lay your soul onto mine
Flora sighs—loudly, obnoxiously, the kind of sound meant to carry judgment—but it’s all smoke and no fire. Her narrowed eyes flick up toward him with a glimmer that betrays the fondness beneath her mock irritation, the kind of look that lingers a moment too long to be entirely casual. Even smug, he’s warm. Even smug, he makes her want to stay right here a little longer.
The comment about Liam draws a contemplative tilt of her head, brows lifting as she hums under her breath. "Actually...maybe?" she murmurs, voice curling with curiosity as her thoughts wander. "That’d make so much more sense than ‘he’s not into me.’" A pause, and then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes: "Obviously." Though really, he probably just wasn't, which, bruised ego aside, was totally fine.
As for the monster thing, well, that earns a delighted laugh, the kind that tips her head back and sends her gold jewellery clinking faintly with the motion. "Please," she grins, sharp and indulgent. "Maybe I like monsters in my bed. Maybe I leave myself uncovered just to tempt them. Give Spice something to guard at night, you know? Keeps her fierce." There’s a flash of teeth, bold and amused, a storm-chaser’s delight in the idea of danger nestled beneath her duvet.
She nods solemnly when he admits to hating dishes, then wrinkles her nose. "Dishes are hell, but laundry’s worse. Socks vanish into a void, underwear turns into origami, and don’t get me started on folding fitted sheets. Absolute chaos." Her tone is pure exasperation, but her smile doesn’t fade.
At the question of pasta, she gasps like he’s suggested outlawing joy. "Get tired of pasta? Of garlic bread?? It's like you don't even know me," she accuses, placing a hand dramatically to her chest. "And besides, I wouldn’t have to eat the whole thing. It’s magic, remember? I could have like...three bites and call it a day."
She tries to keep walking as he swats at her; tries and fails. Wrapping her arms more tightly around his waist, she throws their pace entirely off, deliberately turning their easy stroll into a chaotic shuffle. "Blah blah, duty," she drones, clearly unmoved. "Maybe we should ask Frey to make us a floating island halfway between here and Stormbreak. Little house with a water slide going from the bedroom to the sea. Hammocks everywhere. A lazy river for drinks. Tell me that wouldn’t be perfect. We could—"
And then the broadcast cracks through her thoughts like a bottle smashed across tile.
She nearly stumbles into him, every sense thrown sideways as Vox’s voice slides like cold steel along the spine of her mind. Her fingers twitch where they cling to Kaisel’s shirt, and for one dizzying heartbeat she’s back in the Tower with Dahlia sweetly asking her to clean up glass with her bare hands.
Her heart lurches.
Only the day before she'd told Ronin to fight again. Said she didn’t care if she died. But that was easier when death was still a shadow on the horizon—something you could ignore if you didn’t look too closely given her father's abilities. Now it feels like a tide already rushing in. Cold. Merciless. Inevitable. Fuck.
Beside her, Kaisel stiffens, and before she can breathe, before she can speak, he’s pulling away. The warmth leaves her arms like a door slamming shut. She watches him turn, muscles tense and straining, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be brave. Doesn’t want to let him go. Doesn’t want to be the Queen or the Doubletake or anything other than just a girl holding on to someone who makes her feel less alone talking about chores and candles.
But all she can do is shout—raw and desperate—not because it helps, but because the silence would be worse. "Be safe, you idiot!" It catches in the wind, chasing after him like her heart trying to follow. And then, because she has to, because suddenly there is a shit ton to do and dying would fuck up her ability to do it, she twists the ring on her finger—and disappears.
~FIN
The comment about Liam draws a contemplative tilt of her head, brows lifting as she hums under her breath. "Actually...maybe?" she murmurs, voice curling with curiosity as her thoughts wander. "That’d make so much more sense than ‘he’s not into me.’" A pause, and then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes: "Obviously." Though really, he probably just wasn't, which, bruised ego aside, was totally fine.
As for the monster thing, well, that earns a delighted laugh, the kind that tips her head back and sends her gold jewellery clinking faintly with the motion. "Please," she grins, sharp and indulgent. "Maybe I like monsters in my bed. Maybe I leave myself uncovered just to tempt them. Give Spice something to guard at night, you know? Keeps her fierce." There’s a flash of teeth, bold and amused, a storm-chaser’s delight in the idea of danger nestled beneath her duvet.
She nods solemnly when he admits to hating dishes, then wrinkles her nose. "Dishes are hell, but laundry’s worse. Socks vanish into a void, underwear turns into origami, and don’t get me started on folding fitted sheets. Absolute chaos." Her tone is pure exasperation, but her smile doesn’t fade.
At the question of pasta, she gasps like he’s suggested outlawing joy. "Get tired of pasta? Of garlic bread?? It's like you don't even know me," she accuses, placing a hand dramatically to her chest. "And besides, I wouldn’t have to eat the whole thing. It’s magic, remember? I could have like...three bites and call it a day."
She tries to keep walking as he swats at her; tries and fails. Wrapping her arms more tightly around his waist, she throws their pace entirely off, deliberately turning their easy stroll into a chaotic shuffle. "Blah blah, duty," she drones, clearly unmoved. "Maybe we should ask Frey to make us a floating island halfway between here and Stormbreak. Little house with a water slide going from the bedroom to the sea. Hammocks everywhere. A lazy river for drinks. Tell me that wouldn’t be perfect. We could—"
And then the broadcast cracks through her thoughts like a bottle smashed across tile.
She nearly stumbles into him, every sense thrown sideways as Vox’s voice slides like cold steel along the spine of her mind. Her fingers twitch where they cling to Kaisel’s shirt, and for one dizzying heartbeat she’s back in the Tower with Dahlia sweetly asking her to clean up glass with her bare hands.
Her heart lurches.
Only the day before she'd told Ronin to fight again. Said she didn’t care if she died. But that was easier when death was still a shadow on the horizon—something you could ignore if you didn’t look too closely given her father's abilities. Now it feels like a tide already rushing in. Cold. Merciless. Inevitable. Fuck.
Beside her, Kaisel stiffens, and before she can breathe, before she can speak, he’s pulling away. The warmth leaves her arms like a door slamming shut. She watches him turn, muscles tense and straining, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be brave. Doesn’t want to let him go. Doesn’t want to be the Queen or the Doubletake or anything other than just a girl holding on to someone who makes her feel less alone talking about chores and candles.
But all she can do is shout—raw and desperate—not because it helps, but because the silence would be worse. "Be safe, you idiot!" It catches in the wind, chasing after him like her heart trying to follow. And then, because she has to, because suddenly there is a shit ton to do and dying would fuck up her ability to do it, she twists the ring on her finger—and disappears.
~FIN
