#like the taids got put back

[meowdymista]

The Love Spoon (A You-tensil)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Notes: Title sounds more provocative than it is. I tried to write it as a Charles x Arthur, but it came out better in first person. Fluff

~ NOW ON AO3! ~

“What are you doing?”

Arthur all but jumps out of his skin, colour rising in his cheeks. “Nothing,” he says a little too quickly.

You dismiss the secrecy. It doesn’t worry you, merely piques your interest a little. Usually it’s his journal he’s so protective over, but the knife in his hand and the shavings of bark in the grass suggest he has found another outlet.

“Mind if I sit here?”

He looks at the space beside him on the salt bleached log and shakes his head, hiding his eyes beneath the rim of the worn gambler’s hat he favours. “‘Course not. Free country.”

“Not for fellas with bounties,” you tease, and he chuckles, returning to his work.

You let the silence stretch, breathing in the cool breeze sweeping in over Flat Iron Lake and listening to the bird song. The coffee in your hand is too bitter and thin for your taste, but you continue to sip it stoically, knowing you’ll suffer later if you don’t.

“Much planned today?”

You sigh and struggle to smother the smirk tugging its way to the surface. “Fixin’ that wagon you and Mrs Adler took to town.”

He tuts. “They don’t build ‘em like they used to, a’right?”

You hum into your tin cup, wincing at the flavour. “Don’t know what magical wagon you used to drive. S’far as I can tell, they’re making them same as ever.”

Laughing, you let him land a gentle punch to your upper arm before taking the opportunity to stretch with a long groan.

“Guess I’ll catch you later.” He tips his hat at you with a small smile as you turn back into camp to begin chores.

***

“What the hell is it, Morgan?”

You shake your head, draining the last of the stew from the bowl. Sometimes it was a wonder the Pinkerton’s weren’t just listening out for Bill’s brawdy boasting or Dutch’s eloquent enunciations of faith to track them down. You toss your dish and spoon into the tub and look back out across to the sunset. A lone canoe drifts over the still surface, leaving a V of ripples in its wake. Whilst you appreciated the peace and quiet of this somewhat more remote camp, you worried for potential enemies eavesdropping from all manner of directions, especially as some members of camp had more than made themselves at home.

“It don’t matter what it is, I already told yer, it’s not for you!”

“Then why the hell you bring it over here? And what the hell’s it for?”

“Mind your damn business!”

“Gentlemen! What seems to be the problem?” Hosea’s tranquility smoothes over the tension.

You’re torn between conceding to your curiosity and keeping your distance from the drama until it’s cooled off. You glance over to your tent and inadvertently catch Arthur’s eye. You look away quickly, taking a deep breath as your cheeks fill with colour. It’s not what you think it means, you tell yourself, repeating your internal mantra. It's a coincidence. Let your head guide your heart. Don’t chase daydreams. It’s not what you think it means.

You watch the canoe disappear behind the trees. No man ever got out of the woods on his heart alone. You need to listen to logic.

You look back, but Arthur’s back is to you. As it should be, you reason as you walk over to the campfire, denying any intent to eavesdrop to yourself.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Wh-What do you think it is?”

“A spoon carved from basswood!” Hosea laughed. “Didn’t you used to have one like this? Your mother’s, if I’m not mistaken?”

He grunts as Bill splutters. “Ain’t gonna do much eatin’ with that, Morgan! It’s almost flat! You’d be better off eatin’ off a butter knife!”

“It ain’t for eatin’ with!” he snaps, snatching it out of Hosea’s hands and turning on his heel. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”

Bill cries out as Hosea’s hand makes contact with the back of his head. “You drunken oaf. Read a room why don’t you!”

“Read a room?” Bill blusters. “I ain’t seen four walls since that bank job-”

You push yourself to your feet and track him down with ease. He has stormed off towards the treeline and stopped by his horse, leaning his elbows on the saddle patting the mare’s neck distractedly. He throws the item towards the shore in a fit of frustration and pulls himself up onto his mare with a huff. You’re too close in the clearing to be able to hide when he looks straight at you, but despite stiffening in surprise, he yanks the reins to lead his horse out of camp without looking back.

You wait until you’re sure you’re alone before stalking out to the grass, looking for whatever it is that Arthur threw. It takes a while, but eventually you find it.

