flora
For a moment, Flora says nothing—just leans against the bar, one elbow propped lazily, the other hand tapping her rings against the wood in a rhythm that doesn’t match any beat but her own. Her gaze skims over Caly, searching for any flicker of sarcasm, for some hint that this is just a joke, another bright-eyed grin on a golden face.
"That's between you and your siblings," she chuckles, eyeing the tip jar as if to suggest that if the other two didn't even know it existed, that Flora wouldn't be the one to tattle. Letting herself imagine the possibility of it for a moment, the queen pauses. The triplets behind the bar. Caly prowling the floor like the threat of goddamn sunshine and claws. Nova blowing kisses to every stranger with a silver coin. Vesper brooding near the back, making the walls look glamorous just by leaning. It shouldn’t work. But maybe that’s exactly why it would.
At the question about cocktails, Flora straightens, something sparking in her aqua gaze. "Babe," she says, reaching beneath the bar to grab two mixing tins and setting them down with a clack, "I thought you’d never ask."
She slides a small notebook across the counter—it’s water-stained and heavily scribbled-in, but still legible, a chaotic mess of notes and sketches and half-named drinks. "We’ll start with the Doubletake, obviously. That’s the bar’s signature. It’s basically a tropical rum punch with a kick so fierce it might call you an ex in the morning."
"That's between you and your siblings," she chuckles, eyeing the tip jar as if to suggest that if the other two didn't even know it existed, that Flora wouldn't be the one to tattle. Letting herself imagine the possibility of it for a moment, the queen pauses. The triplets behind the bar. Caly prowling the floor like the threat of goddamn sunshine and claws. Nova blowing kisses to every stranger with a silver coin. Vesper brooding near the back, making the walls look glamorous just by leaning. It shouldn’t work. But maybe that’s exactly why it would.
At the question about cocktails, Flora straightens, something sparking in her aqua gaze. "Babe," she says, reaching beneath the bar to grab two mixing tins and setting them down with a clack, "I thought you’d never ask."
She slides a small notebook across the counter—it’s water-stained and heavily scribbled-in, but still legible, a chaotic mess of notes and sketches and half-named drinks. "We’ll start with the Doubletake, obviously. That’s the bar’s signature. It’s basically a tropical rum punch with a kick so fierce it might call you an ex in the morning."
Flexing like a goddamn acrobat
Me and karma vibe like that
Me and karma vibe like that
