HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 117

Sewing machines were incredible inventions—people had actually innovated a completely novel way of threading fabrics together in order to automate the craft—but it wasn't almighty. Some things still had to be done by hand, like this stitch.

Tigris had demonstrated it twice before, and Lilith had been practicing all week, but hers was still a far cry from her mentor's work. According to her, being a designer was more than just ideas and sketches. They might not be seamstresses, but sewing was a vital part of clothes-making. Without it, no idea or sketch could become reality. And this was for Lilith's idea. This would be her sketch coming to life.

If she could just get this stitch right.

But she couldn't say she was particularly gifted in this pursuit. In addition, her left wrist was growing stiffer and stiffer, and she was having trouble steadying the cotton as her right arm was vaguely achy. It had rained a lot the past week, and her old injury seemed to be acting up. There was also her overall exhaustion to contend with.

Behind her, the bell hanging on the front door jingled, but she couldn't afford to take her eyes off now.

"Tigris isn't in at the moment," Lilith called back automatically. "If you'd like to come back later—"

"I'm not here for Tigris."

The voice, male and low and silky smooth, froze her. A part of Lilith had longed for this sound, longed to hear it again. It had imagined it would take all her pain away, but another part of her had also known to fear it. Why else would she have literally run from her cordless and watch his name flash on her screen from afar, where she could not make the mistake of accidentally pressing the green icon instead of the red?

Because there was the chance it did nothing of the sort. There was the chance it did quite the opposite, which it did.

"I'm here for you," he said, and every word was a stab of poison.

Of hope.

Her hands were trembling so badly the square of textile remained in her grasp only due to friction. Carefully, Lilith set it down onto the counter, less to avoid poking herself and more afraid any drastic movements might dislodge the tears from her eyes. Inhaling through her nose, Lilith swallowed and slowly turned around.

"How may I help you, General Snow?" she asked, her tone satisfyingly cool. She couldn't recognize it.

"You can hear me out," he replied. "I've been calling you."

There was a pause, as if he was waiting for her to respond. Lilith couldn't have even if she wanted to.

Although she was staring at a patch of window to the right of his shoulder, she saw only his face. She had not meant to make eye contact, but she had inadvertently glimpsed his countenance, and it was everything she had expected—handsome, but haggard. The first part of her had fantasized him agonizing over her inaction, her apparent disregard, and here he was, looking like the time the Environmental Department had left them hanging, like the time one of his tributes had committed suicide.

Like he was as broken as she was.

She wished for nothing more than to run to him, to throw her arms around him and be surrounded in his, to feel his warmth and smell his scent and let his touch make everything better. But it was all against her better judgment, which was the one presently in control. Luckily, her hands were obscured behind her back, and he couldn't see them being wrung as she forced herself to stay on the spot.

Eventually, he asked, "Why haven't you called me back?"

"When a person doesn't return someone else's call," said Lilith, in her better judgment's calm voice, "it's usually because they have no desire to speak to the other party."