He had obviously hoped for something else; for another welcome than the one he received. For nearly two years – filled with circumspection, fear, dread, gore, and violence – Sherlock had longed for John’s presence.
The bravest and kindest of men.
Sherlock had never told John that he thought that of him, his best friend. A friend who wanted nothing to do with him after the betrayal. He didn’t even want to hear Sherlock’s explanation. John had just kicked him out, his eyes cold and unforgiving.
Did I really mean that little to him?
The footage from Mycroft’s surveillance told another story, though.
John with his arms tightly folded over his chest, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down his cheeks; his entire body shaking violently.
“Give it time, brother mine,” Mycroft advised. “You can’t expect him to throw himself into your arms after your…how do I put it…callous and extravagant reveal. Perhaps jumping out of a cake would have been better than to show up in his office disguised as an old man with an enlarged prostate.”
***
Sherlock was more careful with his former landlady than he’d been with John. His plan to just dash in, kiss her cheek, and rush up to 221B, was discarded in favour of sending her flowers with an explanatory card. Thirty minutes after the delivery, he unlocked the black door, and was immediately bombarded with tutting, crying, and smiling from his beloved Hudders who, to his horror, had aged considerably since his departure.
“You are NOT to do that again, you rascal,” she said sternly when she’d composed herself somewhat, but she did pat his cheek affectionately, so he took it in stride.
“I won’t,” he said quietly. “How are you?”
“Good! I’m fine now, but we have all been miserable while you were away, John in particular. Have you spoken to him?”
“I have.”
Sherlock didn’t feel the urge to elaborate and gestured to the stairs; he was eager to get home. Mrs Hudson looked sceptically at him, clearly perceiving that something was amiss, but she let him go.
***
The fact that John still lived in the flat had taken Sherlock by surprise. He’d assumed that the good doctor would find the place too full of memories of his flatmate to endure seeing all the artefacts 221B contained on a daily basis.
Everything was just as he’d left it, but what baffled Sherlock even more, was the fact that John was sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. Granted, the mattress was far better than John’s, and it wasn’t as if the bed was in use, but it dumbfounded him, nonetheless.
“Oh, John,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
He found his wardrobe full of his own clothes. John clearly kept his clothes upstairs still. Sherlock sat down on the bed and stroked the pillow that had a dent from John’s head on it. A piece of fabric stuck out from under the pillow, and when he realised it was the worn tee he’d used, a painful lump formed in his throat. It was evident that John didn’t use it himself; his pyjamas trousers and t-shirt were neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.
Did he use it to comfort himself? Surely, this was not normal best friends’ behaviour?
Sherlock had wanted to take something of John’s with him, but it was too dangerous. More than once had his pockets, rucksacks, and accommodations been searched, and…
A loud sound startled him; his frayed nerves making him break into cold sweat. It didn’t matter that he was home and safe; his body still reacted as if he was on the run from Moriarty’s men.
***
Someone was talking to him, but he was unable to decipher the words. He thought the voice sounded familiar, but he also presumed that his mind was playing tricks on him.
John isn’t here, you idiot! He’s in London. Home. Safe. Now, you need to get out of here, so you can get back to him.
Sherlock tried to wrestle himself free from what he assumed were someone else’s arms. He felt like an utter moron when he realised it was his own hands gripping his upper arms so hard it hurt.
“Sherlock, can you hear me? It’s John. You’re home, at Baker Street, in your bedroom. Open your eyes. I promise you, it’s not a trick.”
John. How could it be John? John wasn’t here. John was…but he’d said that Sherlock was home, so perhaps…
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He was sitting on the floor, his back leant against the foot of the bed. The voice had come from the doorway. Sherlock saw a pair of brown brogues that looked familiar. Worn jeans came into sight next, and when he lifted his head a bit more, Sherlock saw a knitted jumper which made tears trickle down his cheeks. He inhaled deeply before he dared to face the man the clothes belonged to, but when he did John didn’t vanish like a mirage. God knew he’d done that far too often during Sherlock’s time away.
“Hey, do you see me?”
John’s voice was soft, unthreatening.
