HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 104

Coriolanus regretted the words as soon as they left him. It would have been one thing if it was a slip of his tongue, but it wasn't. And unlike all the other regrettable—and questionable—decisions he had made in the past hour alone, he couldn't justify this.

Totally undone by her sobbing, he had offered his company in hopes to at least, as some would say, "be there to help her get through this." He had half anticipated to be declined, since packing her day to drown out the misery did not exactly seem out of character. He knew his mistake should have been nipped it in the bud like a malformed rose lest its disease spread to the rest of the plant. He knew he ought to cancel, but he didn't have the heart to. Not after hearing the joy and excitement in her voice. It would have been crueler than texting, which he had opted against.

Manifestly, as she had proven on multiple occasions, he was not heartless. It only made his current circumstance more difficult. Coriolanus didn't know what he'd set out to achieve, if he'd set out to achieve anything at all, but it definitely wasn't to witness the light that flared in her eyes extinguish, as if his confession had somehow hurt her.

Was it one of those invisible yet very potent chords he had accidentally struck again? Had the statement somehow reminded of her mother? He couldn't fathom how, but the consequence was undeniable.

Nonetheless, he wasn't inclined to seek her forgiveness again. He'd already done so once tonight, and really, what did that accomplish except to assuage him? It did nothing for her. Just like funerals were for the living, not the dead, apologies were for the wrongdoers, not the wronged. Apologies didn't solve problems—actions did.

In this context, he was tempted to kiss her, if not to cheer her up then at least as a diversion. But it wouldn't be a selfless gesture, not when he was hungering to satiate his own thirst, which was as much a reason to engage as it was not. He could only hope that she had been adequately distracted by him and his car that she hadn't noticed his staring.

This dress was made for her, literally and metaphorically. It wasn't just that it hugged and flowed off her at all the right places. This dress was her. Simple, understated, elegant, pure, carefree—all the things she represented. This was her dress. She wanted to portray a person's personality through their clothing? Well, she'd done it.

If she had not halted on that top stair, if she had flown down the steps as he knew she was capable of, if she had crashed into him as she had done before, he would have devoured her. And then what?

As it was, he was already more involved—much more involved—than he could stomach, but he couldn't stop. She was his own brand of morphling: More of her didn't satisfy his addiction, it only made his cravings worse. He knew it was bad for him, and yet he still kept going back, just like a self-destructive junkie.

Just like a moth.

Ultimately, Coriolanus only made light of the situation.

"Like my favourite colour," he teased, cocking a smirk.

"I know that now," retorted Lilith. Then she blushed, averting her eyes shyly.

Could she really have chosen this outfit for his benefit? Could she really have worn his necklace for him?

He needed to change the subject.

A gentle purr surrounded them as Coriolanus started the engine. "And I assume you're also aware of how to work the seatbelt of a car?"

Lilith made a show of clicking hers into place. "Naturally."

He had to smile.

"Would you like me to put down the roof? Or do you prefer the wind in your hair?"