marked me like a bloodstain
At the sound of knuckles on the door, Flora doesn’t lift her head at first. She assumes it’s her mother, or one of the staff with another bowl of something too bland to tempt her or too healthy to be comforting. But then the voice curls in—familiar and affectionate in the way only Kai could make it, syllables warm as a summer tide—and her gaze snaps up before she even thinks to move. And he’s standing there in the doorway with a bouquet that looks like it fought to survive the journey, wildflowers and grasses and one bold mushroom all jostling together like they’re not quite sure they belong.
Her smile, when it comes, is surprised but soft. "Hey," she says, low and a little hoarse, sunlight filtering through the illusory trees above them to catch the shine of her curls and the faint pink of her cheeks. She doesn’t rise—not because she doesn't want to—she wants nothing more than to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and breathe in something green and steady—but her back pulses in quiet warning, and so she stays, perched at the lip of the stone tub with her feet swaying gently in the warm water, letting the ache root her where she is.
As he sits beside her and reaches for her hand, she laces her fingers through his without pause. It’s instinct, not invitation; familiar instead of flirtatious. Still, it feels strange to be here like this again—together, alone, in a room designed for softness and seduction. Given the last time they’d seen each other, the unspoken conclusion of their night had been to redraw firmer lines between them, certainly a magical brothel would be the last place either of them would have expected to meet up next.
His comment lands gently, but she hears the panic tucked behind the words, the breathless edge he’s trying to smooth away. Her shoulders lift in a faint shrug. "I am okay. I didn’t die." Which, not that she was a demigod or anything, seemed to be the standard for assessing how things went, these days. Another shrug, and this one sends a quiet ripple of pain down her spine, though she hides it well—just a shift in her eyes, a twitch of her lashes. In the immortal words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, I'm okay, but I'm not fine at all which was a good deal closer to the truth.
She nudges her shoulder into his, gently, careful of the rawness beneath the gauze and healing salves. Her gaze drops to the water and the muddy swirl forming near his ankles. "Also," she murmurs, lips curling just slightly, "you’re getting dirt in my ocean." The smile she gives him now is worn and wry, as if she’s held it in her pocket through a hundred impossible days.
Her smile, when it comes, is surprised but soft. "Hey," she says, low and a little hoarse, sunlight filtering through the illusory trees above them to catch the shine of her curls and the faint pink of her cheeks. She doesn’t rise—not because she doesn't want to—she wants nothing more than to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and breathe in something green and steady—but her back pulses in quiet warning, and so she stays, perched at the lip of the stone tub with her feet swaying gently in the warm water, letting the ache root her where she is.
As he sits beside her and reaches for her hand, she laces her fingers through his without pause. It’s instinct, not invitation; familiar instead of flirtatious. Still, it feels strange to be here like this again—together, alone, in a room designed for softness and seduction. Given the last time they’d seen each other, the unspoken conclusion of their night had been to redraw firmer lines between them, certainly a magical brothel would be the last place either of them would have expected to meet up next.
His comment lands gently, but she hears the panic tucked behind the words, the breathless edge he’s trying to smooth away. Her shoulders lift in a faint shrug. "I am okay. I didn’t die." Which, not that she was a demigod or anything, seemed to be the standard for assessing how things went, these days. Another shrug, and this one sends a quiet ripple of pain down her spine, though she hides it well—just a shift in her eyes, a twitch of her lashes. In the immortal words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, I'm okay, but I'm not fine at all which was a good deal closer to the truth.
She nudges her shoulder into his, gently, careful of the rawness beneath the gauze and healing salves. Her gaze drops to the water and the muddy swirl forming near his ankles. "Also," she murmurs, lips curling just slightly, "you’re getting dirt in my ocean." The smile she gives him now is worn and wry, as if she’s held it in her pocket through a hundred impossible days.
