flora
"…which is why I appreciate this so much," Flora is saying, her curls spilling forward as she leans over the table, shoulders curled into the slouch of a black sweater that hangs off one side to bare the golden gleam of jewellery against her collarbone. A half-drained glass of wine perches dangerously near the scatter of paper, wire, and bright scraps of fabric, the table looking more like an artist’s cluttered altar than anything properly civilised. "Especially since you and Danta already came to help with the actual building of my house." Her grin twists crooked as she snips a length of twine, the sound of it sharp in the low light. "Now I’ve roped you into my quest too. Talk about owing you one."
Boots crossed neatly beneath the booth, she settles back against the worn leather, wine glass caught between her fingers, and casts the butcher a look that’s equal parts grateful and teasing. Asta’s presence beside her is steady, like the heat of a hearth fire—undeniable, companionable, warming her as much as the wine does.
Boots crossed neatly beneath the booth, she settles back against the worn leather, wine glass caught between her fingers, and casts the butcher a look that’s equal parts grateful and teasing. Asta’s presence beside her is steady, like the heat of a hearth fire—undeniable, companionable, warming her as much as the wine does.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