“Yes. I’m…John, I’m so – “
“Shh, none of that. Let’s get you sorted and then we’ll talk. You’ll need to give it time, Sherlock…I…”
John’s voice cracked when he said Sherlock’s name, as if he couldn’t believe he was talking to the man himself instead of his gravestone. Sherlock did not look forward to telling John that he’d heard him speaking to the black stone before he left the country.
“Give it time,” John had said, just as Mycroft had advised him earlier that day.
Patience, then. I can do that. If John stays with me, he can take as long as he likes.
When John reached out a hand to help Sherlock to his feet, Sherlock grabbed it eagerly, and he didn’t let go once he stood facing the man that meant the world to him.
prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial, dividers under the cut from @saradika-graphics
Fandom: The Pitt
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Jack Abbot (Rabbot)
Wordcount: 444
"I don't know you have the patience for all of them."
The sun is high in the sky and it's a rare shared day off for them; Jack's been tinkering away at something at the desk by the window while Robby slept in, until now, breaking the quiet.
"Hmm?"
"Your projects."
Jack tilts his head, one shoulder lifting into a half shrug as he glances to the laptop beside him, skimming over lines of text.
"It's satisfying, you know. Putting the work into something, seeing it all through."
"Like my bike."
Ah.
That was a whole thing. Robby getting his hands on an old motorcycle, repairing with Duke, with the intention of going off on this soul searching journey, one Jack wasn't convinced he would return from.
Things didn't play out how Robby wanted, and he's ruminating on it. Fair enough.
"Mourning the bike this fine morning?" Jack means for it to become out light-hearted, joking, but his throat is a little too tight.
He hears Robby shift on the bed, and nothing else, so he turns around in his chair to face him. And what a sight; The sun hitting Robby where he sits on the edge, his messy hair, his unbuttoned shirt.
He's beautiful. He's the love of Jack's life, his best friend, and that helps push him to continue rather than shying away from the discussion, as difficult as the subject can be for the both of them.
"Rather mourn the bike than mourn you, man."
Robby looks away, and Jack uses his leg to bring his chair closer to the bed, needing to be closer to him and for him to actually absorb what he's saying.
"I mean it— You can always put together another bike, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna be able to find another you. I don't want to. I like what I've got now, and you know how territorial I can get."
That earns a snort, at least, even if it seems to take Robby by surprise.
Jack smiles, hands resting on Robby's knees.
"Give it time. We'll find balance," He pauses, making sure he gets Robby's eye contact before continuing. "We, because you're not alone in this. Okay?"
As if to lead by example, Jack gives Robby time in the moment. They breathe together, soft as the birdsong drifting in from outside, until Robby nods.
"Okay."
"Okay," Jack leans to kiss his forehead. "I'll make us some breakfast, and we're going to go out, find some fun stuff to do, and enjoy ourselves. That's today's project."
Even small steps from the darkness towards happiness are progress. As long as there's time, there's hope.
It had been nearly twenty years. More than half of her life and Mel still broke into a breathless sweat at the sound of carriages rolling down cobblestone roads. The sound of horses squeals and screams in acute distress. Those have been few and far between, but even the calm of huffs and neighs were no different. In private she found it humiliating, shameful how weak her knees went.
Leaving it on her face she could never do.
Instead she steels herself, stiffens her spine and puts one foot in front of the other. Mel firmly decided she preferred walking most places, eternally grateful Piltover's designed to be a walkable city.
Earlier that year, the same year she lost her father, Mel was witness to the execution of Binan noble Lady Mion; the girl's head hitting the ground with three sloppy wet smacks before rolling to Mel's feet at an achingly slow pace. Her feet took her back in a shuffle at the sight. Lady Mion couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Mel herself. Upon her mother's swift action, Mel found eyes once green, a shade not too dissimilar to her very own, open blank to a lifeless void.
A river of blood staining the earth flowed from Lady Mion's neck, permanently eroding the flooring of the Kumangran castle.
Mel could have done something— anything. Maybe she could have saved the other girl. But her words weren't enough: not against her mother's might. Nearly every fiber of her being twitched to bend down and close Lady Mion's eyes.
But she couldn't— especially not in the presence of her mother. Her katar glistening with still warm blood. Instead Mel immortalized Mion's crimson vitality along with the creams and turquoise of her necklace on tapestry.
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Several years had passed since her mother told her about her brother's death. Agonizing as they had been for searches for any sign of Kino came up fruitless, leaving Mel with countless unanswerable questions, cursed to forever linger in the back of her mind.
