Flora
Flora can feel his gaze before he ever speaks. That anticipatory hush that clings to her skin like steam, the weight of it settling right where her curls spill over bare shoulders and the delicate line of her spine slopes into the hourglass arc of her hips. Her jeans sit low, hugging the swell of her backside, every motion deliberate now—syrupy and slow, like a song built for swaying. Her toes sink into the warm wood of the hallway as she walks, hips ticking to an unseen rhythm, all lazy confidence and calculated allure.
She hears the door nudge open—timing impeccable, of course—and doesn’t bother to look right away. That would be too easy. Instead, her head turns partway, profile catching the light as she casts a glance over her shoulder, chin lifted just enough for her golden curls to tumble and catch against her collarbone. Her expression is all mock surprise, exaggerated in a way that’s unmistakably teasing. "Haven’t you heard of knocking?" she hums, sweet as candied poison.
The moment lingers—his silhouette backlit by the hallway, shirtless, bearing a plate of nachos like some absurd, shirtless room service fantasy—and her gaze does sweep over him, unabashed and slow. He has kept his tan, surprisingly. The kind of sun-kissed that speaks of boat decks and bad decisions, not as rich as hers, but close enough that when they stand side by side, the summer still glows from them both.
With the ease of practice, Flora hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and begins to peel them down, back still fully to him. She shimmies the fabric past her hips, pausing halfway down her thighs in a move that’s far too choreographed to be accidental. Her skin gleams, all curves and confidence, the lace of her underwear delicate and soft against the golden hue of her body. By the time the jeans are kicked aside, she’s barefoot, bare-legged, and standing in nothing but underwear and the lingering scent of jasmine that follows her around. With a little hum—not a word, just a sound that threads through the tension like a silk ribbon—she reaches for a towel and very loosely covers herself before turning around.
It’s not sudden, it’s not dramatic, it’s casual; far too casual for a girl standing in nothing but lacy underwear. Her aqua gaze lands on him like a hook slipping beneath the surface, catching something deeper than breath. She eyes him—not the plate, not the door, him—as she moves to brush past, close enough that her perfume lingers and her thigh brushes his as lightly as wind stirring a curtain.
Then, as if remembering something so mundane it’s almost comedic, she pauses, fingers reaching for one of the nachos. Still holding his gaze—unchallenged, unhurried—she brings it to her mouth and bites down with a crisp little crunch. "You know," she murmurs, the words light as seafoam but shaped like a dagger made of sugar, "not everything tastes as good when it’s wet."
She hears the door nudge open—timing impeccable, of course—and doesn’t bother to look right away. That would be too easy. Instead, her head turns partway, profile catching the light as she casts a glance over her shoulder, chin lifted just enough for her golden curls to tumble and catch against her collarbone. Her expression is all mock surprise, exaggerated in a way that’s unmistakably teasing. "Haven’t you heard of knocking?" she hums, sweet as candied poison.
The moment lingers—his silhouette backlit by the hallway, shirtless, bearing a plate of nachos like some absurd, shirtless room service fantasy—and her gaze does sweep over him, unabashed and slow. He has kept his tan, surprisingly. The kind of sun-kissed that speaks of boat decks and bad decisions, not as rich as hers, but close enough that when they stand side by side, the summer still glows from them both.
With the ease of practice, Flora hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and begins to peel them down, back still fully to him. She shimmies the fabric past her hips, pausing halfway down her thighs in a move that’s far too choreographed to be accidental. Her skin gleams, all curves and confidence, the lace of her underwear delicate and soft against the golden hue of her body. By the time the jeans are kicked aside, she’s barefoot, bare-legged, and standing in nothing but underwear and the lingering scent of jasmine that follows her around. With a little hum—not a word, just a sound that threads through the tension like a silk ribbon—she reaches for a towel and very loosely covers herself before turning around.
It’s not sudden, it’s not dramatic, it’s casual; far too casual for a girl standing in nothing but lacy underwear. Her aqua gaze lands on him like a hook slipping beneath the surface, catching something deeper than breath. She eyes him—not the plate, not the door, him—as she moves to brush past, close enough that her perfume lingers and her thigh brushes his as lightly as wind stirring a curtain.
Then, as if remembering something so mundane it’s almost comedic, she pauses, fingers reaching for one of the nachos. Still holding his gaze—unchallenged, unhurried—she brings it to her mouth and bites down with a crisp little crunch. "You know," she murmurs, the words light as seafoam but shaped like a dagger made of sugar, "not everything tastes as good when it’s wet."
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
