( @magnoliawhetstone ! )
tonight’s been nothing short of their usual fun –– a gourmet dinner prepared together, several episodes of bake off. animated reactions at faulty techniques, kitchen blunders, and whispering paul hollywood’s underbaked in time with the real thing. as the current episode credits scroll to the finish, though, flip doesn’t quite know how much longer he can keep it stowed away. the reason he’s come all this way. the real reason why he’d denied the offer to be on the show himself.
( and, if he truly thinks of it, he’s already told lia that earlier tonight -– wasn’t that essentially half done, then ? )
flip takes a breath. he sets the ramekin holding his barely-eaten crème brûlée aside. his focus flits across the room: the telly, the coffee table, the pillows and throws that cocoon them on their opposite ends of the sofa. he uncrosses his legs and plants them both firmly on the floor. grounded, he presses his palms together, closes his eyes, and utters the phrase that’ll unravel it all.
“ can i... ” he backtracks. perhaps now isn’t the time to ask permission. flip bites the inside of his cheek. he looks up, then down, then forces himself to hold her gaze.
“ there’s something... ” a breath. outside, he almost hears his chicago skies start to crack. peel them back, and he’ll find london. burning.
flip manages a somber smile. it’s no comfort, he knows it, but... it feels better than saying his next words with a frown. like he’s starting from a better place, further from tears, further from breaking. still, green irises gain their sepulchral sheen.
“ i reckon it’s, um. time... time to tell you something. ”