What exactly happened to him and when? Was he all alone? Was he in pain? In the years since she was exiled, had he received any of her letters? Respond to them? Or at least try to?
When Mel was cast away to Piltover, she had only a quick farewell to share with her brother— the ship she was bound for was to leave that very night and there was little time for preparation. At least she was able to speak with him: their mother was able to at least grant that mercy. Blurred by swelling tears, Mel still managed to remember his warm scent, lanky arms holding her close as possible as an anchoring weight. Even the wiry scratches of a beard not fully connected yet tickled her forehead.
Mel convinced herself she'd be reuinted with her family again soon.
That soon never came.
Instead the earth and its possibiliites of a brighter future, a kinder one, a warmer one, crumbled beneath her feet, leaving behind a chasm.
Your brother is gone.
A loss of a part of her heart never to return to her. Hosting rites with her mother without his body but with this certain… strain between the two of them was a hollow symbol of closure. She was pointedly aware of its superficiality. A brittle house ready to crumble at the faintest breeze.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
It had been nearly a year since he disappeared. Since Noxian troops invaded Piltover's shores. Since Jayce's soul vanished into an oblivion her sigils could not reach. No matter how hard she tried.
There was a time when Mel believed Noxus was her home. One day she would make a name for herself in Piltover, prove herself to her mother her values had merit and she could return home.
Times change.
Before she knew it, home took on a different color. Slowly sneaking up on her to wholly pull her under in a warm embrace.
It was the steadiness Elora gave her in her youth during a time of loss and redisocvering her place in a foreign land. The cups of tea she brewed for her when nights in her council chambers ran long reviewing policies, writing proposals, and the like. Elora knew what Mel needed, at times even before Mel even knew herself.
It was the uncontrollable fire in Jayce Talis's heart. His spirit threw her off kilter, someone so recklessly ambitious, yet she found it frustratingly fascinating. Him capturing her eye in his own desire to leave a mark in helping the public. Someone who reminded her it was okay to feel. That being your true self was more than enough. That she was enough.
Without her conscious knowing, she started making room on the left side of the bed for him to take. A spare toothbrush when he spent the night at her estate. And drawers for his own clothes so he wouldn't need to worry about what to wear come sunrise.
The very same applied when she desired to be with him. To venture a life outside the path of a Medarda.
Almost a year since.
Since his presence next to her soothed her nightmares.
Since he rested his head in her lap and allowed her to see his own weights and strains melt away if for a quiet moment.
It has been a long, excruciating year.
Mel still leaves room on the left side of the bed. She has yet to abandon the toothbrush he'd use when he'd stay over.
"Time heals all wounds." At least that's what people said in times of loss. The further one was from the aching strain, one day, eventually, new memories and experiences would paint over the tenderness in one's heart. A blurred memory distorted and dulled by time.
But Mel knew better. Such a saying was nothing more than an empty platitude people said because they didn't know what to say. They never did.
Instead, grief curses Mel to replay events over and over again. She humorlessly laughs at the butterfly effect's intimate impact. Time doesn't heal wounds— only compounds it.
In the shadows of the night alone in her chambers, Mel is left to ponder one question as she closes her eyes: which ghost will visit her this time?
Beifong gave a tight nod to Raiko’s secretary as she arrived for her six-month review with the President. Weilei flashed her a handsignal to indicate he was running late and in a foul mood.
Having a good relationship with all of the lead secretaries was an important life skill she had learned from Chief Tsai when she worked as his Chief of Staff. “Never make any of them mad, or make it up to them as soon as you can. I can’t afford a splintered relationship with them. If you mess things up for me, you’ll be out on your ass.”
With a nod and a signal of her own, she reassured her colleague that lunch would arrive as usual.
Having him already in a mood, she saw no point in giving it more time. She knocked five seconds ahead of her appointment, as usual.
The angry shout from within was no surprise.
She twisted the handle and swung the door open. Inside, the President was off to one side of his office. In one hand, he held a wooden board with a sheaf of papers.
“Mr. President…”
He rounded on her, his face a mask of rage.
“Beifong! Do you expect me to accept this?”
