Whether I'm gonna curse you out or
Take you back to my house
Take you back to my house
Flora snorts, not unkindly, as the light drains from Kaisel’s face like a stormcloud blotting out the sun. Her elbow perches on the table, chin resting in her palm as she watches his pivot into theatrics with an amused glint in her eye. "Cannons, rope ladder, a dramatic explosion in the background?" She clicks her tongue, nodding with exaggerated approval. "Only if we have matching outfits. Or at last coordinated ones."
His yelp at her ankle-kick earns a delighted little gasp, but when he cracks his knee in the process and goes sprawling like a shot soldier in a street play, she claps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my gods," she wheezes, shoulders shaking as she half-laughs, half-watches him crumple like a marionette with all the strings cut. "You're even more dramatic than I am."
But when he dramatically declares himself wounded and beyond help, she plants both hands on her hips and stands. "I warned you," she says, every inch the sovereign about to declare war.
And then—well. There’s no polite way around him, not with the way he’s sprawled, limbs half-hanging off the bench like a man trying to become furniture. So Flora does the only logical thing: she climbs over him. Carefully—though not without a little vengeance—but there’s a moment in it, unintended, that feels more intimate than she means for it to. Her knee brushes the edge of his thigh as she steps, the curve of her calf ghosting along the back of his arm. One hand rests, just briefly, on his shoulder for balance, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. Too close. Too steady. The warmth of him, the shape of him beneath her hand, all of it registers at once. It's not the kind of touch meant to linger, but her fingers twitch anyway.
Her breath catches, just for a second. Just long enough to notice the flutter behind her ribs. And then she’s down on the other side of the booth, reaching out with her left hand to impart a bit of healing from her ring onto her oh-so-wounded comrade. "You brought this on yourself," she declares, voice light as she flashes him a grin over her shoulder, bright and unbothered. "Come on, drama queen. The ice cream won’t scoop itself."
His yelp at her ankle-kick earns a delighted little gasp, but when he cracks his knee in the process and goes sprawling like a shot soldier in a street play, she claps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my gods," she wheezes, shoulders shaking as she half-laughs, half-watches him crumple like a marionette with all the strings cut. "You're even more dramatic than I am."
But when he dramatically declares himself wounded and beyond help, she plants both hands on her hips and stands. "I warned you," she says, every inch the sovereign about to declare war.
And then—well. There’s no polite way around him, not with the way he’s sprawled, limbs half-hanging off the bench like a man trying to become furniture. So Flora does the only logical thing: she climbs over him. Carefully—though not without a little vengeance—but there’s a moment in it, unintended, that feels more intimate than she means for it to. Her knee brushes the edge of his thigh as she steps, the curve of her calf ghosting along the back of his arm. One hand rests, just briefly, on his shoulder for balance, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. Too close. Too steady. The warmth of him, the shape of him beneath her hand, all of it registers at once. It's not the kind of touch meant to linger, but her fingers twitch anyway.
Her breath catches, just for a second. Just long enough to notice the flutter behind her ribs. And then she’s down on the other side of the booth, reaching out with her left hand to impart a bit of healing from her ring onto her oh-so-wounded comrade. "You brought this on yourself," she declares, voice light as she flashes him a grin over her shoulder, bright and unbothered. "Come on, drama queen. The ice cream won’t scoop itself."
flora
I haven't decided yet
But I'm gonna get you back
But I'm gonna get you back
