Flora
"If you didn’t talk so much," she drawls, eyes rolling with soft amusement, "it'd be harder for the sand to get into your mouth." It’s a bald-faced lie, of course—sand would always find a way. A shapeshifter in its own right, determined to inhabit every crease, every fold, every forgotten corner. But still, the smirk that pulls at her lips suggests she’ll stick to the theory, if only to tease him.
His reluctant agreement draws a flicker of satisfaction across her face, though it’s tempered by something quieter, softer, as he finally rolls off her. The moment his weight is gone, Flora almost regrets it, feels the loss like something immediate and physical, a chill slipping in where warmth had been. Her hands twitch like they might reach for him again, as if dragging him back down would fix the strange ache blooming low in her chest, but she doesn’t move, at least not until he offers his hand. And when he does, she takes it without hesitation; fingers curling into his with more intention than she means to show. The sand clings to the backs of her thighs as she rises, and she brushes it off with a smirk and a huff, knowing full well there’ll be more in her hair, in her clothes, possibly in her soul at this point. Snagging her cardigan, she dusts that off as well, opting not to shrug back into it for the time being.
His mention of lunch earns a laugh—light, fond, a little disbelieving—because it feels for Flora as well that the offer had been made a million years ago. Her eyes skim the horizon as they begin walking, the rhythm of their footsteps falling into something easy across the shoreline. There's no sign of the Ark of course; she's berthed up in Stormbreak such that there’s a sudden ripple of guilt chased by relief, and that alone is enough to keep her gaze forward.
"I think there’s still some stuff left aboard the Sugartide," she says after a moment, glancing sidelong at him, "from when Mateo and I went up to the Cordillera. But you might have to get creative." She nudges her shoulder softly against his, gentle and playful. "Or there's always gummy worms."
His reluctant agreement draws a flicker of satisfaction across her face, though it’s tempered by something quieter, softer, as he finally rolls off her. The moment his weight is gone, Flora almost regrets it, feels the loss like something immediate and physical, a chill slipping in where warmth had been. Her hands twitch like they might reach for him again, as if dragging him back down would fix the strange ache blooming low in her chest, but she doesn’t move, at least not until he offers his hand. And when he does, she takes it without hesitation; fingers curling into his with more intention than she means to show. The sand clings to the backs of her thighs as she rises, and she brushes it off with a smirk and a huff, knowing full well there’ll be more in her hair, in her clothes, possibly in her soul at this point. Snagging her cardigan, she dusts that off as well, opting not to shrug back into it for the time being.
His mention of lunch earns a laugh—light, fond, a little disbelieving—because it feels for Flora as well that the offer had been made a million years ago. Her eyes skim the horizon as they begin walking, the rhythm of their footsteps falling into something easy across the shoreline. There's no sign of the Ark of course; she's berthed up in Stormbreak such that there’s a sudden ripple of guilt chased by relief, and that alone is enough to keep her gaze forward.
"I think there’s still some stuff left aboard the Sugartide," she says after a moment, glancing sidelong at him, "from when Mateo and I went up to the Cordillera. But you might have to get creative." She nudges her shoulder softly against his, gentle and playful. "Or there's always gummy worms."
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