It’s a rough whittled spoon. On closer inspection, you can see the detail scratched into it and where he’s tried to sand the edges to smooth them. The lip of the spoon is, as Bill stated, too shallow for much use, but the handle is intricate and suggests it’s purely a decorative piece. The wood winds into itself, plaiting itself awkwardly up to the head of a stag. You walk it back to camp carefully, keeping it out of sight in the fold of your shirt. Finding a quiet space near the first aid cart, you study it closer. The handle is not carved with plaits as first surmised, but a feather. The detail is exquisite. It fans out near the top, like a peacock feather, but instead of the target or eye, it blossoms with the angular snout of a stag, it’s antlers stretching up above.

Arthur couldn’t have finished this today. You think back and realise you have seen him asking Sean to teach him to whittle, asking Hosea how best to carve details. No wonder he snapped at Bill - the time he must have spent on this… and for it to be made from a singular piece of wood with no mistakes...

In your lapse of attention, Hosea has crept up on you.

“You found it then?”

“I suppose so.” You straighten up and hold it out for him to examine in the light. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Arthur has never done anything by halves.” He chuckles and presses it back into his hands. “D’you know, when we first met him, he had something like this in his pocket. Said his grandmother had given it to his mother as a gift on her engagement. Something like a love spoon? It’s some sort of British tradition, I think. His was lost after the stables we were sleeping in caught fire. Lost a few possessions to that fire, sleeping bags included, but that was one of the few things that couldn’t be replaced.”

You murmur a few words of wonder and Hosea shrugs. “I’ve never found much on it in the way of literature about them. I’ve tried asking John, Sean, Molly, Mac, Davey... and many other Brits we’ve picked up along the way, but no one seems familiar with it. It’s like it lived and died with his family.”

You leave him to his musings and carefully carry the spoon back to your tent. Taking some cotton from a torn shirt (damn Night folk and their knives) you wrap it gently and leave it on the cabinet at his bedside to find later.

You don't hear him return that night. You wake from a dreamless sleep, thinking of the day ahead as you pour yourself some coffee and look out across the horizon. With a twist of your heart, you recognise the silhouette on the same log as yesterday, and hesitantly make your way over.

"Morning."

Arthur looks up at you and gives you a small smile. "Morning."

You sit down besides him and together you rest in comfortable silence. Eventually Arthur holds out the remains of your shirt and you accept it with a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Thanks for… for finding it for me." He moves the spoon between his hands, turning it over, embarrassed. "It's stupid, I know."

"I don't think it's stupid." The morning light has made his pupils retract enough for you to see the essence of green in his irises. "It's a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I've never seen anything like it."

"Nah, the one my mother had was better."

"Hosea told me about that." You slide your hand out to close the gap between you. "Said you lost it in a fire?"

He sighs heavily. "Yeah." His lips thin as he thinks hard. You give him the space, finishing the last of your coffee which is a little better than yesterday’s. Eventually he takes a deep breath and turns to you, his eyes scouring your face for any signs of repulsion or amusement at his expense. You mirror him, keeping your face as neutral as you can.

“My… my taid - or my grandfather - gave one of these to my nain. It’s… it’s a traditional gift we used to give to each other as a token of appreciation. My grandfather gave it to my grandmother when they got engaged, and she gave it to my mother before they came to America.”

You nod slowly. “Was it a cultural thing?”

“Yeah. We didn’t have a lot of money, so this was something you could make to show… well show how much you cared, I guess.”

He holds the elegant utensil out to you, a blush creeping over his cheeks.

“I had a look at it last night. It’s beautiful, Arthur. The detail… it must have taken you weeks to carve.”

“About two months in total.” He rubs the back of his neck with a grimace. “It took me a few tries to get it right.”

“The care you’ve put into it… It’s really something.”

“I, err, made it for you.”

You manage to catch your jaw before it hits your lap, but the colour is already flooding your face without abandon. “Are you sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure. Unless you don’t want it? It’s stupid, I know-”

“But- why? Why me?” You let your fingertips trace the grooves of the feather and slide over the smooth antlers. “Don’t you want to keep it?”

“I made it for you,” he repeats, his bottom lip disappearing as he chews it. “It won’t be any good for eatin’ with, but-”

“Neither are your sketches, but that doesn’t mean they lack value.” A laugh escapes you as you reach out and squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Arthur. This is… wow!”

