you look like my next mistake
Flora practically beams at his admission such that her mind lights up like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "You did?" she wonders, the words filled with so much delight it borders on saccharine, even as she tilts her face up to him with something far softer behind her eyes. Okay, so maybe it wasn't worth all of this just to hear him say that he'd missed her, but gods, does it feel good.
As for the marriage thing, she chuckles quietly, shaking her head as she smooths her fingers along the lapels of his coat. "Oh, this isn't me proposing," she confirms, a playful smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Obviously I want you to want to marry me too." It's something he might have plucked from her thoughts, but it seems worth saying out loud just the same. "I just figured I’d put it out there now so the next time you get some stupid idea in your head about getting me a present, you steer clear of wedding-coded ones unless you want to end up at the end of an aisle."
And then he's kissing her, and gods, she wants to hold onto the thoughts still buzzing in her mind, still half-formed on her tongue—the rest of her apology, the words she still wants to say—but it's been over a week since she's seen him, and the feel of his lips against hers is more than welcome. She melts into it, her hands tightening against his coat, fingers curling into the fabric as she presses further up onto the balls of her feet to better meet him. The fight, the frustration, the days apart—all of it fades beneath the warmth of his mouth on hers, replaced by something heady and desperate, something that has her sighing softly into the kiss, drinking him in like she’s been starved for it. (Because, well, she has, and don't we all get a little hangry when we're that hungry for something?)
As for the marriage thing, she chuckles quietly, shaking her head as she smooths her fingers along the lapels of his coat. "Oh, this isn't me proposing," she confirms, a playful smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Obviously I want you to want to marry me too." It's something he might have plucked from her thoughts, but it seems worth saying out loud just the same. "I just figured I’d put it out there now so the next time you get some stupid idea in your head about getting me a present, you steer clear of wedding-coded ones unless you want to end up at the end of an aisle."
And then he's kissing her, and gods, she wants to hold onto the thoughts still buzzing in her mind, still half-formed on her tongue—the rest of her apology, the words she still wants to say—but it's been over a week since she's seen him, and the feel of his lips against hers is more than welcome. She melts into it, her hands tightening against his coat, fingers curling into the fabric as she presses further up onto the balls of her feet to better meet him. The fight, the frustration, the days apart—all of it fades beneath the warmth of his mouth on hers, replaced by something heady and desperate, something that has her sighing softly into the kiss, drinking him in like she’s been starved for it. (Because, well, she has, and don't we all get a little hangry when we're that hungry for something?)
