She   giggled   softly   to   herself,   amused   by   how   much   a   single 

Her   shoulders   lifted   in   quiet   laughter,   amused   by   the   other’s   confession.  “Well,   personally,   I   think   art’s   meant   to   be felt   more   than   understood,”  she   offered   gently.  “But   I   know   others   have very   strong   opinions   on   the   matter.”  Her   voice   was   all   but   a   whisper,   glancing   around   making   sure  she   didn’t   make   the   same   mistake   of   offending   one   of   the   artists.   Signe   followed   the   stranger’s   gaze,   glancing   back   to   see   that   it   didn’t   resonate   with   her   either.   “Nothing   with   this   one   either?”   Signe   wasn’t   the   kind   to   make   someone   feel   bad   for  ‘not   getting   it’   so   she   decided   to   steer   the   conversation   in   a   new   direction.  “Do   you   live   nearby?   I   just   moved   into   the   neighborhood   not   too   long   ago,   and   I   decided   to   go   exploring.”   After   a   brief   pause,   she   added   with   a   hesitant   smile.  “I’m   Signe,   by   the   way.”

Marcela didn't frequently spend her free time admiring the art at the Mango Bay Art District, but she had some time to kill after her shift at Retro Roots and decided to check out what local artists had put up recently since she was in the area. If nothing else, this was a step in the right direction towards her goal of being at least a little more responsible with her time this year. What trouble could she really land herself in here?

She was mindlessly wandering around, not spending too much time with any one piece of art when a voice attracted her attention. "Oh no, you're fine. I'm really walking around more than anything." She glanced around for anyone who looked like the stereotypical, pretentious artist types she imagined were responsible for the artwork here. "Between you and me, I think most of this lost on me. I'm pretty sure I accidentally insulted one of the artists the last time I was here by not seeing their vision or something." As she spoke, she shifted a little to peer around the other just to see if she was missing out on something by not viewing this particular piece. Sure enough, though, it didn't really stand out to her.

The   laughter   came   easy   at   Charlie’s   dramatics,   shaking   her   head   in   amusement.  “Well,   two   things   can   be   true   at   the   same   time,”   she   smirked   playfully   at   him.  “It   was   a   very…immersive   one-man-show.   I   learned   a   lot   about   you.”   She   ducked   and   raised   a   hand   to   avoid   the   napkin   he   tossed   at   her.   His   mock   offense   made   her   laugh,   and   she   was   about   to   toss   the   napkin   back   at   him   when   his   fingers   found   her   side.   An   involuntary   squeak   escaped   her,   immediately   followed   by   a   giggle   as   she   swatted   at   his   hand.   “Hey   now!   Keep   your   hands   to   yourself!”  Signe   grinned,   her   smile   lingering   as   her   gaze   softened   on   him.   His   soft   words   about   her   family   had   her   heart   aching   in   a   beautiful   way.   Family’s   everything.   That   was   exactly   right,   wasn’t   it?   A   truth   that   Signe   knew   all   the   way   down   to   her   bones. “Yeah,   they   are,” she   murmured   softly.   "i’m   insanely   lucky,   I   know   that.   My   parents   have   always   wanted   the   best   for   me.”  Her   gaze   met   his   and   her   breath   caught   at   the   distance   (   or   lack   thereof   )   between   them.   Signe   ducked   her   head,   trying   to   hide   the   way   a   smile   tugged   at   her. “Quit   it,”   she   muttered,   reaching   out   give   him   a   half-hearted   shove.   She   dared   glance   at   him   from   underneath   her   eyelashes,   but   the   mirth   in   her   eyes   gave   away   just   how   much   she   was   truly   enjoying   this   –   he   had   to   know   that.   “You  might’ve   mentioned   it,”  she   said,   trying   to   sound   more   exasperated   than   she   fell.  “Just   once   or   twice,   you   know.”   Because   you   are.   Ridiculously   so.   Ugh,   he   was   so   unfair.   Charlie   didn’t   look   away,   because   of   course   he   didn’t.   He   simply   leaned   back   and   asked   that   she   continue   her   story.   She   was   a   little   flustered,   brushing   a   loose   strand   of   hair   behind   her   ear,   but   after   a   slight   hesitation,   Signe   obliged   the   request. “Okay,   so…there   was   this   exhibit   in   Copenhagen.   I   was,   twelve,   maybe?   They   were   having   a   special   traveling   circuit   that   was   all   these   medieval   gowns   – real   ones,   not   just   replicas,”  she   smiled   at   the   memory.  “And   the   colors   were   so  vibrant   and   they   were   so detailed. They   were   the   most   beautiful   things   I’d   ever   seen   but   even   beyond   that,   the   clothing   told   a   story.”  It   was   one   of   the   many   brushes   a   person   could   wield   to   make   themselves   scene   without   words.   “I   was   super   shy   as   a   kid,   and   clothing   became   a   way   for   me   to   speak   out   about   my   place   in   the   world.   So,   while   my   mom   spoke   with   the   staff   about   some   consulting   job   she   was   doing,   I   just   stood   there.   Absolutely   floored.”  “I   started   devouring   YouTube   videos   and   check   outed   books   from   the   school   library…I   spent   most   of   that   first   year   doodling   sketch   ideas   on   the   edges   of   my   homework,”   she   said. “It   was   my   little   secret   until   college   came   around.   Then   the   words   came   tumbling   out   at   dinner   because   I   couldn’t   imagine   doing   anything   else.   It   was   absolutely   terrifying.”   Signe   blinked,   as   if   re-entering   herself   after   memory   lane.   Her   cheeks   flushed   and   laughed,   almost   shyly.”But   that   was   the   ‘moment’   –   not   a   runway,   or   sketchbook.   Just   a   museum."