He peaks out from under his hat, a smile pulling at his lips at your reaction. “You mean a lot to me. It’s the least I could do.”

You’re leaning forward unconsciously, like he is the centre of gravity. Your heart thuds as you realise he’s also teetering towards you.

“A thank you would have sufficed!”

He scoffs, his gaze softening. “You know what I mean.”

It’s not what you think it means.

His breathing is unsteady as it brushes your face. You can feel the warmth of his hand gliding up your back as he closes the gap and gently presses a chaste kiss against your lips.

[paralysis-comic]

yourocsbackstory week 1: parents

|| @yourocsbackstory​ ||

gettin this in niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice and early. tw for vaguely implied child abuse

Baby Blues Act 1, or Gina Takes A Deep Dive

You’ve come to use the phrase “my dad” interchangeably for them both now.

As always, you’re never sure how confusing it is for anyone who’s not, for example, John or Diane; but you maintain that the word for man who raised you and man who (allegedly) had a part in creating you are, at least in English, one and the same. ‘Stepdad’ sounds a bit…

Uptight?

Stilted?

Crass?

No, you reserve stepdad for teachers and police officers. Or – in times where you feel the need to throw all mention of long-dead folks out the window and focus on the more-recently-dead – when mum’s boyfriend is too many syllables to fit into one conc- ah.

No, no, put it down. No, on the sofa. Now stand up. Never mind if you look like Bambi on the ice, no one’s here. Mum’s at work, Dad’s in America, fuck knows where John is, Dad’s in America, remember? Not identifying bodies, not being questioned, not (FUCK!!!!!!) holding this in front of you.

Now stand up.

Pick it up.

Sit down.

Breathe.

Actually, no, get the other one.

You’ve never properly looked through it.

What did you come here for again?

The first one is a bit tatty. That’s how it’s always been. Black, red corners, looks like a photo album you’d see on TV, like in The Simpsons or something. Wait, isn’t that how something from 90’s America should look?

On the inside cover, a tiny “1980-1999” in the top left corner, a normal-sized “To Mimi & Nate, happy anniversary!!!! love Glad & Atticus” (ugh) and a large cut-out message of general condolence that you never bother to read.

And on the first page, before the album proper, two portrait photos taped in.

On the left, in black and white, a thin teenage boy in a suit, and an old lady in a long dress and headscarf. You flip it up, as careful as you’re physically able. There’s some Russian on the back, then some Welsh in the same handwriting. You know neither. Shit. Fuck– And below it, what looks to be the English counterpart:

Just after Sam’s Bar Mitzvah. Never went to another one. Only photo I’ve got of her. D x

You wish you’d had a Bar Mitzvah. Ceri did, but Auntie Lettice didn’t let you go.

Ceri still keeps asking you why.

You bite your nail. God, if you get this emotional over every one, you’ll be here forever. And you can’t even remember why you got them down in the first place. The one on the right, in full 90’s colour, that’s your dad and some guy you don’t know. No one’s told you about him yet. He’s sitting on your dad’s lap, attempting to drum, like you used to do to Charles. It looks professionally done, like a photo of Queen. Blurry hands in the foreground and all. Oh, you never noticed Cadz there at the piano. Adorable.

Theres a note under it. All in English, thank fuck.

Hello boys, found this when I was rummaging around in Mikey’s room, thought you’d like to have it. Give my love to Althea and the kids. Love from Sue xxx

You have never heard those names in your life, although now you’re never sure what you mean by that. It may well be that you and John (and Beth and Gel and Ronnie and Llew and Renée and Meic (and Hector)) have been sat down and told all of this in great detail. You try not to let the name Sue get in your head. You try and think nice thoughts. You don’t have a lot of nice thoughts at this time of year.

You’re not fussed with most of these. You were once, before the novelty of having one very famous, very dead parent wore off for the second time.

The ones at the beginning, you got bored of those ages ago. There’s only so many times you can see a photo on tumblr and still want to reblog it. @fuckyeahgoosnargh never got back to you when you told her to take them down. You like the way their hair looks — Cadz in pigtails, your dad with a vague approximation of Brian May. Reminds you of you, in a mad way.