His tirades had gotten somewhat more frequent of late. Iroh had kept her informed on the First Lady’s travels in the Earth Kingdom. She had reciprocated with updates on the President’s declining mood.
“I gather you are displeased with my report on the Triad Interdiction Project?”
Somehow, he managed to look further enraged.
“No results for months! This city will never be safe, will it? You have wasted time and money on this program, Beifong! Cancel it!”
Even though she and Saikhan had anticipated he might react this way, it still stung.
“Give it time, Mr. President. Three weeks is hardly long enough…”
“No! No more time!”
In a blur, he raised and then slammed his writing board down on the edge of the desk.
It splintered, exploding into a cloud of shards.
“Get out,” he growled.
She paused, but when he drew a sharp breath, she pivoted on her heel and left him to shout at the door she closed behind herself.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt #FFF350 - give it time. This came after the betting scene between Tsukasa and Jun from the Episode 18, Score 22 of the manga. Nothing here is a spoiler. It just what I imagined what it should be.
—
Fandom : Medalist (anime and manga)
Characters: Tsukasa Akeuraji. Jun Yodaka and Schinichiro Sonidori
Word count: 1096
“I’D SAY Jun-kun is getting better at it,” remarked the silver-haired coach.
“Huh? I see…” Tsukasa didn’t get the joke but he thought the reason Jun was not in a hurry was to avoid leaving the holes undone. He was in fact thorough. He never left his area until the surface was as flat as it was when they arrived.
A few more holes to fill before the Zamboni machine got to work. Tsukasa glanced at both men, who slumped on the floor taking the task seriously. He contemplated on their long friendship that spawned ever since they had been young athletes. Coach Sonidori was a good person keeping the secret of this man, who dismissed Inori twice.
Did he really think that by exalting me, I’d be persuaded giving up Inori? He’s a prick.
Tsukasa had a little conversation with himself.
Though I shouted at him again. Oh well, it was his fault. And the bet, oh my God.
Inori would be delighted as far as he knew. Perfecting her steps level while learning new jumps, the girl loved the challenge.
He and Jun never exchanged words to each other after the bet. Imagine underestimating a child like Inori once again, who climbed from being a mere beginner on her way to proving herself to All-Japans? This bastard thought that Inori’s rise was a fluke. The girl persevered and kept on challenging herself. Inori won the Chubu block tournament. If one would call it a miracle then so be it.
At the locker room the awkwardness between them was apparent.
When he raised his head, their eyes met. They were shiny, a mix of aqua green and gold, and they were directed at him. It was intimidating.
Tsukasa waited if he’d utter a word, but Jun only looked at him. At that point Coach Sonidori entered the locker room and shattered the uncomfortable silence surrounding the two men.
“Where do you live, Coach Akeuraji, I can drop you there? It must be late.”
“Uhhh, no need, Sonidori-sensei. I can take a taxi.”
“You wouldn’t wish to take a taxi from here. They charge too much, you’d wish you walked,” interjected Jun who was ready to go. His long billowy coat trailing after him. It was black as a night. Black was his standard colour when he used to compete on ice before he decided to retire.
“Uhm… it is no bother, truly, Coach Akeruaji.”
“There’s no need to be petty.” The owner of the voice left the room without any explanation.
“Jun-kun…”
“Erhm…” Was the only thing Tsukasa could say, he drank the rest of his water bottle then scratched his head. He was defenceless against the veteran skater’s snarky attitude.
Moments later Tsukasa found himself inside the car. Like what Coach Sonidori said they were bringing him to the Kago residence.
It might be intuition but in order to calm his nerves Schinichiro told him something about Jun before entering the car.
“Coach Akeuraji, give it time. He might not be the most sociable person in the world and he has his quirks, but he’s a good man,” he whispered into his ear, then continued. “Did you know that he’s using a child face mask because the adult version covers most of his face?”
When Tsukasa gazed up, Rioh’s father snickered as if he had said something ludicrously funny. For the whole journey he was imagining the mask on Jun’s face. The effect was the opposite. The knowledge about the Olympian didn’t help to calm him down at all. Both coaches slash medalists were older than him by a decade.
He asked them to drop him off at the corner when he received a text.
Wrote the texter from Coach Sonidori’s phone.
Tsukasa’s heart started to beat faster. What could he mean by it? Should he obey him?
