mistaking cardiac arrest for butterflies
"Only if you’ve got a secret stash of flower books hidden under this table," Flora says with a huff, sliding gracefully into the offered seat. She folds one leg over the other, rings glittering faintly as she rests her arms on the edge of the table, chin tipping toward her shoulder with a wry smile. "Because unless you’re hiding something brilliant, I’m fresh out of leads on these stupid roses."
It’s easier to play at being light-hearted, to fall into charm and banter, than to sit with the simmering frustration of her fruitless research. The exhaustion in her bones is something she tries not to let show, but her braid is looser than usual and the neckline of her dress is faintly rumpled—just enough to suggest that she’s been up too late, thinking too hard.
Her aqua gaze scans the books Liam’s pulled, curiosity undeniable despite herself. "You’re looking too, I assume?" she asks, though the evidence is right there in front of her. "Also," she adds after a beat, tone only lightly teasing, "you can drop the whole 'Queen of Torchline' thing. Makes me sound way more competent than I feel today."
It’s easier to play at being light-hearted, to fall into charm and banter, than to sit with the simmering frustration of her fruitless research. The exhaustion in her bones is something she tries not to let show, but her braid is looser than usual and the neckline of her dress is faintly rumpled—just enough to suggest that she’s been up too late, thinking too hard.
Her aqua gaze scans the books Liam’s pulled, curiosity undeniable despite herself. "You’re looking too, I assume?" she asks, though the evidence is right there in front of her. "Also," she adds after a beat, tone only lightly teasing, "you can drop the whole 'Queen of Torchline' thing. Makes me sound way more competent than I feel today."
