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randombush3 · 2 years

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No Longer A Lonely Person

florence pugh x reader

summary: you overcome one of the biggest obstacles in your relationship

words: 5412 (god, it’s long)

warnings: talks of suicide, divorce, and drug usage (barely), and very underage smoking

notes: first of all, this was never supposed to be that long, and it was inspired by multiple different songs. the ending was never planned, it may be messy.

french translations will be really difficult as i’ve written it as slang/spoken french. common ones as “chais pas” = idk, “c’est trop la honte” = it’s embarrassing, “chérie” = darling, “ché” = i know. Type them into google translate or feel free to ask. PFW just means Paris Fashion Week.

also, mathilde and fleur are half sisters of anyone was wondering.

“I don’t want her to be my mother.” You almost choke on your wine. “Maman, j’suis sérieuse. She’s loud and happy and I can’t have a mother who all my friends want to hook-up with! C’est trop la honte.” She’s red enough thinking about it, let alone actually telling you.

“Qu’est-ce que «hook-up»?” The innocence of four-year-old Mathilde isn’t kept long, as Fleur launches into an explanation and you focus on swallowing both what she said and your drink. Once the torture of hearing your daughter explain it has ended, Tilly looks at you incredolously with her mouth hanging open and her half-chewed broccoli threatening to leap out. “Tu fais cette?”

“Non, chérie. Fleur is being silly.” Fleur is not being silly. You’ve been hooking up with Florence Pugh for quite a while now, and the eldest of the two is yet to meet her. (She refused to acknowledge you were in a committed relationship when you told her two years ago on FaceTime during lockdown, so you left it.)

“Of course. When Maman and her are screaming at night it’s just them playing a fucking game.”

“Stop it,” you tell her firmly. “She’s coming over in an hour and I want you to be well-behaved or not here. I’m not having you be an arsehole to a woman you won’t meet.”

“I have met her!”

“Fashion shows don’t count.”

You met Florence at Paris Fashion Week in 2020, where she complained about being at the designer’s show because apparently she’s a bitch. Flo’s first words to you were ‘God, the French really are judgemental’. And then she heard your accent. And recognised your face. It was a two-in-one slap of realisation because you were the designer and you are French.

When the girls got stuck with your ex in Dubai (he has term-time custody and they spend holidays with you), Florence was there to offer comfort and companionship and a smaller but cosier flat in London with her. So there you stayed, only returning to Paris in June to prepare for PFW and your exclusive, annual Versailles show. It ends the week. It’s one of the coolest things you do.

Half an hour later, when Tilly has successfully convinced you that Flo will love her pirate costume, Fleur taps you on the shoulder. It’s the first you’ve seen of her since she slunk off to her room, gossiping with one of her practically identical friends. You turn with exasperation and tiredness. She scrunches her nose.

“You’re not going to replace me as your plus one next week, right?” Next week is Cara’s party. There’s no reason for it, but you suppose there doesn’t need to be — it’s Cara. Fleur is adored by all of them, and you trust that she’s in safe hands if it all goes to shit (Bella is a motherly drunk), so you enjoy lying back on whatever boat she’s chosen and sunbathing. You’re only thirty.

The genuine uncertainty makes you regret being harsh earlier. “I’m pretty sure I’m your plus one, babe. Flo is only staying for the weekend, anyway; she’s going to visit her family now that filming has wrapped.”

“I really want to meet her sister.” Teenagers and TikTok go hand in hand. Your publicist has begged Fleur to teach you to use it, but you’ve decided that your brand is doing okay despite you not having your own personal account, and that being the butt of your daughter’s jokes is enough for publicity. “She, like, followed me while I was at Dad’s but I think she unfollowed ‘cause she wasn’t sure. This is why I need to be verified, Maman.” You roll your eyes.

“If you decide to be a nepobaby then go for it. Until you actually do something, shut up. You haven’t earned it.” She mumbles something about Lila Moss. You laugh. “I knew your father spoiled you rotten but I didn’t realise it was to this extent.” Karma for marrying a businessman. The relationship ended the minute he brought up moving to a ‘more profitable’ place. Your girls living in bloody Dubai in a closed community with a maid and a driver and a butler 24/7 is only acceptable because Tilly’s most favourite parks ever are in Hackney and Brownsville. Balance is key.

“Dad only spoils us because he feels bad that he made you realise you’re gay.” Oh god.

“One, you know that I’ve dated women before, and two, what led you to that conclusion? Your biological father is the only man I’ve ever slept with who reminded me I liked women.”

