Flora
Flora snorts, eyes rolling with theatrical exaggeration as she mutters beneath her breath, "Weird. Almost like it wasn’t a thing that actually happened." Her curls bounce as she flicks him a flat, sarcastic look over her shoulder. "Oh yeah, for sure. You and your imaginary dragon can absolutely race the Sugartide. I’ll even let you almost win."
But his gaze catches hers just as she’s withdrawing from the cheek pat, and it hits her like the flick of a match in dry grass. She’s already half-laughing at his quip, all light and teeth, when the way he looks at her makes her breath hitch just enough to give her away. Her mind does what it always does around him, tugged sideways into memory: the low rumble of his voice against her skin, the tug of his hands against her hips followed by the wall cool behind her back, the hard line of his mouth when she’d gasped his name like it had always belonged to her. The flush that creeps up her cheeks is soft but unmistakable, pink blooming like dawn over her cheekbones.
And still. Still. She tips her chin up with that familiar brand of defiance that never learned how to back down or let a closing remark go without her lips around it, aqua eyes glinting as she purrs, "Guess I’ll have to be more vocal with my thoughts next time." Then, as if that hadn’t just left her own pulse skipping rope, she shrugs easily. "Lunch sounds good," she says, casual as anything, and starts walking again like she hadn’t just set the air between them humming. "But we need to make one stop first."
The streets wind gently beneath her feet, and when the corner turns and her little townhouse edges into view—whitewashed walls, ocean-worn trim, the faint outline of the porch swing she never used—Flora doesn’t slow. She strides to the bush out front, fingers deftly plucking the spare key from its hiding place like it hadn’t been done a dozen times before. Turning, she holds it out to him, not quite meeting his gaze. Her voice is steady, but softer than before as she clears her throat. "You can go back to the cat-pee-and-serial-killer-landlord apartment if you want," she says, attempting nonchalance. "But…"
She glances back at the house, at the life she left crumpled on its doorstep and shrugs; when she finally meets his eyes again, the look she gives him is quieter than usual—still Flora, still sure, but with something newly shy swimming just beneath the surface of aqua blue.
But his gaze catches hers just as she’s withdrawing from the cheek pat, and it hits her like the flick of a match in dry grass. She’s already half-laughing at his quip, all light and teeth, when the way he looks at her makes her breath hitch just enough to give her away. Her mind does what it always does around him, tugged sideways into memory: the low rumble of his voice against her skin, the tug of his hands against her hips followed by the wall cool behind her back, the hard line of his mouth when she’d gasped his name like it had always belonged to her. The flush that creeps up her cheeks is soft but unmistakable, pink blooming like dawn over her cheekbones.
And still. Still. She tips her chin up with that familiar brand of defiance that never learned how to back down or let a closing remark go without her lips around it, aqua eyes glinting as she purrs, "Guess I’ll have to be more vocal with my thoughts next time." Then, as if that hadn’t just left her own pulse skipping rope, she shrugs easily. "Lunch sounds good," she says, casual as anything, and starts walking again like she hadn’t just set the air between them humming. "But we need to make one stop first."
The streets wind gently beneath her feet, and when the corner turns and her little townhouse edges into view—whitewashed walls, ocean-worn trim, the faint outline of the porch swing she never used—Flora doesn’t slow. She strides to the bush out front, fingers deftly plucking the spare key from its hiding place like it hadn’t been done a dozen times before. Turning, she holds it out to him, not quite meeting his gaze. Her voice is steady, but softer than before as she clears her throat. "You can go back to the cat-pee-and-serial-killer-landlord apartment if you want," she says, attempting nonchalance. "But…"
She glances back at the house, at the life she left crumpled on its doorstep and shrugs; when she finally meets his eyes again, the look she gives him is quieter than usual—still Flora, still sure, but with something newly shy swimming just beneath the surface of aqua blue.
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