Charlie felt like the whole scene had slowed down, the way Signe smiled at the semla like he’d just handed her the winning lottery ticket. The glow of the sunset hitting just behind her, soft around her shoulders, made the moment feel like one of those cheesy rom-coms his mum always had on when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. And there he was, grinning like an idiot right in the middle of it. “That’s… an absolutely insane compliment,” he managed, blinking slow, dumb smile still glued to his face. “I’m well chuffed. Glad it’s dangerous. That’s what I was goin’ for.” His laugh came easy, soft as he shook his head at himself.

But it was the teasing glint in her eye when she called him out on his last ‘monologue’ that really did him in. Charlie gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him. “Oi, and here I thought you enjoyed gettin’ to know me,” he shot back, feigning betrayal, though his grin only grew wider. “Et tu, Signe? Cruel.. Proper cruel.” He grabbed a crumpled napkin and tossed it at her with mock offense, his laugh spilling out fully now. “Ever the critic, aren’t ya?” he teased, leaning in just enough to reach out and give her side a playful squeeze, fingers light and quick. The kind of touch meant to make her laugh but that also left his own skin buzzing where they’d connected.

When she started sharing more, about her family, her parents, her journey into fashion, Charlie shifted, sitting up a little straighter without even realizing it. His smile softened into something steadier, quieter. The teasing faded just enough to let something more honest settle between them. “That’s… really beautiful, Signe,” he said after a beat, his voice lower, gentler. “Your folks sound like good people. Sounds like they’ve built you a right strong foundation.” He nodded slowly, the warmth in his eyes never leaving. “Family’s everything, innit? I think it’s rare.. people standin’ behind your dreams like that, especially when the dreams aren’t the safest or easiest route. Says a lot about the kind of love you grew up with.”

Charlie reached for a bottle of water from the basket as his gaze found hers again, closer now, somehow, without either of them moving too much. His lips twitched up at the corners, playful again but still soft around the edges. “Did I tell you you’re pretty yet, or…?” He raised his brows, pretending to consider, though the smile breaking across his face gave him away. “Feels like I should probably say it again. Just in case.” There was a lightness in his laugh, but when his eyes lingered on her, twisting off the cap of the bottle, the weight behind the words stayed.

“Because you are. Ridiculously so.” He leaned back slightly, just enough to give her a little space, but his gaze didn’t wander. His hand idly spun the bottle cap between his fingers, grounding himself in the motion while his attention stayed fully, deliberately on her. “Now go on,” he added with a tilt of his head and a grin that bordered on soft challenge, “don’t think you’re off the hook. I wanna hear the rest of the story. What's the piece you saw that did you in? Tell me about these medieval outfits.. Your big 'I'm gonna do this' moment.”