“That’s why you don’t have sex at fifteen.”

“Putain, t’es vraiment une conasse.” She’s ruthless. Poor Florence is going to have her ego bruised the moment she walks in. Which is now. Because she has her own keys. Because you love her and kind of want to marry her. But Fleur doesn’t know any of that.

So she jumps when Florence says hello. You can tell your girlfriend is terrified of the flared jeans clad, highly intimidating fourteen-year-old, but she’s pulling it off with a welcoming smile that hopefully says ‘please just let me sleep with your mum in peace’. You think she really communicates her point to be honest. You also think Fleur is going to fuck with her as much as she can.

You’re right — you know your daughter very well.

“Bonjour, Florence. Tu parles français?” she asks with faux innocence dripping from her daggered gaze. For reassurance, Flo has looked at you. She is saved by a hyper toddler in the aforementioned pirate costume (something that’s frequently appears on vogue’s website when her more famous ‘aunties’ babysit), who immediately demands to be held and kissed and hugged. You catch the ‘mummy’ in the conversation and pray Fleur isn’t attentive enough for that. “Ah, t’es anglaise.”

- - -

The wine goes down very quickly once Tilly crashes and it’s just you three. It feels like you’re sitting in the middle of the Olympic staring event final, where they are both contending for twenty billion gallons of liquid luck from Harry Potter. You shuffle under the tension.

You debate asking if they want refills, and decide not to out of fear. They both look scary.

“So,” Fleur breaks the silence, slicing down on it with a cold tone of utter dismissal. “You’re an actress. Pretty unstable income.” Suppressing your laughter becomes extremely difficult.

“Your mum’s a designer. That’s hardly better.”

“My dad owns a few businesses though.” With a smile, she adds, “Balance.” So far you’ve been insulted and compared to your ex husband, but at least they are saying words.

“I’ve met your father. A few is an understatement,” Flo replies, recounting that awkward dinner in which his parents had invited you. Your ex’s parents are thankful for their only grandchildren and treat you like a daughter they failed to have (they do have one, ironically). Though not uncommon, their invite a few months ago was a surprise mainly for the fact that Florence’s name was also written in the card. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Yes,” you agree carefully. Are you allowed to speak? Who knows. “If I leave to check on Mathilde, will the two of you murder each other?” As you stand up, Flo does too.

“I can go,” she says. Tilly can’t escape the apartment when Flo is over, unlike her sister who fucks off to god knows where, and so she is used to this odd extra parent-who-isn’t-a-parent.

Once Florence leaves, you turn to your daughter. She looks pissed off. “What the fuck was that?” She shrugs, swiping the deep maroon velvet of the sofa up and down into little doodles. “You didn’t even try. You could have tried.” To beg her to be nice would be a waste of time and energy; the world is already struggling with carbon dioxide emissions without you starting a rant. But you did want her to try, and she has upset you for doing exactly the opposite.

“She’s iffy.”

“How?!”

Fleur raises her eyebrows, shifting her weight from side to side. Doing so makes the leather sofa creak from its many years of service. It has moved from Porte de la Chapelle to your penthouse in the eighth arrondissement where supermodels hang out casually. Fleur doesn’t remember being three and living in one room, and though you sometimes regret hiding that part of her life when she spurts obnoxious bullshit, you are glad that she can’t. You are glad that the only life she has ever known is that of chauffeurs and Emirates first class and galas. Not many little girls have mothers who FaceTime them from the Met Gala every year.

“Don’t you think you’re a bit out of her league?” You’re flattered. “She’s talented, but so are you. You’re amazing, Maman.”

“I think Florence is amazing,” you say quietly. Your daughter’s cynicism catches on her lips.

“Tu l’aimes.”

It’s true. You do love her. You have loved her for a while now, possibly since you sat and she sat and the universe decided you’d be next to each other. She seems to calm the persistent storm in you that grows every so often. Sometimes the storm takes over, but Florence has found a way to love you when your face is blank and you can’t will yourself to move. You know that you love her because you have loved two others before her. You know that she is special because this love is different.

Fleur’s face becomes hard to read, but her brows are furrowed and her foot taps: she is thinking. You grew up together, you are her friend. Her closest friend. Fleur’s hero will always be you, she will always dedicate school projects to you, she will always choose you. Right now it feels like you’re not choosing her. Like you want more than her company. Because how can your daughter give you the love and care that you give to her?