Some more early ones. The three of them, the four of them, the funeral, the three of them again.

Then a few from gigs. They don’t impress you much. Sure, Cadz is a serviceable musician – he did give you your first banjo, after all – but as a frontman? Come on. And you wish they’d have focused in on one of the others; between the aggressive drummer with black greasepaint over his eyes (still in a suit, by the way) and the tiny guitarist in drag (think John Travolta, not Ru Paul), you can see why you and John turned out the way you did.

The ones in the graveyard are your favourite. Most of them are in black and white, which you’re not a fan of, but there’s one of the whole band, in colour: your dad, Cadz, the woman with the drawn on eyebrows, that Mikey guy, your other dad (he had drawn on eyebrows as well in those days, and his hair was straightened and slicked back), and some other bloke. He kinda looks like your dad but with real eyebrows. Maybe thats the Uncle Gaylord that Nana was on about. He’s not in any of the other photos. Gotta ask her what happened to him next time you see her. If you see her.

Some of your dad and Auntie Al. You like the one of him in the front doorway with the sun coming through, looking over his shoulder at all the boxes on the floor. You wonder why they split up. You wonder– oh, now you remember why youre here. All the ones of Ronnie and Llew must be in another album. Shit.

The next ones are of him in hospital. You’ve no desire to know what was wrong with him – medical stuff makes you cringe now – but he’s very pale and thin, and so is his hair. He looks way too young to be totally grey, even as haggard as he is. At least, with the curl back in, he doesnt look too dishevelled, if you disregard the missing eyebrows. There were ones of Mikey in hospital earlier, but you skipped past those. You don’t want to think about him anymore.

A lot of magazine and newspaper clippings. You’ve read them all before. You’re not in the right mood to read them again, but you do look at the pictures. As you turn the page, a newer and shinier piece of paper falls out. It’s from that one notebook article about you, with the covers of your and your dad’s first (only) solo singles. You’re making the exact same face. You suppose the effect would have been lost now, what with your bleached hair and ruined nose.

Then some of your parents — all four of them. They must have met at the same time. The ones that aren’t in Canada (you don’t need to see those, there’s enough of them on the walls) are in various parts of Wales: Great-Nain and Great-Taid’s village in Glamorgan, Nana’s house in cardiff (not many of those), John’s place, the big house you sometimes call home, the normal-sized house you currently call– huh.

It ends there.

gina: so yeah idk

diane: dude

diane: you know you were just away for 3 hours

diane what the heck were you doing

gina is typing…

[cass1x1]

“When all my dreams come true, the one I want standing next to me; it’s you.“ /“I’m afraid this conversation is gonna end with goodbye.“ / “As long as I have you, I have everything I want.”/ "Thanks for saving me. I have no idea why she wouldn't take the hint" (taide/arlo!!)

“When all my dreams come true, the one I want standing next to me; it’s you.“

The words seemed to surround her before she was truly expecting them. Not that she ever would have expected anyone to say anything like that to her. Taide hardly expected anyone to act any differently around her, except for all the bowing and deference. But Arlo didn’t need to show her any deference. And he definitely didn’t need to look at her with that hopeful look in his eyes.

“I want to be there,” she said softly, shifting on the soft cushion, tucking her legs further into her body so she could lean toward him without falling. “You’re going to be so amazing. I want to see how far you can go.” He’d be an amazing king; there was no doubt in her mind about it. “I’m just not sure I’m the right person to be standing next to you.”

It plagued her, all the time, this thought that she’d be an okay queen of her own kingdom, but hardly a suitable one for two kingdoms. That was twice the pressure, twice the responsibility. Twice the support. Twice the help. Twice the love, that nagging  voice in her head reminded her. Never loud enough though.

But Arlo’s voice was. Well, not loud. But clear, strong, firm. “I want it to be you. That makes you the right person.” His hand was so warm on hers.  She leaned forward, squeezing his hand with both of hers, and nodded. That was all that needed to be said.

“I’m afraid this conversation is gonna end with goodbye.“

The rain pelted against the window of the castle. With the dimmed lights around them, it gave everything an uncomfortably apt air of finality, of doom. Faintly, Taide wondered if they’d write that into historical accounts, to add to the drama. She’d always suspected that sort of detail was faked, but now she saw that it was, in fact, possible.

