we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora’s grin sharpens, brows bouncing as she tilts her head toward him. "Oh, I’m absolutely certain you and Danta have perfected the art of getting rid of ash," she says, the words edged with just enough mischief to make it clear she’s picturing all sorts of methods, most of them probably involving fire and some sort of alcohol.
She slips her arm easily through his offered elbow, the movement smooth and familiar, and lets the weight of the wolf’s head swing in her periphery as they fall into step. For a moment she considers his challenge, eyes narrowing in mock deliberation, before she shakes her head. "Better to clean up," she decides, voice warm but resolute. "Because if one more person asks me if I’m alright, I might actually start a fight. And I know not everyone takes a hit quite as well as you do." Her lashes sweep up in a slow flutter as she looks at him, all sugar over steel, and there’s no mistaking the spark in her eyes.
From there, the blood-slick path back to the Dusklight stretches easy beneath their boots. The conversation slips into quieter territory, the hum of the city rising to meet them as the scent of salt and torchlight folds over the sharper tang of blood. When they reach the bar, Asta makes good on his unspoken promise—securing her a room without fuss so she can wash the gore from her skin—before the night settles them both into the easy, earned comfort of a drink.
~FIN
She slips her arm easily through his offered elbow, the movement smooth and familiar, and lets the weight of the wolf’s head swing in her periphery as they fall into step. For a moment she considers his challenge, eyes narrowing in mock deliberation, before she shakes her head. "Better to clean up," she decides, voice warm but resolute. "Because if one more person asks me if I’m alright, I might actually start a fight. And I know not everyone takes a hit quite as well as you do." Her lashes sweep up in a slow flutter as she looks at him, all sugar over steel, and there’s no mistaking the spark in her eyes.
From there, the blood-slick path back to the Dusklight stretches easy beneath their boots. The conversation slips into quieter territory, the hum of the city rising to meet them as the scent of salt and torchlight folds over the sharper tang of blood. When they reach the bar, Asta makes good on his unspoken promise—securing her a room without fuss so she can wash the gore from her skin—before the night settles them both into the easy, earned comfort of a drink.
~FIN