She gets up and slots herself between the edge of the armchair and you. Absent-mindedly, you run your fingers through her hair. In its shine, you catch a glimpse of her father, the man you slept with far too soon. He was set to become a doctor. He had aimed for Oxford. You didn’t want to tell him you were pregnant, but when you did he offered to give that up. It’s heartbreaking to force someone not to love you anymore. He didn’t take it well; he couldn’t bear to tell his parents what he’d done, and he found himself struggling to deal with his conflicted emotions. He must’ve been sixteen when he killed himself, and Fleur must’ve only just been born. You wouldn’t have been happy together anyway, but being just you two in a big world full of parties of twenty seemed incredibly daunting. It got less scary over time.

When you met Tilly’s dad, Fleur would have been nine. He was on track to inherit a company from his recently deceased father, and you were suddenly a very popular designer. Your work was wanted on every runway, and he was wanted by every woman at every event you ran into each other at. His fondness for you stemmed from his love for Fleur, whom he met when he ploughed through her on his morning jog. She kicked him hard in the shin. You began to love him from that moment onwards, and enjoyed being a family. A proper family. Mathilde was the first of the four of you to be born into a healthy, functional family. She was smart enough to realise when it had ended that differences are as ugly as they are beautiful. He wanted to move to Dubai permanently, not just going there and coming back every so often. Your life had been in Paris since you were sixteen. You refused to go, but the courts ruled in the favour of his scarily stable income. It was alright, though. Without that, you wouldn’t have met Florence.

Memories slip through the soft strands of her hair. You can’t remember the last time you’d not been able to read her expression. Fleur makes a promise to herself that she will not fuck it up because she loves you and you love Florence. She tries to never break her promises. You taught her that much.

“If I loved her, would it be so bad?”

Maybe it won’t and Fleur can regain the family she once lost and secretly wishes she hadn’t. She’s grown up enough to understand that staying in a loveless marriage is never worth it, and that falling out of love can be as natural as its opposite. If she can smoke and drink and go to parties that last until the early hours of the morning, she should be able to accept that her mother will sleep with other people and move on. But it’s different because she can tell you and Florence are different. She can tell that you are going to last, and that is a terrifying thought. Like you said when Tilly was born, love creates more space, it doesn’t replace what was already there, and so maybe she can deal with possibly finding herself with another adult who cares and listens to her problems. If she really hates her, it’s not like she has to see her all the time.

Having processed this all in one second while formulating her answer, Fleur mumbles, “chais pas. I want you to be happy, does she make you happy?”

Flo watches you from the doorway of Tilly’s room, hating herself for spying but not being able to pull away. “Very,” you answer quite quickly. Florence admires the way you talk to your daughter, the way you handle pleasing everybody but doing what’s best for you.

She clears her throat so that you see her. Fleur hasn’t stiffened: you count that as progress. Progress is good. You can relax a bit now.

- - -

It’s close to two in the morning when Flo pulls on some pyjama bottoms and slides open the door to your balcony. Naturally, you’d ended your night with long overdue sex and a conversation about how well meeting Fleur went. When you fell asleep, she found herself tossing and turning. She concludes after an hour of thought that what she really needs is a cigarette. You keep a pack in your bedside drawer, beside a sketchbook that’s there if you dream of sewing and it actually looks good. She takes it and kisses your sleeping forehead.

The night is clear and warmer than England (even if there’s currently a heat wave). Your balcony overlooks Parc Monceau and so she watches the late-night walkers find ways to sneak in. She leans over the metal rails, letting her head drop to her folded arms, tensing when the metal is colder on her forehead than expected.

“Need a light?“ She hastily searches for the source of the question, wondering if she’s begun to hallucinate. With a flick of a light switch she’d forgotten was there, Fleur’s smirk appears, much like her mother’s. Fleur eyes the pack of cigarettes and pulls out her own from her hoodie pocket, extending the open pack to the woman with surprising generosity. Flo takes one, sinking to the floor beside the teenager. They sit with their backs against the wall, facing forwards.

Fleur tosses her lighter, Flo catches it. “Why are you up so late?” she asks, not bothering to berate her for owning any of the things she just displayed at such a young age. You probably know, she figures.

“In Dubai it’s too hot to go out with your friends during the day unless you stay inside, so we sneak out at night. Here, Maman has a rule that I have to spend four nights at home and can spend the remaining three wherever I want.” Flo nods. “Within reason, of course. If Bella is here I’ll stay with her.”

“Bella Hadid?” When she confirms, Flo wonders if Raffie will find out and complain that Flo’s famous friends suck. She lights both of your cigarettes. “You want to be a model?” She thinks Fleur could be.

