Flora
Flora’s laughter spills bright and breathless, but there’s no edge in it; the lines that crease at the corners of her eyes are warm, and the shaky little inhales between them belong to the pure absurdity of the scene rather than any delight in his distress. When he demands why a ghost would be here, she beams up at him with mischief lit full in her face. "If you really knew all a ghost’s tricks, you’d know they love the places no one expects," she says, conspiratorial as a secret passed hand to hand. Then, with a theatrical little moue and a hand to her heart: "Oh no, disadvantaged. Tragic. I’ll alert the authorities."
He reaches foir her, and for one bright, dangerous beat she thinks he means something else—an arm catching her waist, a tug into his chest, the kind of kiss that silences laughter and starts it again lower—and the thought makes her breath catch even as she holds steady. Frog-slick fingers swipe her forearm instead; heat rises to her cheeks, not quite embarrassment, not quite disappointment, not quite relief, just the rush of a feeling she refuses to name in a market full of witnesses. She rubs the damp into her skin with exaggerated care. "Great for hydration," she declares, deadpan, as if every apothecary worth their mortar stocks amphibian serum.
"Tell me you grew up in a boring city without telling me you grew up in a boring city," she adds, rolling her eyes with fond cruelty as Spice chirrs agreement from her perch. She tips her chin at the scorched map on his bag, brows lifting. "And that looks less ‘burning death spray’ and more ‘you tried to cook something more ambitious than toast again.’ "
He reaches foir her, and for one bright, dangerous beat she thinks he means something else—an arm catching her waist, a tug into his chest, the kind of kiss that silences laughter and starts it again lower—and the thought makes her breath catch even as she holds steady. Frog-slick fingers swipe her forearm instead; heat rises to her cheeks, not quite embarrassment, not quite disappointment, not quite relief, just the rush of a feeling she refuses to name in a market full of witnesses. She rubs the damp into her skin with exaggerated care. "Great for hydration," she declares, deadpan, as if every apothecary worth their mortar stocks amphibian serum.
"Tell me you grew up in a boring city without telling me you grew up in a boring city," she adds, rolling her eyes with fond cruelty as Spice chirrs agreement from her perch. She tips her chin at the scorched map on his bag, brows lifting. "And that looks less ‘burning death spray’ and more ‘you tried to cook something more ambitious than toast again.’ "
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
