candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora’s house is, to no one's surprise, entirely on brand.
It’s a riot of texture and colour, every corner dripping with personality. Shells dangle in tangled mobiles from the ceiling, glittering faintly in the low light. There are hand-painted tiles around the kitchen, golden hardware on the cabinets, and what seems to be an entire jungle’s worth of plants spilling from every shelf and windowsill (thanks Mateo). The couches are mismatched but plush, patterned throw pillows stacked with abandon. Woven blankets, glass trinkets, oversized candle jars, and art—gods, so much art—cover every visible surface, but somehow it doesn’t feel cluttered. Just lived-in. Loved. Maximalist, yes, but tastefully so. Boho, if boho were dripping in tropical opulence and the kind of confidence that came with being the queen of a place like Torchline.
She calls from upstairs as footsteps pad faintly across the floorboards: "Just gonna change quick. Ice cream’s in the usual place—Spice’ll offer suggestions if you’re indecisive." Spice, guardian of all things frosty that she is, will apprise Kaisel with a draconic stare.
When Flora reappears, her curls are piled loosely on top of her head. She’s traded her earlier outfit for an oversized t-shirt that practically hangs off one shoulder. The shorts beneath it are so small they’re practically theoretical—barely visible beneath the hem of the tee, but as they'd both agreed earlier, in Torchline, clothing was mostly optional thanks to the heat.
She pauses at the top of the stairs with a frown. "Okay, so like… all of Enzo’s stuff is gonna be too small for you," she says, scanning Kaisel with a critical eye. "But I might be able to find his baggiest sweatpants, if you promise not to bust the seams just by existing."
Her grin is sly, her eyes sparkling as she starts to descend, one barefoot step at a time. "Or we could just embrace the sleepover vibe and go full chaos gremlin. Your call, muscles."
It’s a riot of texture and colour, every corner dripping with personality. Shells dangle in tangled mobiles from the ceiling, glittering faintly in the low light. There are hand-painted tiles around the kitchen, golden hardware on the cabinets, and what seems to be an entire jungle’s worth of plants spilling from every shelf and windowsill (thanks Mateo). The couches are mismatched but plush, patterned throw pillows stacked with abandon. Woven blankets, glass trinkets, oversized candle jars, and art—gods, so much art—cover every visible surface, but somehow it doesn’t feel cluttered. Just lived-in. Loved. Maximalist, yes, but tastefully so. Boho, if boho were dripping in tropical opulence and the kind of confidence that came with being the queen of a place like Torchline.
She calls from upstairs as footsteps pad faintly across the floorboards: "Just gonna change quick. Ice cream’s in the usual place—Spice’ll offer suggestions if you’re indecisive." Spice, guardian of all things frosty that she is, will apprise Kaisel with a draconic stare.
When Flora reappears, her curls are piled loosely on top of her head. She’s traded her earlier outfit for an oversized t-shirt that practically hangs off one shoulder. The shorts beneath it are so small they’re practically theoretical—barely visible beneath the hem of the tee, but as they'd both agreed earlier, in Torchline, clothing was mostly optional thanks to the heat.
She pauses at the top of the stairs with a frown. "Okay, so like… all of Enzo’s stuff is gonna be too small for you," she says, scanning Kaisel with a critical eye. "But I might be able to find his baggiest sweatpants, if you promise not to bust the seams just by existing."
Her grin is sly, her eyes sparkling as she starts to descend, one barefoot step at a time. "Or we could just embrace the sleepover vibe and go full chaos gremlin. Your call, muscles."