“No, it is not my thing. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Don’t be an actress,” Flo jokes, exhaling and watching the smoke softly billow in the light breeze. “I’ve got no privacy, night shoots exist, and doing press with people you don’t like is bullshit.”

“I’ve watched my mum scream at the paparazzi in stilettos while holding Tilly, all because they took one stupid picture of me.”

“She’s very passionate, your mother.” While Fleur cringes, Flo chuckles. “I think you’re doing a great job of pretending not to hate my guts.”

“You’re not even that bad.” It could have been worse. “I don’t like that you’re British and that my friends want to sleep with you. You could try learning French to fix the first one, and the second one is just a downside to being the daughter of a fashion designer.”

“Je ne parle pas français.” Fleur finds this funny, and giggles endlessly, leaving Flo bright red and feeling self-conscious.

“Tu parles d'autres langues? Español? Deutsch? العربية?” Flo shakes her head, says she almost failed Spanish GCSE, and seriously questions her intelligence. “I can speak French, Arabic, and English fluently, so I’m taking Spanish for GCSE. It’s like Arabic.”

“Your English is really good. You sound American though.”

“No I do not.”

“Yeah, you do.” It’s technically an International accent. “How long have you spoken English?”

“Since I was five, when I started to watch a lot of Peppa Pig.”

“Of course you watched Peppa Pig,” comments Flo. “You give off those vibes.”

“That’s a compliment.” You will never forgive your daughter for playing it on repeat. Tilly is only allowed to watch the same programme twice in a day because of the trauma. “Then when Maman began to become really sought after, I had all these models surrounding me constantly, teaching me their language. Cara Delevingne taught me how to swear in English, Gigi Hadid explained the immediate future. Bella just read me stories. Lots and lots of stories. And in turn Bella can now translate the Little Prince into French, Cara learnt how to flirt like we do, and Gigi understands du, de la, and des.”

There’s a missing model in the supermodel bunch, Flo notices. “What about Kendall? I thought your mum was close with her.”

“We would just have staring contests. I’m undefeated, actually.” Fleur’s pride radiates off her, making her warmer to be around now. “But my dad taught me the most.” You’ve explained to your girlfriend how close your ex and Fleur are. “He can speak seven languages. He taught me Arabic, and he taught me formal English. The only thing I could teach him was how to understand Baby French when Tilly was born.”

“You’re very sophisticated.” Florence can’t imagine how cool they’d find her in England. “Does everyone smoke or is it just you?”

“I don’t do it that much, I just saw you go out here.”

Oh. Florence doesn’t quite know if she’s about to murdered or accepted. She hopes it is very much the latter.

“For some inane reason, my mother loves you. And she asked me to not be a little bitch about it — which I suppose I have maybe been slightly. Ever so slightly.” Fleur gags. “She looks like she wants to marry you. The sheer thought is mortifying, but, I don’t know, I’m trying to be nice.” Before Florence can say something (thanking her, telling her off, who knows?), Fleur says, “You’re not even that bad. It’s just that she’s my mum and she’s my best friend, not in the way that your mum claims to be but in an actual, proper best-friend-way, because we grew up together and she used to only have me. I used to be her only person, but now she has Dad and Tilly and… you. There’s this awful feeling in my gut that she’s going to stop being that to me because you’re here. And then I feel enormously guilty and selfish because I know that you make her elated in a disgusting way and that you were there for her when I couldn’t be, and you’re also only, like, ten years older than me, which makes me feel a bit weird because it’s like those stereotypical stepmothers where the dad is fifty and she’s twenty, but then I remember that Maman is only fucking thirty and that I basically ruined her life, because did you know that my biological father fucking killed himself? He wanted to drop out and help my mum, but he also wanted to have the career he dreamed of. He was so fucking conflicted that he slit his wrists in his parents’ bathtub. Because of me, he’s dead, and I don’t remember him at all.”

How does Florence respond to all of that? Your daughter has just unloaded the most heartbreaking story onto her as an explanation of why she is so hated, all while having a smoke together. Florence thinks carefully about her phrasing. She knows teenagers aren’t dumb, and Fleur is clearly intelligent on top of that.

“I don’t want to be your mother,” she states.

With a scoff, Fleur replies, “thanks,” and taps the ash off the end of her cigarette.

