flora
LongHeat draped Torchline in its signature cocktail of humidity and sunlight, the kind that melted thoughts into syrup and left even the sea too languid to bother with waves. The Sugar Tide rocked lazily at her private driftwood mooring—far enough from the hustle of Kaiholo to feel exclusive, close enough that hels still wheeled overhead in search of free lunch.
Flora had claimed the broadest section of deck as her personal sun-altar. A pair of cherry-red bikini bottoms rode scandalously low on her hips, and twin flower-shaped pasties—orchid-pink with tiny gold stamens—kept her nipples from roasting. Sun-oil glimmered on every curve, save where the light caught the twisted knot of scar tissue spearing across her left shoulder and the pale, puckered line that tracked diagonally over her belly—Pierce’s legacy, silvering under the heat like tempered glass.
Spice fluttered in slow circuits above, the little white dragon’s frosty breath descending every few minutes in a cool, sparkling veil. Each blast raised a soft hiss from the sun-heated boards and coaxed a blissful sigh from Flora. Beside her, a glass of watermelon-mint spritzer—heavy on the rum, light on the mint—sweated into the slatted teak. A can of coconut-scented oil, two lemon wedges, and a tangle of beaded anklets lay scattered like offerings to the gods of leisure.
Aqua eyes half-lidded against the sun, Flora let Torchline’s sounds blur together: distant market shouts, rhythmic thud of a fishing skiff against its moorings, the lazy creak of Sugar Tide’s stained-glass sails swaying above. Every so often her gaze drifted seaward, pupils narrowing as she scanned for a familiar silhouette of maroon sails—just in case a certainpirate smuggler thought about “visiting” without permission again.
Flora had claimed the broadest section of deck as her personal sun-altar. A pair of cherry-red bikini bottoms rode scandalously low on her hips, and twin flower-shaped pasties—orchid-pink with tiny gold stamens—kept her nipples from roasting. Sun-oil glimmered on every curve, save where the light caught the twisted knot of scar tissue spearing across her left shoulder and the pale, puckered line that tracked diagonally over her belly—Pierce’s legacy, silvering under the heat like tempered glass.
Spice fluttered in slow circuits above, the little white dragon’s frosty breath descending every few minutes in a cool, sparkling veil. Each blast raised a soft hiss from the sun-heated boards and coaxed a blissful sigh from Flora. Beside her, a glass of watermelon-mint spritzer—heavy on the rum, light on the mint—sweated into the slatted teak. A can of coconut-scented oil, two lemon wedges, and a tangle of beaded anklets lay scattered like offerings to the gods of leisure.
Aqua eyes half-lidded against the sun, Flora let Torchline’s sounds blur together: distant market shouts, rhythmic thud of a fishing skiff against its moorings, the lazy creak of Sugar Tide’s stained-glass sails swaying above. Every so often her gaze drifted seaward, pupils narrowing as she scanned for a familiar silhouette of maroon sails—just in case a certain
I want to be when you fall on me like night
I wanna kill the lights
I wanna kill the lights
