you look like my next mistake
Flora lets out a dramatic sigh, eyes rolling skyward with all the weight of a woman deeply, deeply unimpressed—except for the unmistakable curve of amusement tugging at her mouth. "I still can’t believe lines like that worked on Sohalia," she says, tossing him a sidelong glance that’s all teasing censure and no real heat. "Then again, I suppose we’ve all made some questionable choices."
His flirtation washes over her like salt spray: noticed, noted, not especially feared. She’s been swimming in dangerous waters long enough to know when someone’s teasing the tide and when they mean to drown her in it—and Ace, for all his smirking, feels more like a game than a threat. So when he leans in and murmurs about night-time trouble, she arches a brow with mock-concerned gravity. "That’s an awful lot of daylight hours you’re painting yourself as rather boring."” Her tone is silken with challenge, but the twinkle in her eyes gives her away.
Still, the map draws her back. With his confirmation, Flora lifts her gaze to scan the approaching roots, the wind tousling her curls as she steers the Sugartide into a lower glide. The jutting hook of stone he described emerges from the mass of tangled wood and moss, a pale claw jutting from the shadows. "Mmm. That’s our girl," she murmurs, and with a flick of her wrist, adjusts the sails to slow their descent. The ship begins to bank gently toward a ledge just wide enough for them to disembark.
Then, over her shoulder, she asks, "You got any other shifts, or is it just the sparkle-horse? Because unless you’re planning to skewer the rock with your horn and let me rappel down your spine, we might need to do this the old-fashioned way." Her grin is dazzling. Dangerous. "And if I chip a nail climbing, I’m docking your pay."
His flirtation washes over her like salt spray: noticed, noted, not especially feared. She’s been swimming in dangerous waters long enough to know when someone’s teasing the tide and when they mean to drown her in it—and Ace, for all his smirking, feels more like a game than a threat. So when he leans in and murmurs about night-time trouble, she arches a brow with mock-concerned gravity. "That’s an awful lot of daylight hours you’re painting yourself as rather boring."” Her tone is silken with challenge, but the twinkle in her eyes gives her away.
Still, the map draws her back. With his confirmation, Flora lifts her gaze to scan the approaching roots, the wind tousling her curls as she steers the Sugartide into a lower glide. The jutting hook of stone he described emerges from the mass of tangled wood and moss, a pale claw jutting from the shadows. "Mmm. That’s our girl," she murmurs, and with a flick of her wrist, adjusts the sails to slow their descent. The ship begins to bank gently toward a ledge just wide enough for them to disembark.
Then, over her shoulder, she asks, "You got any other shifts, or is it just the sparkle-horse? Because unless you’re planning to skewer the rock with your horn and let me rappel down your spine, we might need to do this the old-fashioned way." Her grin is dazzling. Dangerous. "And if I chip a nail climbing, I’m docking your pay."