“No, not like that.” Her free hand drums quietly on the dirty floor, a common beat she uses to steady her heart rate. “I wasn’t ready to have kids when I met your mum, and I don’t think I am now, but you’re like this bonus that comes with loving her. Tilly never fails to make me smile, and you don’t understand how much I’ve enjoyed this conversation with you. I love Y/n, and she loves you guys. I’d like to marry her too.” Flo finds that wanting kids of her own and having pre-made kids intertwines into a win-win situation, because Mathilde calls her ‘Mummy’ and she can have a smoke with a fourteen-year-old and not feel irresponsible. “I’m not trying to be a third prison warden.”

“Don’t say you’re trying to be my friend or something.”

“If I were dating someone with a cat, I wouldn’t suddenly view myself as the cat’s owner. I’d build up a relationship with the pet until there was a mutual respect, maybe even love, formed. Same thing for children.”

“I’m a… cat?” Fleur raises her eyebrows, not that Flo can see the subtler expressions in the darkness of the badly-lit street. “I see what you mean, but we hardly know each other.”

“That’s fixable.”

“Also, no one actually knows you and my mother are dating. Are you even out?” Are you even out? (Yeah, but it’s not common knowledge.)

Florence and you talked about that before her flight took off. They will know tomorrow at noon when you will be spotted at a café near the park. You suggested a kiss might just send the message loud and clear, but Flo wants the girls to come and the thought of being intimate with you in front of Fleur’s judgemental gaze makes her shudder. Leaving the details vague in some areas, Flo informs your daughter of the publicist-approved plan. Fleur is already judging it.

After a few more drags of her cigarette, she huffs an agreement, says she’ll cooperate, and makes Flo genuinely smile for the first time since meeting her.

- - -

The daylight is woven into the half-open blinds of the master bedroom intricately and purposefully; a quiet but firm call to wake up. You groan, aching from your tiring evening, and turn over only to find that Florence isn’t there. She should be there, you think. You pat the side of your bed just in case she has become strangely invisible during the night. When your hand hits the mattress, you frown, eyebrows furrowing.

Getting up, you slip into fluffy socks because the floor isn’t very clean at the moment. It always takes a week or so to adjust to the messiness of the girls being back at home.

You knock on Fleur’s door three times. “Coucou, Fleur, tu te lèves.” There’s rustling from inside. She’s always been quite good at getting up, so she opens her door with a moody grunt and flops into your hug very quickly. “Nous sortons, nous tous.”

“Ché, Maman. Florence a dit.” You don’t know when they could have spoken. “Nous parlions. Elle est allée chercher une table à la boulangerie.”

It is slightly suspicious that she knows. “D’accord…” You notice her panda eyes and sigh. “Quand t’as dormi? T’as l’air épuisé, mon dieu.” She smells of cigarettes too. There’s no way she went out during the night — she would’ve told you. “Et oú est Mathilde?” You usually find her with her sister in the mornings.

“Tilly has gone with Florence to the bakery, Mother.” Her sudden shortness with you is confusing, to say the least. “Et last night Florence and I had a smoke on the balcony together.” Cara promised that the pack of cigarettes was in her possession. You now have a bone to pick with a certain model.

“Did you talk?” Maybe they bonded.

She shrugs. “Yeah.” Her room is a mess now that she’s stepped back and you can see it properly. Her suitcase is half unpacked, and there seems to be a large amount of new clothes her father bought her for summer. It’s totally not like one of the most sought-after high fashion brands is owned by her mother or anything. It’s not like she was the living mannequin for the children’s line.

“Do you need help unpacking?” You offer it because she lacks motivation in lots of areas. You video call her teachers for parents evening.

“I’ll get Tills to do it,” she waves you off with a smirk. “After you and your girlfriend pull your stunt I’m going to Bella’s hotel. She blocked out her day to give me therapy.”

“You need therapy?” More therapy, would actually be correct.

“I heard you and Florence fucking last night.” You consider gaslighting her to keep some dignity. “J’pense que j’resterai à l’hôtel de Bella ce soir, oui? It’ll benefit us both.”

Her offer is calculated; crafted precisely to benefit you both while spiting your somehow. “Only if you take your sister as well,” you say, enjoying the slight falter in her smirk as she finds most of her fun ruined. “And you can’t drink until Cara’s party to give your poor liver a break.”

“Fine,” she concedes, pushing lightly on your chest to get you out. “Weed is still on the table though?” Nice try.

She gets ready dutifully, leaving your home in a mini dress that she keeps in Paris because it’s definitely not acceptable in Dubai and your Chanel sunglasses. You don’t ask how she found them when they stay well-hidden in your room. Instead, you are thankful she’s not putting up a fight by wearing something totally outrageous.

