candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora’s stride falters as the tell-tale tug of fabric snags her heel; momentum lurches, arms pinwheel, but she catches herself with a dancer’s twist that turns the misstep into something almost graceful. Laughter bursts from her chest, bright and breathless, rolling back across the short distance Kaisel has stolen.
“Oh, please— my ass has its own fan club and you know it,” she calls, letting the teasing drip like syrup while she rolls her shoulders and settles back into rhythm. She tells herself the flirt is harmless, a puff of mischief; last night’s combustible energy is boxed up and shoved behind steadier thoughts of pace and breath.
Still, revenge is a necessary vitamin. A low whistle summons Spice from the azure sky; the little dragon hurtles downward, wings thrumming, and skates a ribbon of chilled air just in front of Kaisel’s pounding feet. The dock boards sheen over with sudden frost—thin enough not to splinter, slick enough to deliver justice. "Careful, Dragoon!”" she sings over a shoulder, the words tumbling in rhythm with her pulse. "Wouldn’t want to explain scuffed knees to the Stormbreak medics. Keep up and I’ll throw in whipped cream with your pancakes— lose, and I'll throw it on your face instead." Sun blazing, lungs burning in the best way, she lets the cadence of her breathing drown every lingering memory of green-masked chaos and countertop confessions. Out here it’s just the slap of shoes, the salt-sweet wind, and a race she fully intends to win.
“Oh, please— my ass has its own fan club and you know it,” she calls, letting the teasing drip like syrup while she rolls her shoulders and settles back into rhythm. She tells herself the flirt is harmless, a puff of mischief; last night’s combustible energy is boxed up and shoved behind steadier thoughts of pace and breath.
Still, revenge is a necessary vitamin. A low whistle summons Spice from the azure sky; the little dragon hurtles downward, wings thrumming, and skates a ribbon of chilled air just in front of Kaisel’s pounding feet. The dock boards sheen over with sudden frost—thin enough not to splinter, slick enough to deliver justice. "Careful, Dragoon!”" she sings over a shoulder, the words tumbling in rhythm with her pulse. "Wouldn’t want to explain scuffed knees to the Stormbreak medics. Keep up and I’ll throw in whipped cream with your pancakes— lose, and I'll throw it on your face instead." Sun blazing, lungs burning in the best way, she lets the cadence of her breathing drown every lingering memory of green-masked chaos and countertop confessions. Out here it’s just the slap of shoes, the salt-sweet wind, and a race she fully intends to win.
