Flora
Flora swallows the first answer that rises in the back of her throat in response to his wanting to try staying awake—something shameless about other, better ways to keep him awake aside from ghost stories—and lets it melt into a grin instead. "LongNight’s coming," she says. "Torchline throws a week-long party. If you want to test the limits of sleeplessness, you could always try and stay awake all week." Y'know, since he'd be here, which is something Flora hasn't quite wrapped her head around.
Her gaze drifts over him under the safe cover of teasing, sly affection stitched into the corners of her smile. "Mmmm, you’ve gotten a little thin since moving out on your own," she observes, faux-prim, tapping his bicep with two fingers as if measuring a fruit's ripeness and finding it lacking. "And you need a haircut." When he leans in, though, she goes still, breath snagging, eyes tracking the angle of him—then his fingertip flicks up and brushes the end of her nose. Relief rushes through her so fast it almost startles her, gratitude for the curtain of curls that still hides the bruise at her throatsince I have no idea where we are in the timeline anymore. She groans theatrically anyway, loud enough to turn a head or two. "Kaisel!" she scolds, dragging the s into a z that makes a fishmonger snort behind them.
"You still ate every pancake," she adds, the words softening at the edges as the memory of butter and burnt chocolate ghosts her tongue. Normally, this is where she'd raise a brow and nudge his side, challenging him to cook for her to prove it, but the dare dissolves in her mouth like sugar in hot tea, and she lets it go, tasting sweetness and restraint both while the breeze lifts jasmine from her cardigan and sugar from the stalls.
Kaisel's outrage about height spins him toward her but she keeps her chin high, eyes forward, the portrait of innocence, while the crowd eddies warm around them. She watches his demonstration with exaggerated gravity, then lifts her hand and marks the gap he’s bragging about—four inches, maybe—holding her fingers up between them with a wrinkle of her nose. "You think that’s a lot?" she asks, widening her eyes into something saccarine that fools absolutely no one. "I know Sunjata is my step-dad, but I’ve never met a single girl who sees how tall he is and doesn’t want to climb him like a tree." She turns that innocent, placating look back on Kaisel as if he’s the one being unreasonable, all sweetness at the edges and mischief in the middle. "But he's like, super tall. I was more just meaning regular tall."
And as they go, to anyone watching, it might look like the pair are just wandering, but they aren't. Flora isn't, anyway. Every turn is a quiet stitch toward the coral-washed lane where her old door hides behind a tangle of hibiscus. The last time Kaisel had been there, the city was blue and lamplit, so she doesn't expect him necessarily to notice where they're going. Not with the sun bleaching the walkways and her laughter and teasing baiting his focus.
Her gaze drifts over him under the safe cover of teasing, sly affection stitched into the corners of her smile. "Mmmm, you’ve gotten a little thin since moving out on your own," she observes, faux-prim, tapping his bicep with two fingers as if measuring a fruit's ripeness and finding it lacking. "And you need a haircut." When he leans in, though, she goes still, breath snagging, eyes tracking the angle of him—then his fingertip flicks up and brushes the end of her nose. Relief rushes through her so fast it almost startles her, gratitude for the curtain of curls that still hides the bruise at her throat
"You still ate every pancake," she adds, the words softening at the edges as the memory of butter and burnt chocolate ghosts her tongue. Normally, this is where she'd raise a brow and nudge his side, challenging him to cook for her to prove it, but the dare dissolves in her mouth like sugar in hot tea, and she lets it go, tasting sweetness and restraint both while the breeze lifts jasmine from her cardigan and sugar from the stalls.
Kaisel's outrage about height spins him toward her but she keeps her chin high, eyes forward, the portrait of innocence, while the crowd eddies warm around them. She watches his demonstration with exaggerated gravity, then lifts her hand and marks the gap he’s bragging about—four inches, maybe—holding her fingers up between them with a wrinkle of her nose. "You think that’s a lot?" she asks, widening her eyes into something saccarine that fools absolutely no one. "I know Sunjata is my step-dad, but I’ve never met a single girl who sees how tall he is and doesn’t want to climb him like a tree." She turns that innocent, placating look back on Kaisel as if he’s the one being unreasonable, all sweetness at the edges and mischief in the middle. "But he's like, super tall. I was more just meaning regular tall."
And as they go, to anyone watching, it might look like the pair are just wandering, but they aren't. Flora isn't, anyway. Every turn is a quiet stitch toward the coral-washed lane where her old door hides behind a tangle of hibiscus. The last time Kaisel had been there, the city was blue and lamplit, so she doesn't expect him necessarily to notice where they're going. Not with the sun bleaching the walkways and her laughter and teasing baiting his focus.
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
