when you become a dream you can never hold a hand

i can't help it if i want to kiss you in the rain, so

The Sugar Tide bobbed gently on the swell, tethered just offshore like a sea-glass jewel tossed up from the depths. The sun glared down from its throne above Torchline, but Flora, sprawled along the cushioned bench at the stern, looked positively serene beneath it. A wrap dress in a vivid, ocean-hued print clung lazily to her curves, one leg stretched out and glistening with the shimmer of sun-oil, the other bent at the knee and bouncing faintly to some imaginary rhythm. Gold jewelry caught the light with every movement, rings and bangles warm against sun-soaked skin.

Spice, her ever-diligent cooling companion, flitted overhead in lazy loops, a soft mist trailing from her tiny jaws. It kissed Flora’s skin in delicate bursts—just enough to keep the heat bearable, not enough to disturb the glorious splendour of the moment.

One hand lazily adjusted her sunglasses while the other rested across her stomach, her fingers twined with a bit of spare rigging she'd been idly knotting and unknotting for the past ten minutes. Every so often her gaze would flick to the shoreline, half-lidded and lazy, waiting for the distinctive silhouette of her father returning from the Hanged Man, hopefully with a bottle of something brash and celebratory. Something worthy of smashing against her hull.