out and past bed time. He might’ve realized eventually, even without the bite she just delivered, when he got hungry and looked up and realized she used to smile more, that he hadn’t seen it shine too long.

Doesn't help that she hides it well. She's always been prone to sprinkle tendencies herself.

So when she does respond with the curl of her fingers, he let's out a breath he doesn't remember taking, and it even shakes out with a small laugh. "Let's go then. Right now." Anywhere, just not Haulani, but surely that doesn't even count as a vacation. He means it too, eyes bright as he holds her with them, his thumb rolling over the curl of her knuckles in apology and comfort.

Because she cannot remain still though, as previously established, she's fishing out a little sweet treat. He glances down at it pressed against his chest, expression instantly alight with pure joy. "You got 'em!" he crows, smiling into a crinkle of his eyes behind his shades. "Hell yeah Flo-ro," and much as he'd prefer never to let go of her hand again, the gummy worms are calling.

He tears into the bag without much concern for it retaining its shape, tugging out a clump and popping them into his mouth with a satisfied hum, like some wiggly sugar is worth licking the edge of the sun. Tilting his head back to drop more in, he rises after her, his crumpled shirt tucked under an arm while the other offers the bag out to her.

He glances sidelong at her as she tells her story, one 'brow arching at one point over his glasses and a smirk erupting at the end. "You probably just had really bad breath that day, so honestly, don't blame him." Kaisel shrugs, as if he's had to endure it before. "He probably had a wet dream about you that night, yanno, when he couldn't smell you, and realized he fumbled the bag. Betcha he sealed a kiss in that letter and you let it float away." Seems like something some angsty abs would do.

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

If he’d said anything else—made a joke, deflected, asked her where or when—maybe she wouldn’t feel it so acutely. But Kaisel, sweet wonderful dumbass Kaisel, just says Let’s go then. Right now! And for a second, she really believes they could. For a second, it’s just them and nothing in the world is broken. Like she could grab the Sugar Tide’s wheel and steer toward nowhere in particular, with gummy worms and no plan and Kai’s ridiculous playlists echoing off the waves. For a second, she lets herself have that image. The two of them yelling at each other over burnt eggs one morning (because they'd both thought the other one was dealing with it and had gone back to bed) before stepping out onto the deck and realising they don’t recognise a single landmark. A mapless life, following the stars and inside jokes. Her fingers tighten gently around his.

And then it passes. Reality lands heavy on her shoulders like it always does, dense and bone-deep. Because they don’t live in a starlit joke. Because she’s the Doubletake and he's her cousin's ex. Because her crown never comes off, nor does her last name. The Sugar Tide might be hers, but that dream? That kind of happiness? That never really has been.

She swallows the ache and masks it with a smile, rolling her eyes as he lights up like a bonfire at the sight of the worms. "Obviously I got them. I’m not a monster," she says, and as he tips his head back to devour them like some sugar-starved gremlin, she plucks one neatly from his open mouth and pops it between her lips. A shared crime, if nothing else.

And then he’s talking about her breath. Her breath.

Flora gasps—full drama, mouth wide—and then immediately exhales straight toward him with the kind of performative vengeance that would be offensive if her breath weren’t already laced with the sweet tang of artificial raspberry. "I never have bad breath," she declares with the same indignant pride one might reserve for defending a nation, giving his shoulder a shove for good measure. "I brush my teeth three times a day and floss, you absolute garden gnome."

Still, her hip bumps his as they start walking, steps syncing. Flora leans against him lightly, stealing comfort without making a scene of it. "If you were a scent in a candle that nobody buys but that the store insists on keeping in stock year-round..what would you be?"

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

Maybe the moment dissolves beneath the weight of gummy worms, but Kaisel’s still entirely on board with the idea of sailing off into the horizon, destination less important than just going. It doesn’t have to be forever, or even for long. Just enough to carve out a little happiness from the world—you can't wait for it to come, you have to take it. Life is not kind, or easy, or giving. So rip what enjoyment you can out of it; find all the hot ketchup moments amid the mustard and the horseradish. Besides, crowns are mostly ceremonial anyway, they sit on a shelf more than a head.

For the record, it'd be her fault if the eggs burned though.

He sniffs, deep, when she blows at him. "Hmm, it passes today," he says after a moment of analysis. "But there's no way you haven't had a few moments where you passed out drunk in bed and woke up with dick breath or cheese tongue." Never is an awfully strong commitment to stand by. He staggers dramatically at her shove, weaving around a passerby before drifting back to her side, gummy worm stretching between his teeth and hand before ripping in half with a bounce against his nose. "Garden gnomes are charming, so thank you."