She   smiled   softly,   glancing   towards   him.   “Well,   there’s   still   beauty   in   that   too,   isn’t   there?”   she   tilted   her   head,   playfully.  “Your   mum   might   not   be   arranging   bouquets,   but   being   surrounded   by   all   that   life   and   color   still   leaves   an   impact.”  At   his   question   about   her   muse,   her   gaze   focused   back   onto   the   canvas   before   them.  “Fashion   stuff,   mostly,”  she   began,   her   tone   casual   and   slightly   downplaying   just   how   much   all   that  ‘fashion   stuff’   meant   to   her.  “Fabric,   textiles   –   I   sketch   and   make   my   own   designs   –   not   for   anyone   else   yet,   but…”  Signe   shrugged,   leaving   her   sentence   unfinished.  The   girl   watched   as   he   stepped   forward   to   study   the   painting   a   little   more   closely,   and   she   allowed   the   silence   to   stretch   comfortably   as   he   made   his   own   assessments   of   the   piece.    When   he   turned   back   to   her,   all   honesty   and   charm,   it   made   her   smile   without   meaning   to.  “That’s   the   thing   about   art,”   she   said,   tucking   a   strand   of   her   unruly   hair   behind   her   ear.  “It’s   not   about   knowing   what   you’re   looking   at,   it’s   about   how   it   makes   you   feel.”   Signe   shifted   slightly,   turning   to   face   him   more   directly.   “And   for   the   record,   food absolutely   counts.   There’s   so   much   emotion   in   taste.”   He   introduced   himself,   and   a   playful   smile   curved   her   lips   as   she   reached   out   to   shake   his   hand.  “Signe. Sing-neh.   But   you   can   call   me   whatever   sounds   right,”  she   joked.   Still   holding   his   hand,   she   leaned   in,   lowering   her   voice   to   a   conspiring   whisper.   “So,   Charlie   the   Culinary   Artist,   what   kind   of   food   are   we   talking?   Tiny   towers   and   edible   flowers,   or   greasy   comfort   food?”

Charlie held a gentle smile as the girl explained the piece wasn't painted by her, "That's lovely. What a cool way to pass on an interest. My mum works at this garden center, but more like 'the soil's over here' and less of the beauty of flowers, I guess." He lets out a soft laugh as he glances between her and the painting, "What's your medium then? If this isn't it, what's your style?"

The way that she'd spoken about the painting had Charlie's eyes immediately focusing more, his feet taking a small step forward to get a better look at the colors. "I would've never even thought about somethin' like that. Don't always know what I'm supposed to be lookin' at when I look at a paintin'." He turned on his heel, attention back on the girl as his head shook, "Honestly? I know nothin' about art. Never grew up really interested, but livin' here it's impossible not to stare. Now I'm definitely someone who appreciates it, really. I can't-.. Genuinely, can't draw for shit, let alone do anythin' close to this." A shrug lifts on his shoulders, "Unless you consider food art. You could say that's my medium." He jokes, holding his hand out towards the girl, "I'm Charlie."

