karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Up close, he looks less like the man she’d met in Halo and more like someone Torchline might try to claim if it weren’t so obvious he’d never quite belong here. The sunlight burns bronze across his skin, catching in the faint scruff along his jaw, and the rolled sleeves reveal forearms corded from work, not for show. There’s a salt-slick shine on his collarbone where the heat’s pressed too close, and the dark line of his sunglasses makes his expression harder to read, until her voice pulls a faint smile from him.
Flora's chuckle is low and warm, shoulders rolling in agreement. "It’s easier to bear when there’s an ocean to dive into," she says, tipping her head toward the glittering surf, "or a dragon around to keep you cool." Overhead, Spice answers with a lazy spiral, the downdraft ruffling Flora’s hair like a conspirator.
When Damien pushes to his feet, the queen tilts her chin up to meet him, curiosity tugging at her mouth as she wonders what he meant to do—offer a hand, a bow— or maybe something else entirely. The silent gesture toward the driftwood earns a quirk of her brow, but she crosses the sand without hesitation, sinking into the weather-smoothed seat with the kind of easy sprawl that comes from knowing the tide won’t touch her here.
His apology draws a quiet snort, half-hidden behind the rim of her smile. "Please. My ego’s not that fragile," she says, resting an elbow on her knee. "But now I have to ask—what would you have done differently? Aside from adding something obnoxious like ‘your highness’ to every sentence or pulling out my chair for me?" The teasing is light, but her eyes hold steady on his, curious to see if he’ll play along, or what he genuinely might have done differently.
Following the flick of his gaze down the beach, she catches sight of the timber stacked in neat palettes, the pale edges of the cut wood glowing in the sun. A grin curls slow and sure across her lips, the shape of the future already sketching itself behind her eyes. "Amazing," she says. "I’ve got a crew lined up to start assembly in a few days." Her fingers drum lightly against her thigh, restless with the thought of it taking shape; of walls rising from sand, of a house meant to outlast the storms.
Flora's chuckle is low and warm, shoulders rolling in agreement. "It’s easier to bear when there’s an ocean to dive into," she says, tipping her head toward the glittering surf, "or a dragon around to keep you cool." Overhead, Spice answers with a lazy spiral, the downdraft ruffling Flora’s hair like a conspirator.
When Damien pushes to his feet, the queen tilts her chin up to meet him, curiosity tugging at her mouth as she wonders what he meant to do—offer a hand, a bow— or maybe something else entirely. The silent gesture toward the driftwood earns a quirk of her brow, but she crosses the sand without hesitation, sinking into the weather-smoothed seat with the kind of easy sprawl that comes from knowing the tide won’t touch her here.
His apology draws a quiet snort, half-hidden behind the rim of her smile. "Please. My ego’s not that fragile," she says, resting an elbow on her knee. "But now I have to ask—what would you have done differently? Aside from adding something obnoxious like ‘your highness’ to every sentence or pulling out my chair for me?" The teasing is light, but her eyes hold steady on his, curious to see if he’ll play along, or what he genuinely might have done differently.
Following the flick of his gaze down the beach, she catches sight of the timber stacked in neat palettes, the pale edges of the cut wood glowing in the sun. A grin curls slow and sure across her lips, the shape of the future already sketching itself behind her eyes. "Amazing," she says. "I’ve got a crew lined up to start assembly in a few days." Her fingers drum lightly against her thigh, restless with the thought of it taking shape; of walls rising from sand, of a house meant to outlast the storms.