He leaned at the lamppost and calmed himself down. He counted the cars coming and leaving the street and wondered about the message.
Half an hour had passed when he saw a figure coming towards him. Tsukasa hadn’t seen Jun garbed in other colours. His standard black accompanied him throughout his life even when he was skating.
As he came nearer, then stopped, he stood in front of Tsukasa, who glared at him.
“There isn’t anything to talk about, is there?” Why could he, Tsukasa Akeruaji, not stop following this person’s directives when he knew that he didn’t care at all?
Jun remained there stoic watching him. He still wore his aviators despite the nighttime. Streetlights illuminated his way, he took out one cigarette from his packet and lighted it.
The dancing flame reflected beyond his sunglasses. Tsukasa saw his shining eyes as the clacking noise made him clench his hand.
The older skater inhaled then sucked the smoke into his lungs. He repeated the ritual a few more times then dropped the unfinished cigarette on the floor and crushed it with his black leather shoe.
Standing behind the lamppost Tsukasa unconsciously leaned onto it while Jun inched his way to him. He felt the other man’s nose touched his. It was too late to react as a pair of lips devoured his own like a hungry wolf.
The tobacco-tinged breath mixed in with menthol overwhelmed the orange-haired coach.
“W-what??” An assault of kisses drowned his words. His knees gave in. The other man held him tight to prevent him from falling to the floor still cradling his waist ready to carry him. He knew that he was strong but Jun was not weak either. He felt small teeth biting and sucking his neck and all Tsukasa could do, leaning on the lamppost for extra support, was to wrap his arms around Jun’s tight shoulders and moan.
Thank the gods for the darkness shrouding them. A picture of two beautiful men cavorting in the dark. How many times Tsukasa dreamt about this when he saw a video of the long-ago winter Olympics on YouTube? He, a mere teenager, seduced by this man dancing on ice and snagging a gold. When he began to research him, he found out that he retired after taking the podium for Japan. This Jun Yodaka, the main reason he was in love with skating and longed to be coached by him and ask him if he were doing the right thing, was now kissing him. He didn’t resist. And so when Jun called up a taxi and brought him to his flat in downtown Nagoya, like a dog, Tsukasa obeyed…
Another short piece for @flashfictionfridayofficial! Don't know that I'll be able to write one every week but it's a holiday here so I had no excuse not to put something together quickly.
This one inspired heavily by @katconsumingrevalioli 's Revali headcannons and @summonerluna 's "Let Not The Sound" but it's just a bit of fluffy friendship time.
“Do you think I will ever be rid of him?”
Revali shrugged, letting the hot water cascade over his feathers as he contemplated the small grumpy girl in front of him. “Give it time, princess.”
Zelda sat up straighter and looked at him intently. “You really think my father will relent about me having him with me all the time?”
“Oh goddesses, no.” Revali couldn’t resist a smirk. “Your father is determined to use blind faith to get through this, and apparently that means never changing his course no matter what happens the minute he gets some hint of the divine, and your knight’s ugly sword counts.” He made an expansive gesture across the hot springs, sending a wave of water towards his companion. “If your father had a lick of sense, he’d have noticed that he’s clipping the wings of one of his most talented engineers.”
The compliment got only a sad smile. “So in that case, how is time going to help? I doubt he’s going to misplace the holy sword any time soon.”
“Well, your little knight still has plenty of time to choke on a rock roast. Or launch himself right into a hinox’s eyeball and drown in aqu… what did you say eyeball juice was called?”
That elicited a tiny giggle from the princess as she answered, “aqueous humour.” But Revali wasn’t done yet.
“And there’s still time for one of the other champions to kick him with a divine beast. I know Daruk’s having the most control problems but I bet it’ll be Mipha accidentally knocking him off a cliff with Vah Ruta.” Revali grabbed a small rock and placed it at the edge of the hot springs, holding his wing out like Vah Ruta’s trunk and raising it up and down. Once he got it lined up, made a flick of water from the spring knock the rock off into the nearby mud. “Oh no, my poor little meow meow! Don’t worry, I’ll come heal you. But you have to get naked so I can clean the mud from your poor battered body.” he declared in a high-pitched mimicry of Mipha’s voice.
