your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora doesn’t seem to notice the sawdust, or if she does, she treats it like glitter; just another rustic charm clinging to the edges of something warm. She hums her thanks as she accepts the whiskey, fingertips brushing the side of the cup before lifting it in a lazy, appreciative toast to no one in particular. The first sip earns a quiet exhale, the kind that flutters just behind her teeth as the burn settles into her throat.
"As much as it pains me to admit it," she murmurs, rolling the cup gently between her palms, "nothing quite stands up to Halovian whiskey. Sharp enough to hurt, smooth enough to forgive you after." Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to just throw it back in one go.
At Damien’s dry comment, she laughs properly, the sound bright and curling like steam off the rim of her cup. "I am called the Doubletake for a reason," she says, flashing a grin over the rim before taking another, longer sip.
But the grin softens as the talk shifts to foundations—both literal and not. Her shoulders dip with a sigh and she nods. "I’ve got some contractors back in Torchline lined up to take it on," she says. "But I’m also going to visit Safrin. See if she’ll...help. Torchline used to get ripped apart by monsoons, but she changed that. One little house should be doable for her."
While Flora doesn’t usually mind being looked at—it’s part of the game, part of the armour—something about Damien’s gaze makes her fingers twitch, like they want to fidget with the edge of her braid or the hem of her sweater. Instead, she hides behind her cup again, the amber liquid a good enough excuse not to meet his eyes for a beat or two longer than usual.
His reply—calm, grounded, without fanfare—lands with more weight than he probably intends. It’s the kind of steady confidence most people feign but rarely manage, and Flora finds herself smiling, quiet and genuine, before she can stop it. Not because he’s promising to save her like so many others, but because he’s not pretending he can, and fuck if that isn't a welcome change.
She steps away from the stove, warmed through now, and lets herself drop into one of the chairs with a graceful sprawl, one leg crossed over the other, whiskey still in hand. "So," she begins, a touch of laughter already threading into her words. "It’s a house. But not just a house." She lifts her brows as if to brace him for what’s coming. "It needs a solarium. And a conservatory. And a basement big enough for a workshop-slash-possibly-a-wine-cellar. Oh, and the foundation has to be strong enough to hold an elevator. Not like, fancy elevator, but pulley-based or something." She waves vaguely, as if pulley systems were just another accessory like earrings.
"Also," she adds, holding up a hand as if ticking things off helps ground the dream, "multiple bedrooms, obviously. A pool outside. Several secret rooms, uhhh..." By now, she’s well aware of how ridiculous it sounds especially to a man like Damien who strikes the queen as being pragmatic, potentially to a fault. She shrugs, not apologetic, just honest. "I know it sounds like a fever dream. But it’s supposed to be a place for everyone I love to come stay, if they want to. No matter where they’re coming from or what they need. So it has to be...a little bit of everything, so they all feel like it was made just for them." Her voice dips, brushing the edge of something tender.
She glances back at him, chin lifted like a challenge, but her eyes are soft with the weight of it all. "Think the Greenwing has enough wood for all of that?"
"As much as it pains me to admit it," she murmurs, rolling the cup gently between her palms, "nothing quite stands up to Halovian whiskey. Sharp enough to hurt, smooth enough to forgive you after." Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to just throw it back in one go.
At Damien’s dry comment, she laughs properly, the sound bright and curling like steam off the rim of her cup. "I am called the Doubletake for a reason," she says, flashing a grin over the rim before taking another, longer sip.
But the grin softens as the talk shifts to foundations—both literal and not. Her shoulders dip with a sigh and she nods. "I’ve got some contractors back in Torchline lined up to take it on," she says. "But I’m also going to visit Safrin. See if she’ll...help. Torchline used to get ripped apart by monsoons, but she changed that. One little house should be doable for her."
While Flora doesn’t usually mind being looked at—it’s part of the game, part of the armour—something about Damien’s gaze makes her fingers twitch, like they want to fidget with the edge of her braid or the hem of her sweater. Instead, she hides behind her cup again, the amber liquid a good enough excuse not to meet his eyes for a beat or two longer than usual.
His reply—calm, grounded, without fanfare—lands with more weight than he probably intends. It’s the kind of steady confidence most people feign but rarely manage, and Flora finds herself smiling, quiet and genuine, before she can stop it. Not because he’s promising to save her like so many others, but because he’s not pretending he can, and fuck if that isn't a welcome change.
She steps away from the stove, warmed through now, and lets herself drop into one of the chairs with a graceful sprawl, one leg crossed over the other, whiskey still in hand. "So," she begins, a touch of laughter already threading into her words. "It’s a house. But not just a house." She lifts her brows as if to brace him for what’s coming. "It needs a solarium. And a conservatory. And a basement big enough for a workshop-slash-possibly-a-wine-cellar. Oh, and the foundation has to be strong enough to hold an elevator. Not like, fancy elevator, but pulley-based or something." She waves vaguely, as if pulley systems were just another accessory like earrings.
"Also," she adds, holding up a hand as if ticking things off helps ground the dream, "multiple bedrooms, obviously. A pool outside. Several secret rooms, uhhh..." By now, she’s well aware of how ridiculous it sounds especially to a man like Damien who strikes the queen as being pragmatic, potentially to a fault. She shrugs, not apologetic, just honest. "I know it sounds like a fever dream. But it’s supposed to be a place for everyone I love to come stay, if they want to. No matter where they’re coming from or what they need. So it has to be...a little bit of everything, so they all feel like it was made just for them." Her voice dips, brushing the edge of something tender.
She glances back at him, chin lifted like a challenge, but her eyes are soft with the weight of it all. "Think the Greenwing has enough wood for all of that?"
