we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora glances up at him, her brows lifting slightly as his quiet admission settles between them like soft underbrush beneath their feet. "Did that bother you?" she asks gently, not prying so much as curious. "Being raised by someone else, I mean. Or did it just feel like...a different kind of family?" There's no judgement in her tone, only interest—wanting to understand, to draw the thread between his story and her own.
She beams when he says he's still surprised by the thing he shares with Danta, her expression softening with affection. "That’s part of what makes it so special, though," she murmurs, nudging his arm with her shoulder. "And you'll never be at risk of taking it for granted."
As they turn left into the thickening woods, Flora tries her best to match his focus—her eyes darting along the tree line, ears straining for anything out of place. She has no clue what she’s listening for. Everything sounds like something. But she mimics the poise, the readiness, watching the way his muscles shift with each step, the subtle tension that coils in his frame. All that to say, Flora doesn’t even hear the twig snap until Asta' stops.
Her breath catches as she nearly bumps into him, eyes going wide as the mood shifts palpably. She crouches slightly, weight forward, a whisper tumbling from her lips like a secret. "Are you going to eat the wolf?" It’s not a joke—her tone is serious, if hushed. "My daggers are poisoned, so—" She holds back from reaching for her daggers, hands hovering at her sides. If he plans to make it a meal, she'd rather not ruin it.
But that doesn’t stop her from darting after him when he moves. Her footfalls are light, careful, practiced from years of sneaking through cities and shadows—but they aren’t hunting steps, not yet. So when the wolf comes into view, sudden and sinewed and too close, Flora stumbles slightly, her breath catching as instinct floods her limbs. Her fingers twitch toward her blades—then still, remembering.
She beams when he says he's still surprised by the thing he shares with Danta, her expression softening with affection. "That’s part of what makes it so special, though," she murmurs, nudging his arm with her shoulder. "And you'll never be at risk of taking it for granted."
As they turn left into the thickening woods, Flora tries her best to match his focus—her eyes darting along the tree line, ears straining for anything out of place. She has no clue what she’s listening for. Everything sounds like something. But she mimics the poise, the readiness, watching the way his muscles shift with each step, the subtle tension that coils in his frame. All that to say, Flora doesn’t even hear the twig snap until Asta' stops.
Her breath catches as she nearly bumps into him, eyes going wide as the mood shifts palpably. She crouches slightly, weight forward, a whisper tumbling from her lips like a secret. "Are you going to eat the wolf?" It’s not a joke—her tone is serious, if hushed. "My daggers are poisoned, so—" She holds back from reaching for her daggers, hands hovering at her sides. If he plans to make it a meal, she'd rather not ruin it.
But that doesn’t stop her from darting after him when he moves. Her footfalls are light, careful, practiced from years of sneaking through cities and shadows—but they aren’t hunting steps, not yet. So when the wolf comes into view, sudden and sinewed and too close, Flora stumbles slightly, her breath catching as instinct floods her limbs. Her fingers twitch toward her blades—then still, remembering.
