flora
Flora gasps, scandalized, her eyes going wide as she peers up at her twin like he’s just accused her of treason. "Excuse me? I know loads of dead boys," she huffs, lifting her chin in mock arrogance. "You think you’re the only ghost currently haunting my life?" Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and just as she’s about to follow that up with something even more outrageous, Enzo goes boneless in her arms.
"Ugh—Enzo!" she groans, staggering back a half step as she scrambles to hold him up, her grip tightening instinctively around his ribs before she swats him hard across the shoulder. "You absolute menace. If you took us both down in front of Mateo? He’d string me up with ivy and scream about this dress for weeks." She eyes him suspiciously as he braces himself at the last second, and then flicks a bit of sand off his arm with the air of someone deeply wounded and dramatically inconvenienced.
But his talk of a ThirdEye-saturated sitting room gets a grin blooming across her face all over again. "Obviously we’re having one," she replies easily, as if it’s the most obvious design feature in the world. "And if anyone dares comment on us still sleeping in the same bed sometimes, we’ll just install a trapdoor and drop them straight into a dungeon. One with, like, bad upholstery and no acoustics for dramatic monologing."
She’s already reaching up to swat him again at the mention of her purity, but he’s quicker—grabbing her hand and kissing her wrist with that infuriatingly charming grin of his. The gesture is sweet enough to stay her slap, but not quite enough to spare him completely. She flicks his forehead anyway, a sharp little thwip that rings with affection. "Keep that up and I’ll be the one carrying you over the threshold," she mutters, tone somewhere between a threat and a promise. "Better start lifting halos or harps or whatever the dead use for gym weights."
But then she’s nudging him gently, shoulder pressed to his as the grin softens into something warmer. "Of course I’ve snatched her up," she says, rolling her eyes like it should be obvious. "ThoughMateo—gods, I think he’s actually gonna move back to Stormbreak. Like, willingly. Who gives up Torchline’s beaches for an overengineered floating city with zero oceans?" Her nose scrunches in mock dismay, though the fondness in her voice is impossible to miss.
"Ugh—Enzo!" she groans, staggering back a half step as she scrambles to hold him up, her grip tightening instinctively around his ribs before she swats him hard across the shoulder. "You absolute menace. If you took us both down in front of Mateo? He’d string me up with ivy and scream about this dress for weeks." She eyes him suspiciously as he braces himself at the last second, and then flicks a bit of sand off his arm with the air of someone deeply wounded and dramatically inconvenienced.
But his talk of a ThirdEye-saturated sitting room gets a grin blooming across her face all over again. "Obviously we’re having one," she replies easily, as if it’s the most obvious design feature in the world. "And if anyone dares comment on us still sleeping in the same bed sometimes, we’ll just install a trapdoor and drop them straight into a dungeon. One with, like, bad upholstery and no acoustics for dramatic monologing."
She’s already reaching up to swat him again at the mention of her purity, but he’s quicker—grabbing her hand and kissing her wrist with that infuriatingly charming grin of his. The gesture is sweet enough to stay her slap, but not quite enough to spare him completely. She flicks his forehead anyway, a sharp little thwip that rings with affection. "Keep that up and I’ll be the one carrying you over the threshold," she mutters, tone somewhere between a threat and a promise. "Better start lifting halos or harps or whatever the dead use for gym weights."
But then she’s nudging him gently, shoulder pressed to his as the grin softens into something warmer. "Of course I’ve snatched her up," she says, rolling her eyes like it should be obvious. "ThoughMateo—gods, I think he’s actually gonna move back to Stormbreak. Like, willingly. Who gives up Torchline’s beaches for an overengineered floating city with zero oceans?" Her nose scrunches in mock dismay, though the fondness in her voice is impossible to miss.
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
