flora
Flora lifts her brows in mock affront, hands braced on her hips like she’s about to hand him a formal citation. "That would be against the rules," she declares, voice rich with scandal and promise all at once. But the spark in her eye tells the real story, one lit more by innuendo than indignation. She leans in just enough for her voice to drop to something silken and sly. "But I’d be more than happy to show you all the things I’m capable of without my hands, anytime you’re curious."
The grin that follows is sharp enough to carve fruit, golden curls swaying like a halo caught in a breeze as she spins back toward her corner of the construction site.
At the comment about her strength, she snorts without looking back, her arm hooked around a blanket as she yanks it taut across the rising frame. "It's all that dagger throwing," she replies breezily, "does wonders for the triceps. You’ll be thankful the next time you’re staring down a stubborn jam jar and I’m the only thing standing between you and defeat."
His next question earns no words at all—just a twist of her mouth into a smug, knowing grin and a pair of eyebrows that bounce like punctuation marks at the end of a flirt. The flattery would work, and they both know it. As his side-eye sharpens, she returns it wide-eyed and innocent, with all the subtlety of a cat knocking something off a shelf.
But the moment his enthusiasm spikes, all challenge melts like sugar in rum. "Oooh—wings," she echoes, delighted, dropping the blanket and clapping her hands once as though he’s solved the mystery of life itself. "Yes, yes, we’ll twist some of my scarves through the chair backs—make it drapey and dramatic, like those entryways in luxury brothels."
She disappears beneath the table, dropping to her hands and knees with a rustle of fabric and golden bangles, her sweatpants bunching low on her hips as she shuffles inside with a flourish. One leg kicks slightly behind her, more for show than balance, and her voice calls out from the growing depths of the fortress with a playful urgency that echoes off the walls.
"Supports! I need more supports!"
The grin that follows is sharp enough to carve fruit, golden curls swaying like a halo caught in a breeze as she spins back toward her corner of the construction site.
At the comment about her strength, she snorts without looking back, her arm hooked around a blanket as she yanks it taut across the rising frame. "It's all that dagger throwing," she replies breezily, "does wonders for the triceps. You’ll be thankful the next time you’re staring down a stubborn jam jar and I’m the only thing standing between you and defeat."
His next question earns no words at all—just a twist of her mouth into a smug, knowing grin and a pair of eyebrows that bounce like punctuation marks at the end of a flirt. The flattery would work, and they both know it. As his side-eye sharpens, she returns it wide-eyed and innocent, with all the subtlety of a cat knocking something off a shelf.
But the moment his enthusiasm spikes, all challenge melts like sugar in rum. "Oooh—wings," she echoes, delighted, dropping the blanket and clapping her hands once as though he’s solved the mystery of life itself. "Yes, yes, we’ll twist some of my scarves through the chair backs—make it drapey and dramatic, like those entryways in luxury brothels."
She disappears beneath the table, dropping to her hands and knees with a rustle of fabric and golden bangles, her sweatpants bunching low on her hips as she shuffles inside with a flourish. One leg kicks slightly behind her, more for show than balance, and her voice calls out from the growing depths of the fortress with a playful urgency that echoes off the walls.
"Supports! I need more supports!"
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
