i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Flora meets the bounce of his eyebrows with a sigh so dramatic it might’ve required a chaise to faint upon. "Don’t even joke," she says, one hand lifting to her chest as if wounded. "Knowing you’re more or less off the table right now is devastating. Honestly, I'm taking emotional damage just by being here right now."
But then he says thumbprint cookies and she tilts her head, a soft snort of disbelief escaping her. "I’m sorry—thumbprint what now?" Her nose wrinkles. "That sounds adorably domestic." Still grinning, she takes another slow sip of her margarita, clearly delighted to be the first to share the gossip. "No new scars," she assures, "but I did stab him, or rather..he stabbed himself by walking into my dagger." There’s a beat, just long enough to be concerning before she waves a hand airily. "I healed him right after. He did sucker punch me in the ribs, though."
A low laugh curls from her throat, warm and amused as she licks a speck of spice from the rim of her glass. "That's because I'm single and you aren't. I have to actually come up with ways to keep myself entertained these days." Her gaze flicks to Danta’s apron like it’s personally to blame.
Then she leans in—slow, deliberate—until her chest presses lightly against the bar. Just enough pressure to curve her cleavage perfectly against the flickering amber light. "Besides, what better way for me to test my limits than the rage room?" she murmurs, lashes fluttering. "Actually trying to beat the shit out of someone was wildly cathartic. And of course Asta was more than game." Her grin widens, catlike and sharp. "You’re invited, naturally," she purrs, voice all honeyed suggestion now. "You know I always have a good time when I’m with the pair of you." She lifts her glass again, the clink of ice punctuating the offer. Just in case he needs reminding of exactly which memories she’s referring to.
But then he says thumbprint cookies and she tilts her head, a soft snort of disbelief escaping her. "I’m sorry—thumbprint what now?" Her nose wrinkles. "That sounds adorably domestic." Still grinning, she takes another slow sip of her margarita, clearly delighted to be the first to share the gossip. "No new scars," she assures, "but I did stab him, or rather..he stabbed himself by walking into my dagger." There’s a beat, just long enough to be concerning before she waves a hand airily. "I healed him right after. He did sucker punch me in the ribs, though."
A low laugh curls from her throat, warm and amused as she licks a speck of spice from the rim of her glass. "That's because I'm single and you aren't. I have to actually come up with ways to keep myself entertained these days." Her gaze flicks to Danta’s apron like it’s personally to blame.
Then she leans in—slow, deliberate—until her chest presses lightly against the bar. Just enough pressure to curve her cleavage perfectly against the flickering amber light. "Besides, what better way for me to test my limits than the rage room?" she murmurs, lashes fluttering. "Actually trying to beat the shit out of someone was wildly cathartic. And of course Asta was more than game." Her grin widens, catlike and sharp. "You’re invited, naturally," she purrs, voice all honeyed suggestion now. "You know I always have a good time when I’m with the pair of you." She lifts her glass again, the clink of ice punctuating the offer. Just in case he needs reminding of exactly which memories she’s referring to.