It’s hot outside and a nice day, so the sunglasses dim the world for you both as you take your usual route to your usual café. You walk straight through Parc Monceau to get there, meaning Fleur already sees a friend and gets distracted. She stops for a brief conversation, from which you gather she is now invited to a birthday party on the behalf of Teddy.

“Is Teddy a girl or a boy?”

Fleur scoffs, picking up the pace once she sees the maroon of the café’s sign through the trees. “Teddy is non-binary, Maman. You’re supposed to be woke.” Right. It’s hard to keep up sometimes. “They live in our building, so I’ll go round for an hour or so later.”

“Don’t you need to get them a present?”

“I’ll get Florence to collect me.”

So Teddy’s one of those friends… Flo’s ego will inflate to the size of a hot air balloon when she finds a bunch of teenagers throwing themselves at her. She does love a bit of attention.

Quickly, you spot Tilly’s head outside in the sun, bobbing up and down as she undoubtedly stands and crouches over and over again by the table. It’s a stupid game called ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ that results in lots of sore heads after banging them on a table. Flo looks relieved that you’re finally here.

She gets up so that Fleur can take her seat, immediately grabbing your hand. Decidedly, you hug her, sticking your finger up at the teenager rolling her eyes across from you.

“Who dressed Tilly?” asks Fleur, eyeing the white playsuit she’s wearing. It’s not yet stained.

“I did,” Florence says, sitting next to you, hand on your thigh. “She insisted on wearing white.” She probably just wanted to wear it because you designed it. It’s a literal prototype used to see how it fits, but the white makes her feel trusted so she begged to keep it. The final product has a few tweaks in sizing for a more generic cut, but you like that hers is made to fit her properly. If you had time you’d sew their whole wardrobe.

“She looks so clean.” She has to otherwise the media will call you a bad mother. “Maman, si Papa voit ça, il flippera.”

“Pourqoui est Papa freaking out?” Tilly’s half-translation not only clues Flo in on what’s going on, but makes her worried. No one should be freaking out. “Can we just order, please.” She drags out the ‘please’ with a pout and a longing look at the menu. Tilly can barely read in French (your fault — you forgot it’s not her first language) so you’re not quite sure what she’s staring at, but her point has been articulated enough for Fleur to mumble her order to you.

“D’acc, deux pains au chocolat pour Tilly,” you recite the order as usual in order to refresh Tilly’s counting in French and foods, “Fleur, tu veux un croissant aux amandes, oui?” She nods and asks for an Espresso. You tell her yes but make a mental note to get her and her sister hot chocolate instead. “Et Florence veut un croissant, j’veux un croissant.” Tilly shows you her fingers, four of them sticking up. All four people are accounted for. You could maybe call it a family.

You stand up to order at the counter. Florence stands too.

“Can I come with you,” she whispers, wary of listening ears. “I’ve yet to tell you about my night.” She takes your hand, smirking when Fleur groans in extremely audible disgust, and locks her fingers between yours, locking your faith into her.

As you walk into the crowded café, you find that Flo being recognised is more of an issue than anticipated for this part of Paris. This café is far from touristy, usually filled with off-duty models here for various shoots, but even they are turning their heads towards your girlfriend. Pride ignites on the gasoline of your blood, circulating around your body. She is yours and she is talented and funny and amazing in bed (not that you’d ever let her know it — her ego would inflate and suffocate you all). She still holds your hand in the queue.

“Why were you up so late smoking cigarettes with my daughter?” Panic briefly flushes her cheeks before she catches the softness in your eyes. You’re only playing. “If she said anything, I’m—”

“I didn’t know Marc killed himself.” Marc was Fleur’s father. “I also didn’t know that she was so clever. I thought her vocabulary was just grunts of varying pitches and tones. She’s so articulate, you know? Like, I just didn’t expect it.”

“Fleur is one of the most intelligent people I know.” So intelligent that she sometimes becomes sloppy and wastes incredible potential. “Did you sort out your differences?”

“We both agreed that you want to marry me.”

You think you’re embarrassed, but the blush might be from something else. Like the thought of having Flo there constantly and never feeling like you are trapped on a sole planet when the girls leave. Never being alone when you have a certain disposition to be extremely so. You know you have to say something in response, that you can’t let her comment end your conversation. “Yeah well I love you.”

Florence wants to propose. Right here, right now.

“I love you too.”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridlz @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take

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