An arm slips around her shoulders as she leans into him, so automatic and easy there's no thought to the action, no deeper impact of it other than a friendship that's a trail you’ve walked enough to find in the dark. His gummy worms shift into a pocket with the rearrangement, one or two dangling dangerously over the edge of the fabric, swaying with his every stride. "Hmm," he muses, glancing skyward as he thinks, like his thoughts are rattling around somewhere above him and he can pluck it down. "Mismatched Socks. Smells like fresh clothes, which is nice, but you're so fucking annoyed by the idea of losing socks every load you don't want a candle also reminding you about it." He looks expectantly across for her answer, but in their true style, he's got a question loaded for her too.

"Okay, if there's something you do every day, but you never had to do it again—zero consequences, nothing bad happens—what would it be? And I mean anything. Heart beating—but you don't die, blinking—but you don't get dry eyes, saying hi to that boring neighbor Janice..."

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

Flora recoils like she’s been cursed, hip slamming into Kai’s with mock outrage and scandalized flair. "You would know all about dick breath, wouldn’t you?" she accuses with a dramatic toss of her curls, nose wrinkling as if his very presence is now offensive.

Still, she’s laughing as he stumbles back into place beside her, and when he calls garden gnomes charming she just rolls her eyes. "Never said you weren’t charming," she mutters. "But they’re also short and dress like their laundry exploded on them, soooo., if the weird garden gnome shoe fits.." Her tone is flippant, but the warmth in her chest only grows as his arm finds her shoulders and hers, without thinking, loops snugly around his waist.

She listens to his candle description with a slow grin stretching across her face. "Mismatched Socks," she repeats, letting it roll around like a fine wine. "Gods, yeah. Then again there are times mismatched socks are like, a choice, y'know? So it makes sense that the store at least stocks that scent."

When it’s her turn, she scrunches her nose, tilting her head side to side as if weighing invisible options. "I," she begins, already clearly delighted with herself, "would probably be one of those bougie candles that’s like, so pretty and comes in a ceramic seashell or something and costs way too much, so you never light it. You just keep it on a shelf and go ‘ugh, I love that one’ and never commit. Big waste of potential. But aesthetic."

His follow-up has her laughing as they stroll, the question flaring behind her eyes like a firework. "Okay, okay, that’s good. Um—" She taps her lips. "I think...not having to breathe would be cool. Like, imagine all the diving I could do? OR," she perks, eyes glinting, "if I didn’t have to blink, I could glare at you forever and win every staring contest. I’d be terrifying."

She sighs, melodramatic. "But apparently I need to work on my breath if I ever want to get laid again, so I guess I’ll go with oral health." Really if she didn't have to consider dick breath, she'd have gone with shaving her legs. Alas. They take a few more steps, and she turns to him with a grin that practically gleams. "Okay, your turn. If you had to choose one meal that magically appeared in front of you for lunch every single day for the rest of your life—no prep, no cost, but you can’t change it—what are you eating forever?" And if he says vag, he will be getting a kick to the balls.

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

He looks at her like a small, second head has sprouted next to her main one and he can't quite trust his eyes. "What do you mean there's times mismatched socks are a choice?" he scoffs. "Maybe when that's all you have left because every load of laundry causes another one to go missing, but that's not a choice, it's the lack of one."

Still shaking his head over her sock crime, he laughs a bit at her candle description. "First of all," he says with a growing smile that he has to fight to talk around. "You didn't even answer your own question properly Flo-zo. You said scent." The hand over her shoulder flicks limply at her cheek in admonishment. "Second of all, I feel like that candle would sell out. People love that look. I think I saw one like it in literally everyone's bathroom growing up." He remembers one that looked especially edible, and one that lost all charm the second you poked it, which, of course, he did.

At her next answer, the not breathing, checks out for someone in Torchline. The not blinking is such an image however, he bursts out laughing. "That would be nightmare fuel." An involuntary shiver runs through him then, as if imagining her unblinking face looming out of the dark, all horrific folklore come true. She'd be intent on snatching him up at midnight because he forgot to leave a shiny bauble to appease her at his doorstep.

He gives her shoulders a playful shake, still laughing, when she finally lands on oral health. "Here I thought you never have bad breath," he pitches his voice higher in mockery, mimicking her words from earlier. "Good choice though, won't scare anyone off again. I would definitely pick never sleeping again. I'd have so much more time for activities." He could train even harder, for one.

He glances over at her as she turns to him with that sunbeam smile, the kind he reflects back in turn, warmed by her. "Hmmmm," he considers, "I want to say a burger, because that’s what sounds good right now… but that feels too easy to waste something magical on." Not that wasting magic potential usually plays heavily in his decision-making.