If   she   were   being   honest,   the   last   bit   of   the   movie   she   spent   more   time   observing   Charlie   than   the   film.   She   thought   since   she'd   seen   it   more   times   than   she   could   count   that   she   could   be   forgiven   for   the   trespass.   Signe   watched   as   Charlie's   body   language   just   told   her   the   movie   was   really   bringing   up   some   possibly   unaddressed   emotions.   She   said   nothing,   choosing   to   squeeze   his   hand   instead.   The   ending,   as   always,   had   her   eyes   lining   with   tears   that   did   not   fall   and   a   small,   smile   on   her   lips.   She   accepted   the   tissues   from   him   and   nuzzled   her   face   into   his   arm   in   a   show   of   comfort.   At   Charlie's   question,   she   pondered   for   a   moment,   letting   the   credits   scroll   for   another   moment,   her   cheek   pressed   against   his   shoulder   as   she   did   so.   Then,   she   turned   to   him   and   at   their   joined   hands,   fidgeting   with   his   fingers. "It   is   honest,"   she   murmured.   "It's   so   vulnerable   it   kinda   makes   your   chest   ache,   doesn't   it?"   Her   green   eyes   flicked   over   his   face,   studied   his   glassy   eye   and   the   little   crease   in   his   brow.   It   made   her   want   to   cup   his   face   and   kiss   the   worry   lines   away.   "I   think   they   find   themselves   first.   Become   who   they're   meant   to   be   and   then   find   each   other   again."   Signe   swallowed,   her   own   throat   feeling   tight,   and   dabbed   her   eyes   with   the   tissues   Charlie   had   offered   her   earlier.   His   thumb   swept   across   her   knuckles   and   she   smiled   softly.   "I   don't   know   if   this   is   my   boldest   stroke,"   she   began   quietly.   Signe   snuck   a   glance   at   him,   memorizing   his   features   in   this   moment.   "But   I   just   wanted   to   say...I'm   really   glad   you're   here,   Charlie.   Not   just—"   she   waved   a   hand   around   them   dismissively.   "—here   on   the   couch,   but   here.   With   me." The   quiet   confession   seemed   almost   too   loud   and   Signe   could   hear   her   heart   thudding   in   her   chest.   She   leaned   forward   and   kiss   him,   slow   and   sure   and   grateful.   The   gesture   almost   a   thank   you   for   the   way   he'd   watched   her   favorite   movie   and   made   her   feel   seen   and   understood.   It   was   absolutely   maddening.   When   she   finally   pulled   back,   Signe   offered   him   a   teasing   smile.   "The   Godfather   has   it's   own   place   in   cinema   history,   don't   you   thinkI   It's   own   messages   and   themes   to   grapple   with,"   she   paused   for   dramatic   effect   before   adding.   "Like   the   importance   of   family,   loyalty…   and   never   trusting   anyone   who   puts   ketchup   on   their   pasta."

By the time Paul was coming to the realization, hurling those words at Ellie, Charlie was on the edge of his seat, leaning forward on the couch, forearms braced on his knees, hands knotted together in front of him. He inhaled sharply, lips parting slightly at the sound of it, the blunt violence in Paul’s voice cutting through the soft hum of the room. The scene twisted something inside him. Memories crept in, uninvited of an old mate from school, someone he got too close to once, who smiled at him in a way that made everything confusing and wonderful. His friend's mum had walked in on them, too near, too comfortable, and that was it. Days of avoidance and one stern talk later, and suddenly he was told they weren’t allowed to be friends anymore. It had never even had a name. He blinked hard and leaned back slowly, wiping a hand across his mouth as if that would settle the shake in his chest. "Fucked up," he muttered. "She did so much for the guy." Beside him, Signe didn’t say anything, just quietly reached for his hand under the blanket again. This time, he squeezed back.

Charlie's heart nearly dropped out of his chest as the film edged toward its closing, going still again. His breath caught during the painting metaphor, 'Maybe if you never make the bold stroke, you’ll never know if you could’ve had a great painting.' It hit different now. With Signe pressed into his side, with her warmth grounding him, he felt that line down to the bone. 'Is this really the boldest stroke you could make'. He swallowed down on the large lump in his chest as Ellie spoke to her father, those moments of silent cooking together drawing his mind to his mum. He missed home, he missed his friends, he missed her. But he wasn't sad about it. It felt right. And then came the train station. Ellie’s quiet 'I’ll see you in a couple years'. Paul running alongside the train. Ellie laughing through the tears.

Charlie sat in silence for a long moment, eyes glassy and locked on the screen. The first tear slipped free before he even realized. He laughed softly as he swiped at it. "Shit, love. You weren’t jokin’." His voice cracked with the words, a disbelieving sort of fondness in it as he reached for the box of tissues on the table. He passed one to her first, then grabbed a few for himself, blinking fast as the credits rolled. "Proper hit me, that one." His voice softened as he turned toward her, eyes still wet but shining. "You think they find each other again?" Charlie’s eyes lingered on hers a beat too long. His thumb brushed hers again. "Don’t think I’ve ever seen somethin’ that honest," he said, almost like a confession. "Definitely nothin' like The Godfather, yeah?" He leaned in, pressing a soft and delicate kiss to her lips, voice dipping sincerely. "Thank you for sharin' that."