Swallowing hard, she turned to Arlo. She did her best not to lie to him, and even more to do him the courtesy of being herself, and not the politician she was raised to be. He deserved better than her best court face. “It might,” she conceded. “But not forever.” Yes, his father was furious at hers. Yes, it was the most egregious act of crime against another country that Othia had seen since her great-great-grandfather. However…

However…

However, what? However, she loved him? She did. And she hoped that would be enough. That would have to be enough. She did not see an alternative. “You know this–this act of terror, it did not come from us, or one of ours. All we must do is convince your father of that, and convince my father that his reaction has been too harsh.” And stop the clamoring of both our subjects. And find the killer. And hold a memorial for the envoy who died. And… Taide turned away, facing the door to the most private meeting room in the palace. How many times had she stood outside this door, wishing she would be allowed in? Now she was, and she could not have dreaded it more. Its cold, heavy wood offered her no more hope than the rain outside. 

She turned back to Arlo, his eyes shining still with unshed tears. He’d known the envoy. They’d been friends. Her heart twisted again as she thought of his face when he’d heard the news. “Not forever,” she whispered to herself. To him, she said, “I need you too much to lose you now.” Then, steeled as much as she could be, she pushed the door open.

“As long as I have you, I have everything I want.”

Laughing, Taide picked up the nearest object–fortunately for Arlo, merely a small pad of post-its–and tossed it at him playfully. He put his hands up defensively, giggling nearly as much as she was. “Hey!” he called, looking up to ensure her assault was over. “I’m serious.”

Shaking her head, Tai picked up another pad of post-its. Her poor desk would suffer indeed if he kept this up. “No, you’re not,” she laughed, holding up the pad like a projectile.

“I will not be cowed by your threats of violence,” he said, attempting to imitate a serious military voice through the laughter. That only made Tai laugh harder, gesturing as if to throw the pad.

“Don’t tease, then,” she replied, trying to get her own chuckles to die down.

“I’m not. I swear, really swear, I’m not.”

Taide did throw the post-its, then. She turned, tossed them to the far side of the room, away from Arlo’s head, and leaned forward, over the desk, and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. “You’re too much a romantic for me,” she told him, smiling softly. “I will never know what to say to you.”

“You’ll learn,” he promised her, eyes still full of laughter. “And you should. You deserve it.”

Tai opened her mouth, and then closed it, trying not to gape like a fish. “You’re terrible,” she responded, picking up a pad of papers to whack him lightly with.

“Thanks for saving me. I have no idea why she wouldn’t take the hint”

“A hint is no match for a mother telling you your duty is to snare a prince,” Taide said, an almost sad smile on her face. She understood, perhaps a little too well, how the girl must feel. Being a noblewoman whose parents aspired for regency–well, it must be very hard. Of course, she’d never borne the brunt of it, since she had her own title, but there would always be people telling her she was worth less if she could not do the same.

But Arlo didn’t need to know that. She shrugged, pushing her skirt to rights, as if it were wrong in the first place. “In the meantime, would you actually like refreshments? I don’t mean to make a liar out of you.”

He nodded, offering her his arm, and she took it with what she hoped looked like grace. “Is your mother like that?” he asked, a little abruptly.

“Mama? No. She’d be happy if I married and retained the thrown at all. And father–he’s got his sights on some prince or other, I’m sure, but I doubt he’d make it my job to court the poor man. I’d do a poor job of it.” She paused, studying him as they walked idly toward the salon where a buffet table of food and drinks sat waiting. “I don’t suppose anyone has told you to woo anyone yet?”

“Not yet,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think they think I can.”

“Well, I can call that girl back over. You were doing a lovely job charming her. Maybe if they see that, they’ll start hassling you too.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Tai wanted to take them back. It was inappropriate, to say the least, for her to tease him so. They barely new each other. But before she could apologize, much to her relief, he began to laugh. A lovely sound, his laugh was too.

“No, thank you. I think that’d make a liar out of both of us,” he said, shaking his head. “Besides, they’d believe she was acting. Now, if I trotted you in front of them…” he trailed off, making much the face she had a moment ago.

“Don’t you dare,” she replied immediately, with a friendly smile she hoped said I know you’re teasing and it’s okay. “I’ve got enough people staring at me without being seen flirting with a prince.”

