foxlore | open post.

⟪ little trips were among the things they talked about while she stayed at his place, and... it's a topic they circled back to even after flora's apartment had piping again and he'd driven her (and all her stuff) back home. the herb plants, she'd ended up leaving behind. his kitchen is nicer to cook in, and there is economic value in cooking together – even if it mostly means sam offering her company while she does most of the kitchen work. she likes it like that, likes talking to him, eating with him, perhaps watching a movie after, listening to him share some stories of his work with the kids. there's a kindness to his voice and a warmth in his eyes when he does, and none of the care leaves him even if a story turns out more frustrating than happy.

and yet, there's numbers written on his arm, and she can't make sense of them. her phone may be ancient, but in the end, she finds her opportunity to jot them down, to look them up online.

to wind up with images of a strange desert.

she didn't think she would wind up with more questions.

but she let it rest, it's none of her business, and instead, somehow, they planned a short trip. he's got time off, so does she, and she'd excitedly shown him her fresh-off-the-press diploma, another stepping stone back into the real, human world. nature is what they wanted for the trip, nothing too far, or too high-tech. a cabin would be nice, and they found something that lacked tv and internet, but came with a nice selection of hiking trails –– and a hot tub.

so far, though, it's not been tall trees and a quaint lake that sold her, though. what really got her was hearing him hum along to a song while she was nearly asleep in the car beside him, and the look in his eye as his car practically flew across the highway.

all the same, it's night now, it's late, it's quiet, and the hot tub beckoned. her bikini is a green that bites with her red hair, and he can see the shitty cat-esque stick n poke tattoo she got when she was seventeen. his tattoos, they've spoken of plenty. they're covering what she's not usually mentioning. mostly covering. ⟫

I don't think the jets work. I guess I'll DIY the massage function.

⟪ she's already motioning for him to shift and scoot so she can give him a backrub. ⟫

that's it that's the prompt

⟪ here's the thing: when someone you care for as deeply as she cares for sam spontaneously takes off one day and seemingly vanishes off the face of the earth for a week, it's impossible not to worry. of course she worries. she worries about him resting and eating and about whatever's affected him so much that he needs to take time and space away from seemingly everything. there's the nagging, thought, too, that he... has been through things in his life not everyone survives, and though he's told her he's sought help in the past ––

actually, that is what she focuses on.

he has sought help in the past. he needs space to himself. that's all too relatable a thing. when he's ready, he'll be back, that, too, she knows – because that is simply the kind of man that he is. in the meantime, she keeps to her routine – she goes to work, she goes to class, she waters the plants she's begun to set out in his garden, as she always does. that's why she's there when he's back, standing in his doorway with a cup of something as he often does during her morning visits. ⟫

Hey! You up for breakfast?

⟪ another tradition, that. she comes to take care of the garden, but usually, it ends with her making breakfast for them both. seeing how is night went, if he worked, or how his day'd been, if they hadn't seen each other for a day or two. talking about ordinary things. and she's smiling, too, same as always. perhaps there's a hint more relief in it now, but that doesn't make it less genuine.

she even walks up to him just the same, and if he lets her, she'll go up on her tip-toes to sneak a kiss in greeting. ⟫

There is plenty of time left before the bar officially opens, and even though it already looks as if Santa's workshop exploded all over the interior, Flora would immediately assure Ginia that no, she definitely has more decorating to do. In fact, she'd do that right away, but unfortunately, she's busy with three things: one, balancing on a stepping stool, two, fastening a mistletoe to the doorframe leading into the kitchen, and three, singing along loudly, enthusiastically, and with very little regard for the actual lyrics, to Last Christmas.

It isn't that she has always been a holiday person. They are hard to ignore on the streets, it's true, the decorations are everywhere, songs blasting from every shop, the overwhelming sense of loneliness that gnawed on her because there's no family to spend it with, and no friends either. It... didn't much endear her to seasonal things.

And yet, now that she's got a place to call 'home', even if it's a tiny shoebox of a studio and this bar right there... Suddenly, she can't seem to contain her excitement. There's cookies for the rest of the staff in the oven, she's wearing the world's ugliest christmas sweater, and just when she thought things couldn't get better, she turns to spot Ginia. "Can you give me a hand?"

She's really, really struggling with that mistletoe. It just won't stay put.

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for ginia – seasonal greetings;