@anchorsfm

Warrior Nun Season One Episode Five

Isaiah 30:20-21

⇢ ✨ STATUS ﹕ open ( 2/6 ) ⇢ ✨ TAGGING ﹕celine + utp !! ( @palmviewstarters ) ⇢ ✨ LOCATION ﹕ retro roots.

“This   store   is   either   a   fever   dream   or   a   trap,”   Celine   muttered   under   her   breath,   eyeing   a   hot   pink   rotary   phone   like   it   might   bite   her.   “I   swear   my   aunt   had   one   just   like   this,   just   covered   in   cigarette   ash.”   She   picked   up   a   pair   of   gold-framed,   star-shaped   sunglasses   and   ran   a   finger   long   the   edge.   She   caught   motion   in   her   peripheral   vision   and   glanced   up,   raising   an   eyebrow   with   faux   gravitas.   “Hey,   these   scream   ‘divorced   and   dangerous,’   right?   Asking   for   a   friend."   Celine's   smirk   widened,   taking   in   her   fellow   shopper   before   tilting   her   head.   There   was   something   about   the   otherworldly,   out   of   time   feel   of   the   store   that   had   her   lowering   her   usual   guard,   just   a   little.   “What's   your   poison?   Lava   lamps?   VHS   tapes?   …Velvet   couches   with   suspicious   stains?”

Signe   smiled   at   the   warmth   on   the   woman’s   expression   at   the   mention   of   her   aunt. “Made   of   lot   of   friendship   bracelets   in   your   time?” she   asked,   jokingly.    She   pondered   her   comparison   to   threading   a   needle   and   hummed   to   herself.   Her   eyes   followed   her   nimble   fingers   as   they   steadily   worked   on   the   knotted   mess. “I   guess   I   see   the   similarities,   even   if   my   fingers   haven’t   quite   grasped   it   yet.”

“i  have  my  aunt  to  thank  for  that,”  she  smiles  at  the  other  softly,  nails  hard  at  work  on  the  tangled  mess  of  string.  most  of  her  fond  memories  of  london  include  sitting  around  the  table,  beading  jewlery  with  her  aunt  and  cousin.  those  days,  though,  were  long  gone,  living  in  fleeting  moments  of  memory  yet  still  held  just  as  dear.  a  light  chuckle  at  her  joke,  looking  up  from  the  mess  for  only  a  second.  “isn't  string  just  plastic  thread  ?  once  you  figure  out  how  not  to  drop  it  every  five  seconds,  it's  basically  like  threading  a  needle  over  and  over  again.”