That time, she did decide to take the words back, immediately. “Not that I–I mean, not that I wouldn’t, either. You’re…oh…would you do me the honor of pretending not to have heard any of that?” she asked, blushing a hideously ungraceful pink.

[sirskullyington]

Okay im going to pc warframe ps4 is way to slow im getting a ton of plat and buying my stuff back on pc

[cass1x1]

I’m not going anywhere because I love you./ Tell me something I don’t know about you./ What are you afraid of? (for arlo/taide!!)

I’m not going anywhere because I love you.

It was her stupid lip that always gave her away. As far as she could tell, being queen meant Taide had to hide her emotions, only giving them away for Political Gain or Power or whatever other badass reason she was supposed to have. She just wasn’t cut out for it. She was soft around the edges, much to the frustration of her Decorum tutors. Not that it would’ve mattered. Even at her most decorum-y, Arlo had a way of seeing through her walls. Probably because he’d watched her build them. Her lip was a dead giveaway, though. It quivered when she was upset, telling him everything.

Still, she felt like she had to at least try to cover herself. Turning her body to face away from him, she did her best to hide the way her voice would surely shake as well. “You don’t have to stay,” she said, as if she hadn’t already told him that twice. “I want to be alone.”

Arlo leaned around, giving her that look that had been turning his heart inside out for a while. “No you don’t,” he said simply.

It would’ve made her mad if he wasn’t so damn right. The quiver in her lip grew ever so slightly. “No, I don’t,” she echoed, turning around and stepping forward, pressing her face against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. For a moment, he held her like that, part comforting hug, part embrace. 

Then, when the silence began to boarder on awkward, he spoke. “I meant it, you know.” That I love you. They’d been friends for so long, not all sentences needed to be ended.

But do you mean it like I do? They’d been friends so long, some things couldn’t be said. “I know,” she whispered, lips still up against his chest. It would’ve been like a kiss, maybe, but it somehow wasn’t. “I love you too.” 

Tell me something I don’t know about you.

Laughing, Taide picked up another rambutan up from the platter, pinching it to peel the skin off before popping it into her mouth. Long after the rest of the guests of the feast had gone to bed, Arlo and she sometimes found themselves lingering in the kitchens, enjoying the food and one another’s company. As they got older, they were separated more often, so nights like this were slowly becoming a rarity.

It was harder, though, to think up an answer to his question. What was one to say in a situation like that? She did not have many secrets that were shareable. After all, her whole life was public. What little there was that not everyone in Othia knew, she wanted to keep for herself. But Arlo didn’t count. Arlo was one of the few people who really understood. He, like her, lived with lots of secrets. No normal school, no normal friends. Maybe she could give one little piece to him.

Popping another rambutan out from the peel, she sighed. “I–” She stopped, trying to think of what to say. “I’m scared of telling my parents, but I think I’m more religious than them.” It was an odd admission, to be sure, but all of Othia had been ruled by secular kings and queens–despite a religious population–for a long time. “I’m not, like, one of those people who pushes my religion on anyone, but just to myself…I like the idea of there being a big plan, you know?”

For a brief moment, Taide let there be a silence. Then, she put the fruit in her hand down. “What about you? Anything you want to share?”

What are you afraid of?

His words startled Taide almost as much as the cool air that filled the space between them as Arlo pulled back. She resisted the urge to follow him, knowing his words were more important in her head, even if her heart disagreed. She felt foolish. They’d been having a moment, exactly the kind of moment she’d wanted, and then she hesitated. Apparently, that was too much for Arlo, and now, instead of having their moment, he was asking difficult questions.

What was she afraid of? Liking someone? Liking the sort of person her parents wanted? Being caught? Frankly, there were a lot of things. But none of them were stopping her. Finally, she took a breath, stepping slightly toward him, but not enough to close the gap Arlo had created. “I’m not afraid. I just…I don’t want to make a mistake,” she explained.

She turned away, trying to gather her thoughts. It was hard, thinking while he was looking at her like that. She didn’t know exactly what “like that” meant, only that it made it hard for her. “I feel like there are so many mistakes I could make right now and I’m w-afraid that if I make one, it’ll be my last chance.” Her hands came up, folding over her stomach like a hug for herself. “I don’t like last chances.”