flora
Flora snickers into her drink, swirling the melting ice with a flick of her wrist. "Honestly, who needs brain cells when you’ve got good lighting and emotional damage?" she quips, flashing a grin at Danta. But her laughter stutters just a little at the idea of him playing cocktail Cupid right here, tonight, in her bar, where she could see it—and worse, feel it. For someone who claimed to be fine, the sudden twist of her stomach said otherwise. Still, she lifts her chin and shrugs, breezy as ever. "Just make sure whatever you send has blushberries in it," she says airily. "Nothing like getting blushberry drunk to really bring your emotions to the surface."
Her gaze slides to Asta, then to Danta, her grin sharpening like a blade hidden in velvet. "I meannnnn, the one rule of this party was no heartbreak, she drawls, tapping a red-polished nail against her glass. "And I'm pretty sure you both at least cracked mine a little last time." Her tone is teasing, but her eyes gleam with the memory of how that night had ended for her. The look in Danta's eye as he towered over her in the backroom, confessing his feelings. The way she'd stolen a final fragment of Asta's time before telling him the news. The way she'd curled up on the couch, all alone.
Still, her smile is real enough, because for all that, she still adored them both. "Shame, though," she says, voice dropping into something softer, smokier. "It was fun, when it was just us." She tips her head, curls falling forward like a curtain. "Too bad there’s so many people around tonight." The implication is a whisper between them, barely there but definitely present—just like the press of Asta’s tail against her leg, or the glow of heat she doesn’t bother to smother.
Her gaze slides to Asta, then to Danta, her grin sharpening like a blade hidden in velvet. "I meannnnn, the one rule of this party was no heartbreak, she drawls, tapping a red-polished nail against her glass. "And I'm pretty sure you both at least cracked mine a little last time." Her tone is teasing, but her eyes gleam with the memory of how that night had ended for her. The look in Danta's eye as he towered over her in the backroom, confessing his feelings. The way she'd stolen a final fragment of Asta's time before telling him the news. The way she'd curled up on the couch, all alone.
Still, her smile is real enough, because for all that, she still adored them both. "Shame, though," she says, voice dropping into something softer, smokier. "It was fun, when it was just us." She tips her head, curls falling forward like a curtain. "Too bad there’s so many people around tonight." The implication is a whisper between them, barely there but definitely present—just like the press of Asta’s tail against her leg, or the glow of heat she doesn’t bother to smother.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
