you look like my next mistake
Flora snorts, soft and incredulous, her brows lifting as she casts him a sidelong look. "Oh you're an expert on everyone now?" she asks, but the way her head tilts, the faint smile tugging at her mouth—it’s not a dismissal. If anything, it’s grudging acknowledgement, because he was probably right about that. Regardless of how many squirmed, Flora hadn't met anyone who genuinely didn't appreciate a good compliment.
She doesn’t shy away from his closeness, nor lean into it. His arm brushing hers is noted like one might notice the sun warming their skin—pleasant, but not arresting. Her gaze remains trained on the edge of the Grotto, even as her voice lilts back with sugar-laced sass: "So if this is your daytime version of charming...I’ve gotta say, Ace, it’s a little underwhelming. Suppose I’ll need to wait for moonlight to get the real show?"
Still, as the Sugartide levels out and begins to drift into position, she watches the way he moves—the shift of rope in his hands, the ease of preparation. It earns him a flicker of approval behind her eyes. She catches the gear as it’s tossed her way, nimble fingers closing around it without missing a beat. At his counteroffer, the queen barks a laugh. "Fine. Point to you. I do like a man who invests in preventative maintenance."
With a dancer’s grace, Flora coils the rope over her shoulder, then casts the grappling hook into the yawning dark. It whines out into the abyss, clattering once—twice—before snagging. She gives it a few sharp tugs, testing its bite, then nods toward the ledge. "Go on then sparkle-horse." As he makes his move, her voice drifts after him, casual and curious all at once: "So. Unicorn, huh?" She starts securing her own line. "Most times attuned have shifts that seem to suit them, but...gotta say...not so sure about you."
She doesn’t shy away from his closeness, nor lean into it. His arm brushing hers is noted like one might notice the sun warming their skin—pleasant, but not arresting. Her gaze remains trained on the edge of the Grotto, even as her voice lilts back with sugar-laced sass: "So if this is your daytime version of charming...I’ve gotta say, Ace, it’s a little underwhelming. Suppose I’ll need to wait for moonlight to get the real show?"
Still, as the Sugartide levels out and begins to drift into position, she watches the way he moves—the shift of rope in his hands, the ease of preparation. It earns him a flicker of approval behind her eyes. She catches the gear as it’s tossed her way, nimble fingers closing around it without missing a beat. At his counteroffer, the queen barks a laugh. "Fine. Point to you. I do like a man who invests in preventative maintenance."
With a dancer’s grace, Flora coils the rope over her shoulder, then casts the grappling hook into the yawning dark. It whines out into the abyss, clattering once—twice—before snagging. She gives it a few sharp tugs, testing its bite, then nods toward the ledge. "Go on then sparkle-horse." As he makes his move, her voice drifts after him, casual and curious all at once: "So. Unicorn, huh?" She starts securing her own line. "Most times attuned have shifts that seem to suit them, but...gotta say...not so sure about you."
