flora
Flora flashes him back the sharpest grin she can muster, laughter tumbling out bright and quick. "Ooooh," she says, drawing it out with faux scandal, "then maybe you and Danta ought to have swapped to those little plastic mirrors they give children" The tease is airy, affectionate, her brows arched as though she’s trying not to picture the Gentleman Butcher peering into a toy-store mirror.
His compliment, though, earns a coy laugh that she doesn’t even bother selling properly; feigned modesty isn’t her strong suit. "You're far too sweet," she murmurs, her grin softening into something that lands closer to gratitude than teasing. She tilts her head as if to scold him for it, but the sparkle in her eyes gives her away.
When his mask slips, though, when the lines deepen around his dark eyes and that smile drops away so much faster than she would like, her laughter ebbs. Flora wrinkles her nose softly, lips twitching as if she wants to say something clever and can’t quite find the shape of it. There’s nothing helpful she can offer—no charm to soothe the weight of another set of instincts clawing through his ribs. So instead she just looks at him, openly, affection threaded through every glance, every curve of her smile.
Her fingers find her wine glass, idly turning the stem between her rings as her gaze drifts down. "Maybe..." she begins carefully, almost like she’s testing the thought aloud, "before next Leafchange, Dygra could add another charm to your bracelet." She flicks her gaze up toward his wrist, then back down into the garnet pool of her wine.
His compliment, though, earns a coy laugh that she doesn’t even bother selling properly; feigned modesty isn’t her strong suit. "You're far too sweet," she murmurs, her grin softening into something that lands closer to gratitude than teasing. She tilts her head as if to scold him for it, but the sparkle in her eyes gives her away.
When his mask slips, though, when the lines deepen around his dark eyes and that smile drops away so much faster than she would like, her laughter ebbs. Flora wrinkles her nose softly, lips twitching as if she wants to say something clever and can’t quite find the shape of it. There’s nothing helpful she can offer—no charm to soothe the weight of another set of instincts clawing through his ribs. So instead she just looks at him, openly, affection threaded through every glance, every curve of her smile.
Her fingers find her wine glass, idly turning the stem between her rings as her gaze drifts down. "Maybe..." she begins carefully, almost like she’s testing the thought aloud, "before next Leafchange, Dygra could add another charm to your bracelet." She flicks her gaze up toward his wrist, then back down into the garnet pool of her wine.
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
