marked me like a bloodstain
Flora’s brows lift in tandem with his startled bark of laughter, the expression shaped in playful confusion. "You know," she says, slow and pointed, "your date. The one you were super worried about getting right." Her tone is light, but something inside her stiffens like a page turning crisp in the wind. He does catch on, of course—and he calls it AmAzInG.
There’s a hiccup in her chest that she doesn’t let show, a shiver of hollow-ache that she papers over with a sunny smile. It’s polished to perfection, almost warm enough to believe. "That sounds perfect," she hums, just as breezy, just as composed, giving him what he needs to not feel bad about it. What she needs, maybe, to keep the edges from bleeding through.
He reaches for the salve and she lets him take it. She huffs a small, incredulous sound at his comment about preferring the real thing, glancing up at him from her kneel. "What, you expecting to find a nice springy bed in the woods somewhere? Good luck with that." And then—because this is her room and her illusion to control—she shatters the image of forest and sea with a blink. The bath fades behind them, the garden wilts into shadow, and the House resets itself into rich marble and deep red walls, decadent and candlelit. The room’s usual charm returns, all polished wood and silken accents, and Flora gestures toward the bed with casual theatricality.
"It's not all fake," she says, just before the room bends to her whims again. Above the bed, mirrors unfurl like petals—soft edged and glinting, catching every angle with a subtle shimmer. The mattress contorts into something more hedonistic than practical, lush with velvet and implication. The bedding flares red, as sultry and bold as fresh-split pomegranate. Then, with another flicker of her mind, it all resets again, tastefully muted and neutral once more.
Flora turns partway, preparing to sit so Kaisel can apply the salve, only to pause as his voice carries—not sarcastic now, not teasing, but low and bitter and unexpectedly raw. She peers over her shoulder at him, caught somewhere between frown and surprise. "What do you mean she won’t see you again?" The worry is real, clear in the way her eyes search his. There's no shiver of triumph or relief, just an instantaneous concern that's hedged with disbelief, because surely after things had gone so amazingly, they couldn't just be over.
There’s a hiccup in her chest that she doesn’t let show, a shiver of hollow-ache that she papers over with a sunny smile. It’s polished to perfection, almost warm enough to believe. "That sounds perfect," she hums, just as breezy, just as composed, giving him what he needs to not feel bad about it. What she needs, maybe, to keep the edges from bleeding through.
He reaches for the salve and she lets him take it. She huffs a small, incredulous sound at his comment about preferring the real thing, glancing up at him from her kneel. "What, you expecting to find a nice springy bed in the woods somewhere? Good luck with that." And then—because this is her room and her illusion to control—she shatters the image of forest and sea with a blink. The bath fades behind them, the garden wilts into shadow, and the House resets itself into rich marble and deep red walls, decadent and candlelit. The room’s usual charm returns, all polished wood and silken accents, and Flora gestures toward the bed with casual theatricality.
"It's not all fake," she says, just before the room bends to her whims again. Above the bed, mirrors unfurl like petals—soft edged and glinting, catching every angle with a subtle shimmer. The mattress contorts into something more hedonistic than practical, lush with velvet and implication. The bedding flares red, as sultry and bold as fresh-split pomegranate. Then, with another flicker of her mind, it all resets again, tastefully muted and neutral once more.
Flora turns partway, preparing to sit so Kaisel can apply the salve, only to pause as his voice carries—not sarcastic now, not teasing, but low and bitter and unexpectedly raw. She peers over her shoulder at him, caught somewhere between frown and surprise. "What do you mean she won’t see you again?" The worry is real, clear in the way her eyes search his. There's no shiver of triumph or relief, just an instantaneous concern that's hedged with disbelief, because surely after things had gone so amazingly, they couldn't just be over.
