flora
Flora lets the rope tumble from her arms, the coil thudding softly as it disappears below deck. She lifts a hand to swipe at the sheen on her brow, though the warmth of Torchline in Deepfrost is nothing compared to other regions. Straightening, she flashes him a quick grin that carries both pride and excitement. "I’m good. Just getting ready to move the Sugartide to its new home—by my new home." The words have a triumphant lilt, the promise of her mansion still fresh enough to taste like champagne on her tongue.
But Hadama doesn’t waste time, and neither does she when she recognises the shift in his tone. The grin softens, mouth curving into something slanted as she studies him, head tilting as though she might peer around the edges of his calm. "If this favour is about your love life, I’m gonna stop you right there," she teases lightly, the humour there to soften but not to deny the seriousness she feels creeping into the air between them. "You can indefinitely count me out of giving advice."
She moves toward him all the same, bracelets whispering at her wrists as she closes the space between them. With a flick of her hand, she gestures toward the bench built into the side of the deck, the pillows scattered there bright against the polished wood. "Here, sit," she says more gently as she sinks down, her aqua eyes watchful now, waiting for him to tell her what weight he’s carrying.
But Hadama doesn’t waste time, and neither does she when she recognises the shift in his tone. The grin softens, mouth curving into something slanted as she studies him, head tilting as though she might peer around the edges of his calm. "If this favour is about your love life, I’m gonna stop you right there," she teases lightly, the humour there to soften but not to deny the seriousness she feels creeping into the air between them. "You can indefinitely count me out of giving advice."
She moves toward him all the same, bracelets whispering at her wrists as she closes the space between them. With a flick of her hand, she gestures toward the bench built into the side of the deck, the pillows scattered there bright against the polished wood. "Here, sit," she says more gently as she sinks down, her aqua eyes watchful now, waiting for him to tell her what weight he’s carrying.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
