mistaking cardiac arrest for butterflies
The knock lands like a cannon against Flora's already adrenaline-frayed nerves. She jumps—just a little, just enough for the glass jar to rattle against the counter before she steadies it with an invisible hand. Her breath catches, the scrape of blood halted mid-motion as she freezes, every muscle coiled. It’s not fear, not quite, but something adjacent: the electric uncertainty that follows when a job is only half-finished and you don’t yet know if you’ll get to see the end of it.
But then Deimos' voice cuts through—low, solid, unmistakably real. Relief washes over her like a wave, unsteady and salt-stung, enough to make her shoulders sag as her body exhales what her mind hasn’t yet caught up to. Appearing above deck suddenly, having realized she was still invisible and twisting her ring, Flora gestures silently for him to come aboard, then glances over his shoulder, sharp and wary as if expecting to see Pierce’s smirk—or worse, Vox’s glitching silhouette—oozing into view behind him.
Inside, the Sugar Tide is a fever dream of colour and clutter: a cramped, maximalist warren of Flora’s chaos and comfort. Plants spill from hanging baskets and mismatched vases; crystals, sea glass, and bits of coral glitter from every available surface. The kitchenette glows with polished copper and overgrown herbs, while the far end hosts a seating nook smothered in embroidered pillows and velvet throws. Her bedroom’s tucked at the opposite end, its doorway half-obscured by gauzy fabric and strings of beads that catch the light like captured rain. The whole space smells of salt, sunscreen, and whatever candle she last forgot to blow out.
And in the middle of it all, like she never left, her daggers sit on the counter with blood drying like rusted rubies across their gilded hilts. Only when she’s satisfied that he’s alone does she speak, voice still quiet from the habit of hiding. "We really should have made a meet up plan, huh?"
But then Deimos' voice cuts through—low, solid, unmistakably real. Relief washes over her like a wave, unsteady and salt-stung, enough to make her shoulders sag as her body exhales what her mind hasn’t yet caught up to. Appearing above deck suddenly, having realized she was still invisible and twisting her ring, Flora gestures silently for him to come aboard, then glances over his shoulder, sharp and wary as if expecting to see Pierce’s smirk—or worse, Vox’s glitching silhouette—oozing into view behind him.
Inside, the Sugar Tide is a fever dream of colour and clutter: a cramped, maximalist warren of Flora’s chaos and comfort. Plants spill from hanging baskets and mismatched vases; crystals, sea glass, and bits of coral glitter from every available surface. The kitchenette glows with polished copper and overgrown herbs, while the far end hosts a seating nook smothered in embroidered pillows and velvet throws. Her bedroom’s tucked at the opposite end, its doorway half-obscured by gauzy fabric and strings of beads that catch the light like captured rain. The whole space smells of salt, sunscreen, and whatever candle she last forgot to blow out.
And in the middle of it all, like she never left, her daggers sit on the counter with blood drying like rusted rubies across their gilded hilts. Only when she’s satisfied that he’s alone does she speak, voice still quiet from the habit of hiding. "We really should have made a meet up plan, huh?"
