flora
Flora gazes up at him, eyes wide and adoring, her heart doing that too-fast, too-full flutter it only ever reserves for her twin. It’s not just that he knows her—plenty of people think they do—but that he always cuts through all the noise, through every messy feeling knotted like seaweed in her chest, and just...clears it. Her mind had twisted itself in circles over the house, over what it meant to move on from it, and Enzo—of course Enzo—solves it in a single breath. Like it was never even complicated to begin with.
"You really are the smartest dead boy I know," she whispers against the space between his smile and the salt-warm press of his cheek. Her giggles bubble up like champagne as she pulls back enough to look at him properly, radiant with mischief and renewed delight. "Springboard it is. And secret bookshelves. And our rooms are gonna connect so we can bail on bad dates and pass snacks."
As he makes a face about colour theory, her nose wrinkles fondly in response, her expression turning all soft admiration. "You might not know everything,' she drawls, dragging out the word with faux-skepticism, "but you always know exactly what to say." Her fingers trace over his, still twined at her chest, as if to seal that truth in place.
Then her gaze steadies, brighter now but lined with something tender, fierce. "It’ll be done." She lifts his hand again, pressing another kiss to his knuckles like it’s a vow. "But I’m still gonna make Remi bring you back, because no one—no one—gets to go inside until you do. You’re the first guest, the first party, the first everything." Her voice cracks just a little at the end, but she covers it with a quick grin, her thumb brushing over his.
She lets the words hang between them for a moment, warm and full of promise, before a flicker of something else catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. Twisting in his arms just slightly, she lifts her chin and points toward the other side of the beach, where lanternlight catches on a dark crown of curls. "Oh, speaking off too many boys. See that girl over there? That’s Theea," she says, her voice light and proud as she leans in closer, like she’s revealing a particularly juicy family secret. "She’s our cousin on dad's side. She’s actually super cool, you’d like her." Or, will like her, she supposes.
"You really are the smartest dead boy I know," she whispers against the space between his smile and the salt-warm press of his cheek. Her giggles bubble up like champagne as she pulls back enough to look at him properly, radiant with mischief and renewed delight. "Springboard it is. And secret bookshelves. And our rooms are gonna connect so we can bail on bad dates and pass snacks."
As he makes a face about colour theory, her nose wrinkles fondly in response, her expression turning all soft admiration. "You might not know everything,' she drawls, dragging out the word with faux-skepticism, "but you always know exactly what to say." Her fingers trace over his, still twined at her chest, as if to seal that truth in place.
Then her gaze steadies, brighter now but lined with something tender, fierce. "It’ll be done." She lifts his hand again, pressing another kiss to his knuckles like it’s a vow. "But I’m still gonna make Remi bring you back, because no one—no one—gets to go inside until you do. You’re the first guest, the first party, the first everything." Her voice cracks just a little at the end, but she covers it with a quick grin, her thumb brushing over his.
She lets the words hang between them for a moment, warm and full of promise, before a flicker of something else catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. Twisting in his arms just slightly, she lifts her chin and points toward the other side of the beach, where lanternlight catches on a dark crown of curls. "Oh, speaking off too many boys. See that girl over there? That’s Theea," she says, her voice light and proud as she leans in closer, like she’s revealing a particularly juicy family secret. "She’s our cousin on dad's side. She’s actually super cool, you’d like her." Or, will like her, she supposes.
you'r under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
