candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora gasps like he’s just committed a cardinal sin. "Spice is a baby, Kaisel. She doesn’t even know what flavours are yet—she just likes cold." But the dragon, curled atop the counter like an arrogant little scoop-guardian, lifts her head and huffs a chilled puff of air toward Kaisel as if in smug solidarity. "You’re unbelievable," Flora mutters, though the smile betrays her.
She raises her spoon in mock duel, all arched brow and faux-regal menace, and when he leans in for the distraction, she’s not quite fast enough. "Hey!" she squawks, laughing as he scoops the very bite she was going for. “[ay]"You absolute menace." Her hip knocks into his with theatrical offense before louly huffing. She lets him bask in his strawberry triumph for a few seconds longer before jabbing the spoon against his side—not hard, but enough to make her point. “"Fine, you win round one. But I’m eating the last scoop, so don’t get cocky."
His commentary on the caftan earns a soft snort. "It’s like a flowy robe, but with more drama," she explains, gesturing with her free hand like that’ll somehow summon the garment into the air. "Sequins are for flare, obviously. But no, you’re right—it’s terrible for sleeping. It’s strictly lounging-with-delusions-of-grandeur attire." Her lips twitch into something almost fond as she watches him settle next to her like it’s easy. Like this isn’t strange or borrowed time.
She scoops another bite into her mouth, then hums around it thoughtfully. "Toga it is, then. We’ll channel our inner gods." And she flicks her spoon lightly at him, dotting a speck of ice cream on his arm. "You can be the god of ill-advised midnight snacks."
She raises her spoon in mock duel, all arched brow and faux-regal menace, and when he leans in for the distraction, she’s not quite fast enough. "Hey!" she squawks, laughing as he scoops the very bite she was going for. “[ay]"You absolute menace." Her hip knocks into his with theatrical offense before louly huffing. She lets him bask in his strawberry triumph for a few seconds longer before jabbing the spoon against his side—not hard, but enough to make her point. “"Fine, you win round one. But I’m eating the last scoop, so don’t get cocky."
His commentary on the caftan earns a soft snort. "It’s like a flowy robe, but with more drama," she explains, gesturing with her free hand like that’ll somehow summon the garment into the air. "Sequins are for flare, obviously. But no, you’re right—it’s terrible for sleeping. It’s strictly lounging-with-delusions-of-grandeur attire." Her lips twitch into something almost fond as she watches him settle next to her like it’s easy. Like this isn’t strange or borrowed time.
She scoops another bite into her mouth, then hums around it thoughtfully. "Toga it is, then. We’ll channel our inner gods." And she flicks her spoon lightly at him, dotting a speck of ice cream on his arm. "You can be the god of ill-advised midnight snacks."
