marked me like a bloodstain
Flora bites the inside of her cheek hard, a futile effort to dam the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The moment feels far too precarious for it—fragile as sugar glass—but gods, she can’t help herself. "So...you want me to make it harder, then?" she murmurs, voice low and wry and as light as she can manage without splintering. The word hums like heat between them, flirtatious in the way she normally is, but teasingly warm. Familiar, dangerous, safe, all at once.
Her gaze drops to the leg inching forward, and something in her chest twists, not with pain, but with a quiet, aching affection that fills her to the brim. Of course he’d offer a toe in truce. Of course he’d wiggle it at her like it means something—and of course, to her, it does. Her fingers twitch in her lap, helpless against the instinct to reach for him, to pull him close and tangle up all over again. Instead, she sighs with theatric resignation, eyes gleaming as she says, "Only because I saw you wash your feet earlier," and presses her toes gently to the sole of his foot, resisting—barely—the urge to turn it into something playful. Her restraint is a quiet miracle, her smile a livewire just waiting for an excuse to mercilessly tickle the bottom of his foot.
When he speaks of Caly again, that momentary levity dims like the edge of a wave slipping back into the sea. Flora exhales slowly, eyes softening as she nods, the weight of his concern settling over her shoulders like a cloak she doesn’t mind wearing. But then, a sly flicker returns to her gaze, and her brows lift with exaggerated disbelief. "Well if you’re going to be so dramatic about it, can you at least finish rubbing the lotion you started?" she huffs, feigned exasperation wrapped in a ribbon of fondness. She doesn’t wait for a reply—just pivots with a grace that’s almost lazy, scooting forward until she’s seated in front of him again, back turned, curls spilling to one side so he’ll have room to work.
Her gaze drops to the leg inching forward, and something in her chest twists, not with pain, but with a quiet, aching affection that fills her to the brim. Of course he’d offer a toe in truce. Of course he’d wiggle it at her like it means something—and of course, to her, it does. Her fingers twitch in her lap, helpless against the instinct to reach for him, to pull him close and tangle up all over again. Instead, she sighs with theatric resignation, eyes gleaming as she says, "Only because I saw you wash your feet earlier," and presses her toes gently to the sole of his foot, resisting—barely—the urge to turn it into something playful. Her restraint is a quiet miracle, her smile a livewire just waiting for an excuse to mercilessly tickle the bottom of his foot.
When he speaks of Caly again, that momentary levity dims like the edge of a wave slipping back into the sea. Flora exhales slowly, eyes softening as she nods, the weight of his concern settling over her shoulders like a cloak she doesn’t mind wearing. But then, a sly flicker returns to her gaze, and her brows lift with exaggerated disbelief. "Well if you’re going to be so dramatic about it, can you at least finish rubbing the lotion you started?" she huffs, feigned exasperation wrapped in a ribbon of fondness. She doesn’t wait for a reply—just pivots with a grace that’s almost lazy, scooting forward until she’s seated in front of him again, back turned, curls spilling to one side so he’ll have room to work.