Now he was getting real laughter, finally. After a few moments of laughter slowly reverting to wheezing, Zelda finally choked out, “I don’t think Mipha’s capable of hurting him on purpose.”
“Pfft. Sure, she’s too good but I bet her divine beast knows that her deepest fantasy is to spend hours healing sad wet cat Link.”
That set off another splutter of laughter. “You paint such a vivid image, Master Revali.”
He gave her a wicked smile. “Of course I do. My mastery of the winds also gives me mastery over the spoken word, don’t you know.”
Finally, his distraction was doing what the hot spring hadn’t been able to do alone. He could see her shoulders start to loosen and she relaxed back against the rocks with a more contented sigh before her face screwed up with unhappiness again. “I still don’t see how time is going to help the fact that I’ve been saddled with Mipha’s favourite wet beast, though,” she sighed.
“Aah, but the thing your father forgot as he attempted to clip your wings is that not only are you a talented engineer, but you’re also a talented diplomat.” Revali pointed a wingtip at the princess’s forehead. “You used that clever brain of yours to not only recruit the best pilots who could help you, but also to get us to work together, as a team. Surely with a little time, you’ll have a plan to get that useless boy under your thumb and working on your team too.”
“Why Master Revali, are you saying you have faith in me?” Zelda replied, emphasizing the word faith with all the disdain she couldn’t show in front of her father.
Revali intentionally fluffed his feathers in affront, as much as he could in all the humid air. “Hardly, princess.” He probably looked ridiculous but it was worth the effort when it yielded an appreciative giggle at his theatrics from his audience. He took a moment to bask in her reaction before he continued. “Unlike some, I am relying on ample evidence of the skills you have demonstrated repeatedly. You are smart and you’ll figure out what makes him tick and get him to see things your way. You just need time for analysis.”
“And if what I need is a break so I can think without those blank blue eyes on me?”
Revali smirked. “If this isn’t enough, I’m always available to push your knight into a mud puddle in front of Mipha.” He gestured with a wing, using a pulse of magic to splash Zelda with water. “Oops! Oh what a tragic accident, now he’s all wet and pathetic and needs your tender care, Zora Champion. He will take days to recover! Weeks even!”
Zelda spluttered, wiping water from her face, then looking at him with gratitude in her eyes. “You’re a great friend, Revali.”
“Of course I am!” Revali made a show of puffing up for a moment, then he wiped the smirk from his face for a moment to continue with clear and honest sincerity, “Any time you need me, Zelda.” Then he let the grin come back, “Especially if you want to spend some time brainstorming ways to haze your new mandatory shadow.”
@flashfictionfridayofficial
Fandom: Encanto (2021)
Characters: Isabela Madrigal, Alma "Abuela" Madrigal
Relationship: Mariano Guzmán/Isabela Madrigal
Rating: G
Setting: a year or so before the main action of the movie
Content warning: Canonical unwanted arranged potential marriage
Isabela almost gets up the courage to tell Abuela something that she doesn't want to hear. Almost.
Contrary to Mirabel’s (and, once the dust from Casita’s collapse had settled, everyone else’s) belief, Isabela had told Abuela that she didn’t want to marry Mariano—the day before her twentieth birthday party. Of course, being terrified of making Abuela any more nervous about the future of the Madrigal family than she already was, Isabela qualified her apprehension with aún: “yet.”
Abuela’s fallen face at Isabela’s initial “no quiero” warmed into an understanding smile with that critical revision. “Oh, mi vida, of course! You don’t really know him, or your future mother-in-law, yet. I’ll talk to Anabel, tell her to give it some time. Why, we haven’t even begun discussing your betrothal contract!”
Despite the ridiculousness of hearing that she didn’t really know someone a mere three years older than her, who she’d watched fall out of trees and learn to ride horses, Isabela plastered on and maintained her usual frozen smile until her grandmother dismissed her with, “oh, little Mariana Ruiz’s ninth birthday party is tonight—her favorite color is green.”
She nearly ran out of Casita to fulfill the implied order before remembering a lecture she’d gotten the last time she had done that, when nine years old herself. “Ladies don’t run, unless something is on fire, mi preciosa,” Abuela had said, eyebrows contracted. “Take your time—your calm keeps the community calm.”
Isabela would keep doing what she could to keep Abuela giving her more time until that inevitable wedding, to keep herself calm.
