flora
She smiles against him, her breath catching slightly as his exhale threads through her curls, warm and steady, yet still causes a shiver to race up her spine. "Alright," she murmurs, voice drowsy but amused, "next time one of us has a truly abysmal day, we’ll crack a bottle and play curse roulette." Her grin curves slowly as her lips graze skin—not a kiss, not exactly, but it's all seeming to matter less and less. "One of the bottles is good, too," she adds, a secretive little whisper, like that might even the odds. "We'll split it, so that it's only half a curse for each of us if we get it wrong."
Her hand drifts across his chest, fingers light and absentminded, but there’s a weight to each stroke, as if her touch is drawn to something deep down instead of merely painting over the surface. The shapes she draws aren’t flowers or stars or anything so girlish as hearts. They’re soft loops and tidal curls, the kind of marks that don’t need names. Her fingers map the rise and fall of his chest like she already knows it, like her body remembers something her mind is only now catching up to; and that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? None of this feels new.
Not the closeness. Not the way she fits along the lines of him, like her bones were made to rest in the hollow of his side. Not even the way he touches her, clearing her face of stray curls like she belongs in the pages of a softer story than the ones they’ve lived, and yet here they are upon a broken spine, finding slices of time in the margins all the same. It should feel strange, crossing lines that were never officially drawn, but it doesn’t. It just feels...inevitable, maybe. Or maybe it’s just late, and she’s tired, and there’s comfort in the lie that proximity isn’t dangerous. That this is just, all, y'know, harmless.
Her leg shifts slightly over his hip, her body easing further into him as if the more surface they share, the more she’ll remember how to be at peace. And perhaps she would’ve overheated by now, if not for the faint breath of Spice’s coolness drifting through the room, keeping the air bearable, their limbs entangled and unbothered by the heaviness of LongHeat.
Tilting her head just enough to try and see him, Flora catches only the blurred outlines of his face—the slope of his nose, the fall of his lips, the arc of his jaw. But it’s enough to trace with her eyes even if she can't fully see. "One day," she breathes, voice soft and full of some impossible hope, "when we finally go on vacation, we're gonna take a long lunchtime nap. The kind where you wake up and it’s golden out, and it feels like you're the last person alive." She smiles, the shape of it pressing faintly against Kai's skin. "And then we’ll fly," she murmurs, fingers curling slightly on his chest, "way up high, so we can watch the starwhales all night long."
There’s a pause. Just long enough for her smile to spread in the silence. And then, lower, quieter, "Maybe then we can have that dance you still owe me."
Her hand drifts across his chest, fingers light and absentminded, but there’s a weight to each stroke, as if her touch is drawn to something deep down instead of merely painting over the surface. The shapes she draws aren’t flowers or stars or anything so girlish as hearts. They’re soft loops and tidal curls, the kind of marks that don’t need names. Her fingers map the rise and fall of his chest like she already knows it, like her body remembers something her mind is only now catching up to; and that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? None of this feels new.
Not the closeness. Not the way she fits along the lines of him, like her bones were made to rest in the hollow of his side. Not even the way he touches her, clearing her face of stray curls like she belongs in the pages of a softer story than the ones they’ve lived, and yet here they are upon a broken spine, finding slices of time in the margins all the same. It should feel strange, crossing lines that were never officially drawn, but it doesn’t. It just feels...inevitable, maybe. Or maybe it’s just late, and she’s tired, and there’s comfort in the lie that proximity isn’t dangerous. That this is just, all, y'know, harmless.
Her leg shifts slightly over his hip, her body easing further into him as if the more surface they share, the more she’ll remember how to be at peace. And perhaps she would’ve overheated by now, if not for the faint breath of Spice’s coolness drifting through the room, keeping the air bearable, their limbs entangled and unbothered by the heaviness of LongHeat.
Tilting her head just enough to try and see him, Flora catches only the blurred outlines of his face—the slope of his nose, the fall of his lips, the arc of his jaw. But it’s enough to trace with her eyes even if she can't fully see. "One day," she breathes, voice soft and full of some impossible hope, "when we finally go on vacation, we're gonna take a long lunchtime nap. The kind where you wake up and it’s golden out, and it feels like you're the last person alive." She smiles, the shape of it pressing faintly against Kai's skin. "And then we’ll fly," she murmurs, fingers curling slightly on his chest, "way up high, so we can watch the starwhales all night long."
There’s a pause. Just long enough for her smile to spread in the silence. And then, lower, quieter, "Maybe then we can have that dance you still owe me."
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