Celine   let   out   a   snort   at   the   idea   of   taking   their   daughter   out   of   sports.   Rosie   had   developed   into   quite   the   little   athlete,   but   no   sport   sung   to   her   the   same   way   soccer   did.   Her   parents   being   who   they   were,   of   course,   had   signed   her   up   for   dance   classes   and   theater,   but   while   she   enjoyed   those   as   hobbies,   Celine   could   see   the   true   spark   in   her   whenever   she   talked   about   her   sport.    "Sure,   you   try   to   pull   her   out   of   soccer   and   let   me   know   how   that   conversation   goes,"   she   smirked.   Jack   invited   her   in   and   she   hesitated   for   the   briefest   of   moments.   She   stared   after   the   space   where   Rosie   had   just   vanished   and   then   turned   her   gaze   back   to   Jack.   His   features   still   familiar   to   her,   and   she   was   still   able   to   read   him   so   easily.   It   was   a   miracle   he'd   been   able   to   keep   anything   from   her   in   the   years   they   were   together. Celine   exhaled   and   nodded,   stepping   inside,   her   eyes   flicking   to   the   snack   on   the   counter.   She   smiled   to   herself—it   was   just   further   proof   that   Jack   was   still   trying   his   damnedest   to   be   the   kind   of   dad   Rosie   deserved.   She   respected   him   more   than   she   could   ever   say   aloud.   Jack   had   always   been   good,   just   not   hers.   Not   fully.   Not   in   the   way   she   thought   she'd   signed   up   for.   And   so,   a   year   later,   they   were   still   trying   to   find   their   way   through   parenting   together,   but   separately. "I   think   she's   just   testing   the   waters.   That's   what   I'm   hoping   at   least.   I   know   she'll   want   to   be   called   Rose   some   day   for   real,   but   I'm   praying   we've   got   a   few   years   left."   There   was   affection   clear   in   her   tone,   and   a   thinly   veiled   pride   for   the   little   girl   with   opinions   too   big   for   her   eight-year-old   frame.   She   studied   Jack   for   a   moment,   catching   the   way   he   rubbed   at   his   face.   He   always   wore   his   guilt   like   a   second   skin.   "I   think...she's   just   trying   to   figure   out   who   she   is   and   where   she   fits   now   that   the   dust's   settled." She   stepped   further   into   the   kitchen.   "Schedules   have   never   been   your   strong   suit,"   she   said,   dropping   her   bag   on   the   counter.   Celine   turned   to   look   at   him,   her   eyes   lingering   on   his   face   longer   than   she   meant   them   to.   Still   handsome.   Still   kind.   Still   someone   she   loved—just   not   in   the   way   she'd   thought   she   would   for   the   rest   of   her   life.   "All   right.   Let   me   see   what   you've   got,   I'll   see   if   I   can't   make   something   work."

Jack would be lying if he said he hadn’t been glancing at the clock all morning waiting for his daughter to arrive. Every minute closer to drop off made his chest lighter. He'd just finished putting a snack on the counter when there was a familiar knock at the door. The second he opened the door, Rosie launched past him with only the chaotic grace she managed to pull off. "Well, hello to you too!" he called after her, laughing as her bedroom door shut in the distance. He turned back just in time to catch Celine’s blink, her arms still full of the overnight bag. Jack took it from her wordlessly, his fingers brushing hers as he did. Even now, even with everything that had changed, their rhythms stayed in sync. That was what made it harder, sometimes. He still felt pangs of guilt in his chest. They'd been so good together, a true unit, that it felt odd for them to take on parenting separately, yet still somehow together.

"She’s getting too fast," he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, holding a heaviness that never seemed to fully lighten between them. "We might need to rethink the sports. One more growth spurt and I’m done for." He paused, then let the smile fade into something softer. At her words 'It’s not bad', something in his chest twisted. A reflex. The kind you build when you’ve had to break news to someone who loved you. He tilted his head slightly, leaning towards the whisper, years of working around sound equipment not doing him any justice.

"Rose?" he echoed, eyebrows rising. "What, is she turning eighty?" He smirked, then sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face, "This whole.." Jack waved his hands around for emphasis, "personality thing... I thought we had a few good years left before puberty snuck in." He looked back briefly, toward the hallway where Rosie, 'Rose?', had disappeared to. Part of him hoped her door would creak back open and she’d be four again, asking him to retie her shoelaces or make up a bedtime story. But instead he looked back at Celine, eyes a little glassier than he meant them to be. "Would you like to come in?" he asked, voice quieter, a step to his side as an open invitation. "If you’re not in a rush. I’ve been trying to figure out her soccer schedule, but it overlaps with the college showcase and.." he exhaled. "I’m still not great at the calendar stuff." The silence that lingered was soft but familiar, like everything between them now, as complicated as it was, was still whole in its own way.

SIGNE: 🙈🙈🙈 SIGNE: And I'm sure you averted your eyes once you realized it was me.... SIGNE: ... SIGNE: Will you give me hot cheetos?

Adriana: First of all, HOW DARE YOU accuse me of creeping when you were out here starring in an adorable indie film montage right in the middle of the park??!!! 🥺 Adriana: I was just an innocent bystander… who immediately called it. I could feel the spark a mile away!!!!! Adriana: I’m free tonight if you need to debrief properly. FaceTime or snacks and dramatic retelling.. your choice.