She was not a flower and never had been; it was not in her nature to bloom, to catch eyes, to be sought after. Ask she had goaded him in the secret common room, before the interrogations, but she’d been aware of what she was asking. The limits imposed by the presence of the others, the likelihood that caution would ultimately check his curiosity. But here, on the stone steps of the library, she was forced to admit that she couldn’t treat him like anyone else. She couldn’t shake his attention, but she couldn’t satisfy him either. Archer examined her limited options as he spoke, lifting her hands to press them against her cheeks, as if she could squeeze her flush away. Her fingernails were painted pale pink, dotted with little strawberries, a perfect match for the color that suffused her skin.
arc iii. connections archer + @cogitxre
milo foss. what would we be, without our ghosts? the opposite of a haunting is something very lonely.
