your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora’s grin tilts as she passes the reins to Felix, the boy’s wide-eyed stare only making her amusement bloom brighter. "Thanks, handsome," she says, tossing him a wink that leaves him fumbling the leather like it’s suddenly made of fire. The sound that escapes her next is part snort, part laughter—unbothered, warm. Damien’s understated joke earns him a hum of mock challenge, her braid sliding forward over her shoulder as she follows. "Let’s see if you can," she drawls, her words trailing behind like the scent of hibiscus on salt wind.
The moment they step inside, Flora lets out a sigh of almost theatrical relief, the change in temperature washing over her like a wave she didn’t know she was waiting for. The sharp edge of pine and resin in the air mixes with the faint smokiness of the stove, and instead of looking at the impressive racks of spruce and pine, her eyes stay fixed on the man holding the flap, her brow quirking as if in appraisal. "Is that so?" she asks, voice lilting with curiosity before she shrugs lightly. "Most men who take advantage don’t really advertise it right off the top. Bad for business, if I had to guess."
She unclasps her cloak with a flourish, tossing it over the back of a chair without ceremony. Beneath, her cream sweater hugs her frame just enough to make the dark, curve-skimming pants and dagger-lined belt look deliberate, even stylish, as if this were a winter fashion show rather than a lumber camp. She drifts closer to the stove like a moth drawn to a warm flame, tugging her gloves off and tucking them beneath one arm to let her gold-ringed fingers bask in the heat. "Whiskey," she says instantly, her smile curling in gratitude. "My mother used to live in Halo, but I never got used to the cold no matter how often I'd visit. It's like the chill just sort of...lives in your bones, no matter how many layers you put on." So it was for a girl who'd grown up in a magical woodland and then moved to a tropical paradise, anyway.
Leaning lightly against the table nearest the stove, she glances at the lumber again, though her tone is conversational rather than technical. "As for the project...I’m no architect so I don't know what else to call it othet than a big house," she says with a vague flick of her fingers, a little grin tugging at her mouth like she knows how woefully inadequate the description sounds. "Beachfront, which means it’s going to take a beating from storms and salt. I hear Halovian wood doesn’t just last, it doesn’t rot easy. That’s what I need."
Her gaze dips briefly, lashes lowering as though her thoughts have slipped somewhere else. It’s almost an afterthought, the next words slipping out like a secret she didn’t mean to share. "A lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart," she murmurs, the tone quiet but not self-pitying. Then her eyes lift, bright and unflinching as they find Damien’s. "Hence the headache of importing this much lumber from Halo."
The moment they step inside, Flora lets out a sigh of almost theatrical relief, the change in temperature washing over her like a wave she didn’t know she was waiting for. The sharp edge of pine and resin in the air mixes with the faint smokiness of the stove, and instead of looking at the impressive racks of spruce and pine, her eyes stay fixed on the man holding the flap, her brow quirking as if in appraisal. "Is that so?" she asks, voice lilting with curiosity before she shrugs lightly. "Most men who take advantage don’t really advertise it right off the top. Bad for business, if I had to guess."
She unclasps her cloak with a flourish, tossing it over the back of a chair without ceremony. Beneath, her cream sweater hugs her frame just enough to make the dark, curve-skimming pants and dagger-lined belt look deliberate, even stylish, as if this were a winter fashion show rather than a lumber camp. She drifts closer to the stove like a moth drawn to a warm flame, tugging her gloves off and tucking them beneath one arm to let her gold-ringed fingers bask in the heat. "Whiskey," she says instantly, her smile curling in gratitude. "My mother used to live in Halo, but I never got used to the cold no matter how often I'd visit. It's like the chill just sort of...lives in your bones, no matter how many layers you put on." So it was for a girl who'd grown up in a magical woodland and then moved to a tropical paradise, anyway.
Leaning lightly against the table nearest the stove, she glances at the lumber again, though her tone is conversational rather than technical. "As for the project...I’m no architect so I don't know what else to call it othet than a big house," she says with a vague flick of her fingers, a little grin tugging at her mouth like she knows how woefully inadequate the description sounds. "Beachfront, which means it’s going to take a beating from storms and salt. I hear Halovian wood doesn’t just last, it doesn’t rot easy. That’s what I need."
Her gaze dips briefly, lashes lowering as though her thoughts have slipped somewhere else. It’s almost an afterthought, the next words slipping out like a secret she didn’t mean to share. "A lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart," she murmurs, the tone quiet but not self-pitying. Then her eyes lift, bright and unflinching as they find Damien’s. "Hence the headache of importing this much lumber from Halo."
