karma's a relaxing thought, aren't you envious that for you it's not?
Flora lets herself notice the solidity of him where her shoulder presses against his arm, the heat of the sun mixing with the firm line of muscle beneath his shirt. When he doesn’t shift away, her nose wrinkles with easy amusement and she tilts her head up, nodding in emphatic agreement. "All you need now is a damsel in distress to rescue and fall madly in love with," she teases, her grin flashing bright, "then you’ll have the perfect storybook ending."
But as his words turn heavier, her own smile slips, her gaze drawn back out to the restless glitter of the ocean. She nibbles the inside of her cheek, a small grounding habit, and nods softly. "No, it isn’t," she agrees. The things he says—about solitude’s fragility, about leaving things better—make her glance up at him without her usual armour, unguarded for a beat too long. The closeness of it sits uncomfortably near in her chest, so she lifts her glass and lets the rum’s brightness give her a reason to look away, to swallow more than just the liquor.
When he says she makes it look easy, her laugh bursts out sharper and louder than she expects, a bark of surprise that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Thanks," she says, shaking her head as though it’s almost ridiculous, "but the trick’s just being really good at faking nearly everything." She beams up at him as she says it, daring him with her eyes to try and read whether there’s any truth in the shine of her smile. Then the breath leaves her chest in a longer exhale, carrying far more than just air.
"Honestly?" she shrugs, lifting one bare shoulder, her grin softening into something more earnest. "Stubbornness, most days." Plenty of people still didn't believe in Flora, and proving them wrong kept her company more often than not when the nights grew long and her bed felt wildly empty. "Don't get me wrong, I do care about Torchline a lot, but I'd be lying if I said that what got me out of bed in the mornings were purely altruistic reasons."
But as his words turn heavier, her own smile slips, her gaze drawn back out to the restless glitter of the ocean. She nibbles the inside of her cheek, a small grounding habit, and nods softly. "No, it isn’t," she agrees. The things he says—about solitude’s fragility, about leaving things better—make her glance up at him without her usual armour, unguarded for a beat too long. The closeness of it sits uncomfortably near in her chest, so she lifts her glass and lets the rum’s brightness give her a reason to look away, to swallow more than just the liquor.
When he says she makes it look easy, her laugh bursts out sharper and louder than she expects, a bark of surprise that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Thanks," she says, shaking her head as though it’s almost ridiculous, "but the trick’s just being really good at faking nearly everything." She beams up at him as she says it, daring him with her eyes to try and read whether there’s any truth in the shine of her smile. Then the breath leaves her chest in a longer exhale, carrying far more than just air.
"Honestly?" she shrugs, lifting one bare shoulder, her grin softening into something more earnest. "Stubbornness, most days." Plenty of people still didn't believe in Flora, and proving them wrong kept her company more often than not when the nights grew long and her bed felt wildly empty. "Don't get me wrong, I do care about Torchline a lot, but I'd be lying if I said that what got me out of bed in the mornings were purely altruistic reasons."
