His Little Flower (Felix and Flora) novel Chapter 86

Chapter 86 

The slamming door reverberated through the house, each echo vibrating through my body, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. Felix’s words, sharp and accusatory, still echoed in my ears, stinging more than I cared to admit. Tears burned in my eyes, blurring the hallway into a water color wash of grief. This familiar ache, the weight of rejection settling in my chest, tasted like ashes on my tongue. 

Every step towards my room felt heavy, my legs numb under the crushing weight of unspoken pleas and unheard apologies. My hand hovered over the doorknob to Felix’s door. I held it, longing to twist and go inside. But I had to go back. The look of utter despair on his face when he had asked me to leave almost knocked the breath from me. 

As I reached the halfway point, poised on the precipice of the staircase, a sound snagged me back. The creak of a door opening, followed by a name whispered like a desperate prayer, sent a jolt through me. 

“Flora!” 

I turned around, and Felix had just stepped out of his room. His hair was ruffled, and his voice, when he had called me, raw and vulnerable, ripped through the fog of hurt, igniting a flicker of hope I’d almost extinguished Slowly, I took a step, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. And there he was, Felix, hair tousled, eyes wide with a desperation that mirrored my own. He crossed the hallway in a blur, each step erasing the distance between us until he stood breathless before me, his chest hraving, face flushed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, 

He slowly sank to the floor, and his arms wrapped around my knees. His buried his head in my knees, breathing deep, audible breaths. Seeing him on his knees, whispering apologies, broke my heart. I sank down the floor, too, fill we were both on our knem, seated on the floor, at eye level again. 

Without a word, his hand cupped my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw with a tenderness that sent shivers down my spine. The touch, once a comfort, now held a new intensity, a desperate clinging to something he almost lost: He whispered “Im so sorry,” his voice thick with regret, each word 

brushstroke against my soul, erasing the harsh lines his anger haid etched earlier… 

I couldn’t say anything. My eyes were filling up with trans. “I’m sorry, flower. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

He said sorry like a prayer, Non–stop, not pausing for a breath, only staring at me while he did so. Like he would find forgiveness in my eyes. 

in my ryrs. Like I had anything to forgive. 

“It’s not your fault,” I whispered lowly. He didn’t seem to listen to that. If he did, he didn’t care, and didn’t agree. 

He looked up at me sharply. “Yes it is.” His tone was angry, entaged, “He was able to take you because I left, Flora. I promised you protection and I didn’t live up to it. And to see…the life you have been living, because of me,” he clenched his eyes shut, “T’ll never forgive myself.” 

His hands found mine, our fingers intertwining, his forehead came to rest against mine, and we both breathed a soft sigh, together. “I really thought I’d lost you, 

forever.” 

*Me too.” I said, my voice coming out hoarse and broken, choking on my own unshed tean 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but calmer this time, his words less slurred, his voice firmer. 

not your 

I was cut off by his lips on mine. 

The tears, long held at bay, finally rebelled, spilling down my cheeks like an overflowing river. My body, rigid with tension, softened as a sob escaped my lips, a release, a purging of years of unspoken truths, the years of longing masquerading as friendship. 

He pulled me close, his embrace a safe harbor in the storm of my emotions. He held me as I cried, his silent apology echoing in the space between us. His eyes, pleading and raw, held a vulnerability I’d never witnessed before, and in that moment, seeing the cracks in his facade, the turmoil mirroring my own, something in me shifted. 

A lightness bloomed within me, a lifting of the burden I’d carried for so long. The unspoken words, the years of yearning, dissipated in the face of this raw vulnerability. Hesitantly, he lifted his head, his eyes searching mine. He cupped my face again, his touch a whisper against my skin. Then, slowly. gently, he leaned in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that tasted of salt and sorrow, but also of promise and unspoken desires. 

It was a kiss of desperation, of years of unspoken feelings finally finding their voice. It was a kiss of forgiveness, of walls crumbling and vulnerabilities laid bare. It was a kiss of hope, a tentative step towards a future neither of us dared to imagine.