flora
Flora’s smile softens at the almost-question, at the way Niki kindly lets the moment pass without pressing. She gives her head a firm shake, curls bouncing lightly with the motion. "No weird alien nightmares could ever scare me off the place I was born," she says, tone half-wistful, half-fierce. "I love it here. Always have. Always will."
Her gaze drifts out the window again, toward the canopy of shifting gold and fire. "I do wish I’d met you when I was still living here, though," she murmurs. "Back when everything felt bigger and simpler and the worst thing I had to deal with was splinters or Enzo teasing me about moss in my hair." There’s affection in it, and a flicker of melancholy she doesn’t dwell on.
But Niki’s next comment draws her back into brighter waters, and she huffs a delighted little breath, eyes widening dramatically. "Doubt," she says under her breath, grinning at him over the rim of her teacup. "You can be very dramatic, Niki. You just do it with a straight face and all those perfectly timed pauses like you’re monologuing to a camera crew only you can see."
Turning back to the fabrics, she pulls one of the stiffer pieces toward her, fingers tapping thoughtfully. "Okay, so—no billowing robe that’ll trip you mid-stride. I think we keep it a bit more fitted for you. That way you get the drama without the danger." Her eyes flick to his cane. "We can use boning to shape the hood so it actually frames your face instead of making it look like the robe's trying to eat you."
She’s already pulling a piece of it over, forming a rough arch with her hands to demonstrate. "See? Foreboding, not suffocating." At the Bride of Ludo comment, Flora snickers, nose scrunching with delight. "Please. Bride of Ludo? More like estranged ex-lover who shows up to the funeral looking fine as hell, throwing shade and stealing centrepieces." She picks up a spool of black thread with a little tooth-shaped end and twirls it in her fingers.
Her gaze drifts out the window again, toward the canopy of shifting gold and fire. "I do wish I’d met you when I was still living here, though," she murmurs. "Back when everything felt bigger and simpler and the worst thing I had to deal with was splinters or Enzo teasing me about moss in my hair." There’s affection in it, and a flicker of melancholy she doesn’t dwell on.
But Niki’s next comment draws her back into brighter waters, and she huffs a delighted little breath, eyes widening dramatically. "Doubt," she says under her breath, grinning at him over the rim of her teacup. "You can be very dramatic, Niki. You just do it with a straight face and all those perfectly timed pauses like you’re monologuing to a camera crew only you can see."
Turning back to the fabrics, she pulls one of the stiffer pieces toward her, fingers tapping thoughtfully. "Okay, so—no billowing robe that’ll trip you mid-stride. I think we keep it a bit more fitted for you. That way you get the drama without the danger." Her eyes flick to his cane. "We can use boning to shape the hood so it actually frames your face instead of making it look like the robe's trying to eat you."
She’s already pulling a piece of it over, forming a rough arch with her hands to demonstrate. "See? Foreboding, not suffocating." At the Bride of Ludo comment, Flora snickers, nose scrunching with delight. "Please. Bride of Ludo? More like estranged ex-lover who shows up to the funeral looking fine as hell, throwing shade and stealing centrepieces." She picks up a spool of black thread with a little tooth-shaped end and twirls it in her fingers.
I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland
