Flora
Flora’s brows arch, her skeptical expression both teasing and playfully doubtful. "If you’re accidentally making dad jokes, then sorry—you’re just implicitly a dad now. I don’t make the rules." Her smile curls a little sharper as she says it, though her eyes are still laughing softly, quiet amusement brightening their depths even as her voice settles back into a gentler, easy rhythm.
Her thoughts soften as they brush across Bassian’s name—warm, bright, the sort of fondness usually reserved for a particularly energetic dog. "Well," she hums, tapping her fingertips lightly on the table, "maybe I’ll just have to tucker him out, then. You know—make sure he hits his helpfulness quota before I send him back." There’s a suggestive edge to the words that dissipates immediately; Flora sleeping with Bassian is about as likely as Jack joining a knitting circle, and they both know it. Still, the image is enough to draw a smirk to her lips.
The conversation floats forward, comfortably mundane. Flora wrinkles her nose at the idea of champagne sacrificed on the altar of good luck, her expression caught somewhere between amused and genuinely horrified. "Do people actually do that?" She shakes her head, hair slipping over her shoulder. "Listen, as a bar owner—former bar owner—that’s just wasteful. Feels more like a bad omen to me." And if there’s the faintest hint of fondness in her voice, of familiarity that slips past her careful walls, well...it’s probably just habit.
"And anyway," she continues breezily, leaning forward just enough to catch the sparkle of sunlight filtering through the restaurant window, "I was just making sure the crew’s still on their toes. Since I’m not on board to do it myself." It’s teasing, more affectionate than she intended, and her heart twists slightly at how easily the banter slips out. Flora clears her throat, trying to ignore the soft pang that echoes through her.
"You’re not wrong, though," she adds, a sly brightness back in her voice. "My next step’s definitely making the Sugar Tide invisible."
Her thoughts soften as they brush across Bassian’s name—warm, bright, the sort of fondness usually reserved for a particularly energetic dog. "Well," she hums, tapping her fingertips lightly on the table, "maybe I’ll just have to tucker him out, then. You know—make sure he hits his helpfulness quota before I send him back." There’s a suggestive edge to the words that dissipates immediately; Flora sleeping with Bassian is about as likely as Jack joining a knitting circle, and they both know it. Still, the image is enough to draw a smirk to her lips.
The conversation floats forward, comfortably mundane. Flora wrinkles her nose at the idea of champagne sacrificed on the altar of good luck, her expression caught somewhere between amused and genuinely horrified. "Do people actually do that?" She shakes her head, hair slipping over her shoulder. "Listen, as a bar owner—former bar owner—that’s just wasteful. Feels more like a bad omen to me." And if there’s the faintest hint of fondness in her voice, of familiarity that slips past her careful walls, well...it’s probably just habit.
"And anyway," she continues breezily, leaning forward just enough to catch the sparkle of sunlight filtering through the restaurant window, "I was just making sure the crew’s still on their toes. Since I’m not on board to do it myself." It’s teasing, more affectionate than she intended, and her heart twists slightly at how easily the banter slips out. Flora clears her throat, trying to ignore the soft pang that echoes through her.
"You’re not wrong, though," she adds, a sly brightness back in her voice. "My next step’s definitely making the Sugar Tide invisible."
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
