flora
She fits against him without resistance, sliding into place like a piece that was always meant to be there. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just instinct and ease, the kind of seamless closeness that can’t be faked. Her body moulds into his like water into a waiting shape, boneless with affection, her spine curved to match his chest, her legs brushing warm against his. It should feel new—because it is—but somehow it doesn’t. Somehow, it feels like this is just how they sleep. Like they’ve always done this. As if there was never a time when her body didn’t know where to go when night pulled the world quiet.
The thought creeps in as his arms fold around her, protective and sure, and she exhales into the hush with a little sound that’s closer to a sigh than a laugh. She doesn’t fight the exhaustion tugging at her this time despite the fact that she doesn't want to hasten the moring. Morning means thinking. It means implications. Questions. A future with too many sharp edges and not nearly enough soft. But right now, in the cradle of Kais' chest and arms, with their limbs braided together like tide-twisted kelp, it’s just bliss. Pure and uncut.
She tilts her head just enough to press her lips to the forearm banded across her ribs, her kiss more breath than shape. "Love you, Assborn," she mumbles into his skin, the words melting into warmth and sleep and salt-kissed skin.
By the time the sun finds them, it pours through the windows in long, golden ribbons, lighting the room with the gentle hush of a morning that hasn’t quite decided how to be yet. The sheets are tangled around legs and hips, pushed down at some point in the night, but the two of them haven’t untangled at all. If Kai moved, Flora moved with him, pulled in his orbit like a planet too stubborn to fall away. She’s draped half over him now, bare legs tangled with his, one arm tossed across his chest and her face tucked somewhere near the curve of his neck.
The light catches her curls, turning the messy halo into a riot of spun gold and salt, wild from drying in sleep and catching every sunbeam like a net. His darker hair is equally dishevelled, thick and unbothered in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable than he ever lets himself be. The light traces the lines of his jaw and shoulder, the long stretch of her thigh flung across his hip, the soft scatter of freckles across her back. They look like something unfinished and holy, like some artist started drawing a prayer and never put the pencil down.
The thought creeps in as his arms fold around her, protective and sure, and she exhales into the hush with a little sound that’s closer to a sigh than a laugh. She doesn’t fight the exhaustion tugging at her this time despite the fact that she doesn't want to hasten the moring. Morning means thinking. It means implications. Questions. A future with too many sharp edges and not nearly enough soft. But right now, in the cradle of Kais' chest and arms, with their limbs braided together like tide-twisted kelp, it’s just bliss. Pure and uncut.
She tilts her head just enough to press her lips to the forearm banded across her ribs, her kiss more breath than shape. "Love you, Assborn," she mumbles into his skin, the words melting into warmth and sleep and salt-kissed skin.
By the time the sun finds them, it pours through the windows in long, golden ribbons, lighting the room with the gentle hush of a morning that hasn’t quite decided how to be yet. The sheets are tangled around legs and hips, pushed down at some point in the night, but the two of them haven’t untangled at all. If Kai moved, Flora moved with him, pulled in his orbit like a planet too stubborn to fall away. She’s draped half over him now, bare legs tangled with his, one arm tossed across his chest and her face tucked somewhere near the curve of his neck.
The light catches her curls, turning the messy halo into a riot of spun gold and salt, wild from drying in sleep and catching every sunbeam like a net. His darker hair is equally dishevelled, thick and unbothered in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable than he ever lets himself be. The light traces the lines of his jaw and shoulder, the long stretch of her thigh flung across his hip, the soft scatter of freckles across her back. They look like something unfinished and holy, like some artist started drawing a prayer and never put the pencil down.
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
