your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora’s grin stretches wider the moment Calypso emerges, touched by the ruby-and-honeylight spilling from the stained glass. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches her friend move behind the bar, quiet admiration softening the sharp line of her smile. There’s something easy in the way Caly works now, like she’s always belonged behind the polished wood and bottles.
By the time the Sazerac is slid across the counter, Flora’s brows have arched in thoroughly impressed approval. She hums low in her throat, fingers curling around the glass like it’s just been handed to her by a lover. "Oooh," she croons, lifting it to her lips with a wink. "Dark and scandalous. Just my type."
The first sip brings a quiet exhale, lemon twist catching on the rim like punctuation. "Mm. Okay, you’re officially amazing, this is delicious." She taps the side of the glass in appreciation, then sets it down just long enough to flash Calypso a warmer, gentler smile—one that sits somewhere between proud and a little late to the party.
"I heard it was your birthday," she says, voice softening like the light around them. "Happy belated. Sorry I couldn’t make it." There’s no elaboration—Caly was well away of the reasons the queen couldn't be in the city—but the weight of sincerity rests in her tone, bright and real as the glitter still clinging to the walls. "Looked like a hell of a party, though." Her gaze flicks to the lingering shimmer in the rafters. "Place still sparkles like you shook up bottle of champagne with starlight in it."
By the time the Sazerac is slid across the counter, Flora’s brows have arched in thoroughly impressed approval. She hums low in her throat, fingers curling around the glass like it’s just been handed to her by a lover. "Oooh," she croons, lifting it to her lips with a wink. "Dark and scandalous. Just my type."
The first sip brings a quiet exhale, lemon twist catching on the rim like punctuation. "Mm. Okay, you’re officially amazing, this is delicious." She taps the side of the glass in appreciation, then sets it down just long enough to flash Calypso a warmer, gentler smile—one that sits somewhere between proud and a little late to the party.
"I heard it was your birthday," she says, voice softening like the light around them. "Happy belated. Sorry I couldn’t make it." There’s no elaboration—Caly was well away of the reasons the queen couldn't be in the city—but the weight of sincerity rests in her tone, bright and real as the glitter still clinging to the walls. "Looked like a hell of a party, though." Her gaze flicks to the lingering shimmer in the rafters. "Place still sparkles like you shook up bottle of champagne with starlight in it."
