you hate the crash, but you love the rush
Flora’s grin softens into something warm and terribly proud as Theea presses the coin to her chest. "Good," she murmurs, tipping her head so a curtain of curls spills over one shoulder. She reclines onto her elbows again, ankle crossing over knee as the canopy dances sunlight across their shoes. "The Hanged Man will roll out the red carpet for your first real drink," she assures, voice lilting with playful ceremony. "We’ll start you gentle—maybe a Torchline float with extra pineapple—and work our way up to the Doubletake. That one’s been known to kiss patrons goodnight before they finish the glass." A wink follows, equal parts promise and warning.
Talk of Ronin and Remi draws a fond exhale. "They’ll adore you. Just be prepared for obnoxious family dinners and probably a lot of crying."
At the mention of snickerdoodles Flora’s stomach gives an appreciative growl. "Now you’re speaking my love-language." She bumps Theea’s knee with her own. "I solemnly swear not to pilfer a single cookie until you hand it over—though if they cool on the counter unattended I can’t be held responsible for what Spice does." Overhead, a faint trill suggests the little dragon approves of the loophole.
Talk of Ronin and Remi draws a fond exhale. "They’ll adore you. Just be prepared for obnoxious family dinners and probably a lot of crying."
At the mention of snickerdoodles Flora’s stomach gives an appreciative growl. "Now you’re speaking my love-language." She bumps Theea’s knee with her own. "I solemnly swear not to pilfer a single cookie until you hand it over—though if they cool on the counter unattended I can’t be held responsible for what Spice does." Overhead, a faint trill suggests the little dragon approves of the loophole.
