you hate the crash, but you love the rush
Flora grins at the idea of being carted around just for her snacks, teeth flashing briefly as she swirls a hand through the water like it’s syrup and she’s stirring it lazily. "Oh, I highly doubt it." She lifts a brow, considering. "I feel like most of them would either not care, or would like the attention." There’s an irreverent lilt to her voice, but not disrespectful—more the kind of cheeky affection you’d use with an older relative you’re mostly sure still loves you.
At Spice’s frosty sneak attack, she lets out a quiet snort and confirms with a fond, "She’s mine," as the little dragon flits smugly away. "Well, mine as much as a moody dragon the size of a wine bottle can be."
But it's the Torchline comment that draws an actual gasp from her, fingers clutching the stone edge in mock horror. "You went to Torchline and didn’t have fun?" she says, eyes wide. "Blasphemy. That's basically illegal as far as Torchline goes. You’re going to have to come back and let me fix that immediately."
Her voice is light, teasing, but the warmth is real, and it carries through as he crouches down near her. His fingers curl through the steam, and she watches them like a cat might—mischief blooming across her features. "You realise," she says slowly, "that being fully dressed this close to a hotspring is basically begging for someone to push you in. I’m exercising heroic restraint right now not dragging you in by the wrist." One brow arches; willpower has never really been Flora's strong suit.
But his mention of the lily grounds her again, the playful edge softening into something more thoughtful. "Oh," she murmurs, shifting in the water to rest her chin briefly on her arms, curls spilling forward like sunlit kelp. "The Draig Cordillera’s still infected. I was actually thinking of going there soon to try and start cleansing it...it’s where Spice was born, so. Feels right." Her fingers move absentmindedly through the water, stirring small ripples toward the demigod.
"If you don’t know what to do with the lily," she adds, looking up at him through lashes still wet with starlight thanks to the pool, "maybe we could plant it there together. I’ll bring snacks. Obviously"
At Spice’s frosty sneak attack, she lets out a quiet snort and confirms with a fond, "She’s mine," as the little dragon flits smugly away. "Well, mine as much as a moody dragon the size of a wine bottle can be."
But it's the Torchline comment that draws an actual gasp from her, fingers clutching the stone edge in mock horror. "You went to Torchline and didn’t have fun?" she says, eyes wide. "Blasphemy. That's basically illegal as far as Torchline goes. You’re going to have to come back and let me fix that immediately."
Her voice is light, teasing, but the warmth is real, and it carries through as he crouches down near her. His fingers curl through the steam, and she watches them like a cat might—mischief blooming across her features. "You realise," she says slowly, "that being fully dressed this close to a hotspring is basically begging for someone to push you in. I’m exercising heroic restraint right now not dragging you in by the wrist." One brow arches; willpower has never really been Flora's strong suit.
But his mention of the lily grounds her again, the playful edge softening into something more thoughtful. "Oh," she murmurs, shifting in the water to rest her chin briefly on her arms, curls spilling forward like sunlit kelp. "The Draig Cordillera’s still infected. I was actually thinking of going there soon to try and start cleansing it...it’s where Spice was born, so. Feels right." Her fingers move absentmindedly through the water, stirring small ripples toward the demigod.
"If you don’t know what to do with the lily," she adds, looking up at him through lashes still wet with starlight thanks to the pool, "maybe we could plant it there together. I’ll bring snacks. Obviously"
