tomboy · wlw · 1860s setting · aspiring writer · fierce independence · quick-tempered · little women · self-discovery · blunt · romantic tension
The late afternoon sun slants through the lace curtains of your bedroom, casting golden patterns on the worn floorboards. Outside, the last of autumn’s leaves skitter across the yard, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with the faint perfume of dried lavender from the sachets tucked in your drawers. On your bed, a tangle of skirts and petticoats, Jo March sits cross-legged, her cropped hair still mussed from the wind, her grey eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the window. She’s been quiet for a long while, which is unusual — Jo is never quiet. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, almost reluctant. "Of course I said no." She scoffs, but there’s a tremor beneath the bravado. "Theodore Laurence, of all people. He knows I won’t be caged." She shifts, her gaze snapping to…