"Maybe a sandwich with all the best toppings—the kind that takes forever to make because you’ve gotta dig everything out and put it all back. Something double-decker, held together with those little colorful toothpicks, and it’s got every color of food possible." He could walk beside her like this forever—hanging onto each other despite the heat, steps unhurried and synced, laughing about everything real or imagined. He draws her tighter into his side for a moment, pressing a kiss to her hair near her temple in a quiet swell of affection. "I wish we could do this every day," he says — the kind of wish that feels both small and impossibly big, like a dream you want to hold onto forever. But dreams always have a way of unraveling into nonsense as soon as you wake up and try to say them out loud.

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

Flora groans, loud and full of suffering. "Mismatched socks can absolutely be a fashion statement," she insists, jabbing a finger into his side with emphasis. "Not that you’d know anything about fashion, Mr. Shirt-Crumpled-in-Hand-Like-a-Rag." Her smirk edges into affection all the same, especially as he brings up the candle again. "Oh please," she says, tossing her hair with an overdone flourish. "You so know what it smells like. Probably something ridiculous like lychee-seasalt-vanilla-wind, with a swirl of gold foil on top. You imagined it the second I said it." And, okay, he’s right—technically it was supposed to be a scent. Her shrug is almost sheepish. "Fine. Point Kaisel."

When he mimics her voice, she wrinkles her nose up at him, expression sunny even as she mock-glares. "Okay but like, what other earthly reason is there for someone to not want to make out with me??" she teases, brows lifting with fake innocence and a hand pressed theatrically to her chest. 

But when he says he’d give up sleeping? That’s a line. "Blasphemy," Flora gasps, reeling as though physically struck. "I could never. I love sleeping. There is no better feeling than collapsing into bed, fully exhausted, and letting sleep wrap you up like a fluffy little mermaid burrito." Her sigh is dreamy. "And if you don’t sleep, then what’re you supposed to do when a girl’s all cuddled up against you all night, hmm? You’d be bored out of your fucking mind."

His food answer gets a slow, approving nod. "Strong choice," she murmurs. "Those are always like five layers of flavour and a full architectural feat." She licks her lips thoughtfully. "Mine would be the kind of pasta they cook in a wheel of cheese. You know the ones? With fresh seafood and veggies, white wine sauce, and just heaps of garlic bread on the side. Like, ungodly amounts. More than is morally right."

The easy warmth of the moment deepens as he presses a kiss to her hair, and her other arm snakes around his stomach without hesitation. Their steps stay slow, unhurried, like the world can wait a little longer. "Me too,"  she murmurs, letting the words settle between them like seafoam. But then, fingers dance lightly across his ribs, mischievous and warm. "We could," she says, eyes bright as she tips her head up toward him. "If you left the oppressive violet floating city and moved to Torchline. Just sayyyyyingggg."

// Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars //

He is smug due to the point he's rightfully earned between them, enough so that he can ignore the jab of her finger and the absurd scent she lists off. Lychee-seasalt-vanilla-wind sounds like her attempt at another language, not the scent she'd be if she was a candle. Although admittedly, if she's a candle, she wouldn't be the type left on the shelf. She’d be the one everyone reaches for the second they walk down the aisle. Something like, Golden Hour. The aroma would somehow perfectly capture the feeling of that warm, honeyed glow where everything in the world feels soft and suspended—where even the worst things seem far away and life feels like it's worth living. It'd have a hint of the ocean breeze and a note of chili-dusted mango, and it'd burn hot, and bright, and long into the dark.

"You got me there," he admits, because if he’d been her sparring partner in that moment, he wouldn't have stood a chance. She’s objectively fine shyt. "Maybe he'd been hoping for dick breath," Kaisel muses, implying she literally cannot be desired by everyone.

Mermaid burrito, echoes in his brain, brow furrowing in confusion. At first, he thinks she means they eat mermaids, like shrimp burritos, which seems, bad. Then again, “soft and fluffy” aren't words he'd use to describe a mermaid. So, after some internal trial and error, he decides she probably means the image of sheets wrapped around her waist like a tail. Let's talk about blasphemy though because, "who doesn't sleep with their sheets all the way up to their chin??" His question is abrupt, expression dismayed because it seems she does. "Flora, you can't fucking do that, you leave your core open to monster attacks like that!" Everyone knows sheets are an impenetrable armor against sleep monsters.

He will concede a point to her now, bitter as he is to do so. "But yeah yeah, I guess you have a point. Sleep is a very comfy feeling and cuddling is worth keeping it. So...I guess I'd take away doing the dishes. Always gotta eat, always got fucking dishes man." According to his rules, he could stop and it would mean he'd still have clean dishes, and that he could happily live with.

He laughs along with her pasta explanation, nodding that he does know what she means. "That's so heavy though, wouldn't you get tired of it?" He'd chosen sandwich specifically because it has a lot of variety and layers. He might be sick if he had to eat pasta daily, no matter how good.

