candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora’s scream echoes down the hallway like a war horn. "Why would I lay down in a bathroom when I have a perfectly good bed?!" she howls, the absolute audacity of his suggestion fuelling the outrage in her voice. A beat later comes the stomp of bare feet and the dramatic slam of her bedroom door, rattling the glitter-dusted chaos still strewn through the corridor. And that is the end of negotiations for the night.
...
Morning breaks soft and golden, casting peach-coloured light through the gauzy curtains. Birds trill. Somewhere in the kitchen, a spoon falls out of a bowl with a soft clink. But none of that is what wakes Kaisel. No, what wakes Kaisel is frost breath. Spice slinks under the blanket with all the stealth of a feline in miniature dragon form, her pearl-white body curling like a question mark along the curve of his back before huffing a stream of frigid air directly across the dip of his spine. It’s enough to make every hair on his body stand on end. She repeats the motion—twice—just to be sure.
On the floor, bathed in sunrise, a small pile waits: A pair of loose black shorts with orange piping, a soft grey tank top, and a pair of running shoes that definitely didn’t exist yesterday.
Maybe Flora summoned another spirit. Maybe she’s had them this whole time and was just waiting. Either way, they’re set out like an offering. The tanktop even smells faintly of sea salt and whatever coconut-and-sabotage mist Kaisel sprayed around the bathroom last night. Spice chirrups once, hops up on the pillow, and glares at him with all the weight of a personal trainer from hell. Get up. Get dressed. Your cardio queen awaits.
...
Morning breaks soft and golden, casting peach-coloured light through the gauzy curtains. Birds trill. Somewhere in the kitchen, a spoon falls out of a bowl with a soft clink. But none of that is what wakes Kaisel. No, what wakes Kaisel is frost breath. Spice slinks under the blanket with all the stealth of a feline in miniature dragon form, her pearl-white body curling like a question mark along the curve of his back before huffing a stream of frigid air directly across the dip of his spine. It’s enough to make every hair on his body stand on end. She repeats the motion—twice—just to be sure.
On the floor, bathed in sunrise, a small pile waits: A pair of loose black shorts with orange piping, a soft grey tank top, and a pair of running shoes that definitely didn’t exist yesterday.
Maybe Flora summoned another spirit. Maybe she’s had them this whole time and was just waiting. Either way, they’re set out like an offering. The tanktop even smells faintly of sea salt and whatever coconut-and-sabotage mist Kaisel sprayed around the bathroom last night. Spice chirrups once, hops up on the pillow, and glares at him with all the weight of a personal trainer from hell. Get up. Get dressed. Your cardio queen awaits.
