karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Flora chuckles, tipping her glass toward him with a grin that’s playful at the edges. "Always good to have a back-up plan," she teases with a playful grin.
But when his words drift heavier, when he speaks of what leaders do or don’t do, her nose wrinkles and her posture shifts, just enough stiffness to mark disagreement. She bites the inside of her cheek, aqua eyes narrowing as if weighing how much she wants to press. In the end, she tilts her head, brow arching, and lets the dissent come soft instead of sharp. "I don’t know about that..." she murmurs, the cadence light but edged with thought, unwilling to concede the point even if she won’t pick a fight over it.
When Damien gestures, Flora is happy to move closer to the water, her bare feet carrying her onto the dock where the tide’s breath hums through the boards. The faint reverberation of waves sinks into her skin, and she exhales with something like relief, as if the sea itself has set her bones back in place. At his confession, though, she turns, shoulder nudging firmly into his as if to underline just how little distance there is between him and people right now. "Sure, sure," she says, the words playful but underscored with warmth. "Says the man who sailed all the way to Torchline to help a complete stranger. And now he’s drinking with her." She lifts her glass then, tilting it so sunlight scatters through the rum like spun gold, the gesture as deliberate as the sparkle in her smile.
Her gaze lingers a moment longer, softening at the edges. Because she hears the truth in his words—the cost hidden in that claimed distance—and though she doesn’t call it out, her eyes carry the understanding, bright and unflinching.
But when his words drift heavier, when he speaks of what leaders do or don’t do, her nose wrinkles and her posture shifts, just enough stiffness to mark disagreement. She bites the inside of her cheek, aqua eyes narrowing as if weighing how much she wants to press. In the end, she tilts her head, brow arching, and lets the dissent come soft instead of sharp. "I don’t know about that..." she murmurs, the cadence light but edged with thought, unwilling to concede the point even if she won’t pick a fight over it.
When Damien gestures, Flora is happy to move closer to the water, her bare feet carrying her onto the dock where the tide’s breath hums through the boards. The faint reverberation of waves sinks into her skin, and she exhales with something like relief, as if the sea itself has set her bones back in place. At his confession, though, she turns, shoulder nudging firmly into his as if to underline just how little distance there is between him and people right now. "Sure, sure," she says, the words playful but underscored with warmth. "Says the man who sailed all the way to Torchline to help a complete stranger. And now he’s drinking with her." She lifts her glass then, tilting it so sunlight scatters through the rum like spun gold, the gesture as deliberate as the sparkle in her smile.
Her gaze lingers a moment longer, softening at the edges. Because she hears the truth in his words—the cost hidden in that claimed distance—and though she doesn’t call it out, her eyes carry the understanding, bright and unflinching.