His stomach jumps beneath her hand, the faint threat of a tickle hovering like a stormcloud. She’s sweet, for a moment, just a moment, before she taps right against the nerves. He squirms away with a laugh, sliding his hand off her shoulder to swat at her. "Heeey!" he whines with a half-hearted glare. It's followed with an eye roll, "you know I can’t. My family’s there. My job. It’s home. Besides, isn’t it better to keep your enemies close?" The idea has taken up more and more space in his head lately though.

Then Vox’s voice slams into him like a soda someone shook up and opened right on his brain.

He reels back mid-step, his whole body going stiff. His expression hollows as the broadcast unspools, his wide eyes darkening with dawning horror. "FUCK!" The word tears out of him in a roar, full of everything he's powerless to stop. He shakes after it, biting his teeth together with a click. A brittle glance is tossed to Flora before he turns heel. Every ounce of outrage left with his yell, and in its wake dread fills him like saliva gathering before vomit. "I have to go." It's all he can manage—barely a whisper—as he sprints for the skyships, dread a beat with his shoes.

Kaisel

// I could really use a wish right now //

lay your soul onto mine

Flora sighs—loudly, obnoxiously, the kind of sound meant to carry judgment—but it’s all smoke and no fire. Her narrowed eyes flick up toward him with a glimmer that betrays the fondness beneath her mock irritation, the kind of look that lingers a moment too long to be entirely casual. Even smug, he’s warm. Even smug, he makes her want to stay right here a little longer.

The comment about Liam draws a contemplative tilt of her head, brows lifting as she hums under her breath. "Actually...maybe?" she murmurs, voice curling with curiosity as her thoughts wander. "That’d make so much more sense than ‘he’s not into me.’" A pause, and then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes: "Obviously." Though really, he probably just wasn't, which, bruised ego aside, was totally fine.

As for the monster thing, well, that earns a delighted laugh, the kind that tips her head back and sends her gold jewellery clinking faintly with the motion. "Please," she grins, sharp and indulgent. "Maybe I like monsters in my bed. Maybe I leave myself uncovered just to tempt them. Give Spice something to guard at night, you know? Keeps her fierce." There’s a flash of teeth, bold and amused, a storm-chaser’s delight in the idea of danger nestled beneath her duvet.

She nods solemnly when he admits to hating dishes, then wrinkles her nose. "Dishes are hell, but laundry’s worse. Socks vanish into a void, underwear turns into origami, and don’t get me started on folding fitted sheets. Absolute chaos." Her tone is pure exasperation, but her smile doesn’t fade.

At the question of pasta, she gasps like he’s suggested outlawing joy. "Get tired of pasta? Of garlic bread?? It's like you don't even know me," she accuses, placing a hand dramatically to her chest. "And besides, I wouldn’t have to eat the whole thing. It’s magic, remember? I could have like...three bites and call it a day."

She tries to keep walking as he swats at her; tries and fails. Wrapping her arms more tightly around his waist, she throws their pace entirely off, deliberately turning their easy stroll into a chaotic shuffle. "Blah blah, duty," she drones, clearly unmoved. "Maybe we should ask Frey to make us a floating island halfway between here and Stormbreak. Little house with a water slide going from the bedroom to the sea. Hammocks everywhere. A lazy river for drinks. Tell me that wouldn’t be perfect. We could—"

And then the broadcast cracks through her thoughts like a bottle smashed across tile.

She nearly stumbles into him, every sense thrown sideways as Vox’s voice slides like cold steel along the spine of her mind. Her fingers twitch where they cling to Kaisel’s shirt, and for one dizzying heartbeat she’s back in the Tower with Dahlia sweetly asking her to clean up glass with her bare hands.

Her heart lurches.

Only the day before she'd told Ronin to fight again. Said she didn’t care if she died. But that was easier when death was still a shadow on the horizon—something you could ignore if you didn’t look too closely given her father's abilities. Now it feels like a tide already rushing in. Cold. Merciless. Inevitable. Fuck.

Beside her, Kaisel stiffens, and before she can breathe, before she can speak, he’s pulling away. The warmth leaves her arms like a door slamming shut. She watches him turn, muscles tense and straining, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be brave. Doesn’t want to let him go. Doesn’t want to be the Queen or the Doubletake or anything other than just a girl holding on to someone who makes her feel less alone talking about chores and candles.

But all she can do is shout—raw and desperate—not because it helps, but because the silence would be worse. "Be safe, you idiot!" It catches in the wind, chasing after him like her heart trying to follow. And then, because she has to, because suddenly there is a shit ton to do and dying would fuck up her ability to do it, she twists the ring on her finger—and disappears.

~FIN