flora
Flora bursts out laughing, the sound bright and unrepentant as Kaisel goes full dramatics. "Now who’s fishing?" she crows, watching with delight as he lifts his shirt and pokes at his definitely-not-fat stomach. Still grinning, she presses the ball of her foot firmly against his abs, dragging it in slow, exaggerated circles like she’s really inspecting the alleged blubber. Her nose wrinkles. "Ugh, yeah. Totally fat," she deadpans, eyes sparkling.
But her grin softens almost immediately, her tone turning gently teasing. "If I wanted the best running partner, I’d ask Ronin." She shrugs one shoulder, then looks at Kaisel again, warm and unguarded. She hadn't said she wanted the best, she'd said she wanted him.
When he stammers and blushes—blushes, gods she loves that—she doesn’t bother looking away. Her head tips to the side, curls tumbling like spun gold over one shoulder as she hums, wide-eyed and so very innocent. "You don't?" she wonders sweetly, a picture of playful guiltlessness with absolutely no intention of backing off.
As for his threats to blacklist her, Flora sniffs dramatically. "You can try," she says loftily, "but I always tip well enough to excuse my tragic personality." When he finally releases her hands, she lifts them immediately and fawns—hands splayed, wrists twisting in the light like she’s showcasing royal jewels. "Gods," she breathes. "You actually did a good job. How dare you." Then, fluttering her lashes at him: "Thank you." This time, the sweetness is real.
Settling back into the pillows again and adjusting her legs in his lap, her grin returns, this time with a new glint of anticipation. "Soooooo," she purrs, nudging him lightly with her heel, "you gonna save me a dance at my party? Or should I be worried you're gonna spend the night pouting in a corner like a sad little ketchup packet?"
But her grin softens almost immediately, her tone turning gently teasing. "If I wanted the best running partner, I’d ask Ronin." She shrugs one shoulder, then looks at Kaisel again, warm and unguarded. She hadn't said she wanted the best, she'd said she wanted him.
When he stammers and blushes—blushes, gods she loves that—she doesn’t bother looking away. Her head tips to the side, curls tumbling like spun gold over one shoulder as she hums, wide-eyed and so very innocent. "You don't?" she wonders sweetly, a picture of playful guiltlessness with absolutely no intention of backing off.
As for his threats to blacklist her, Flora sniffs dramatically. "You can try," she says loftily, "but I always tip well enough to excuse my tragic personality." When he finally releases her hands, she lifts them immediately and fawns—hands splayed, wrists twisting in the light like she’s showcasing royal jewels. "Gods," she breathes. "You actually did a good job. How dare you." Then, fluttering her lashes at him: "Thank you." This time, the sweetness is real.
Settling back into the pillows again and adjusting her legs in his lap, her grin returns, this time with a new glint of anticipation. "Soooooo," she purrs, nudging him lightly with her heel, "you gonna save me a dance at my party? Or should I be worried you're gonna spend the night pouting in a corner like a sad little ketchup packet?"
I want to be when you fall on me like night
I wanna kill the lights
I wanna kill the lights
