flora
Flora can feel the quiet in Kaisel as he listens, strange as it is, given that normally filled silence like water fills a glass; never still, never stalled, always ready with some sideways joke or shameless tease. But now? Now he’s Thinking with a capital T. She doesn’t need to look at him to know it. She feels it in the stillness beneath the softness, the way his chest rises a little slower, the way his copper eyes—so warm, so sharp even in the dim—have gone distant in that way that means something’s cracked open and he’s still trying to decide if it needs stitching or salt.
Still, when he groans and splays a hand across his forehead like a man struck by lightning, her grin brightens, dazzling and delighted. It steals across her face like dawn over saltwater, all sparkle and slow-blooming joy. And yes, maybe she offers a bit of silent applause, lifting her brows in faux awe at his restraint, even if she does love those tiny, chaotic voices in his head.
When he pulls back in theatrical horror, she wrinkles her nose with dramatic innocence, shrugging with the most unconvincing who, me? expression she can muster. "I was only preserving the moment," she says, voice dripping with mockery and fondness both. "I mean, if all we ever have are non-squinty moments, how would we know they’re special, hmm?" Before he can offer a retort, she’s reaching out, fingers snatching the collar of that ridiculous frog shirt with all the power of a dagger-thrower turned fort-queen, dragging him back toward her with absolutely no effort concealed, and press her lips to his.
The kiss is not deep, not heated, but full of flourish, like sealing a pact or finishing a scene with the perfect final note. Her lips press to his in a kiss that’s laughter-soft and affection-sweet, one hand resting lightly against his chest, the other still tangled in fabric.
When he kisses her forehead—her favourite, always, always her favourite—she exhales against his sternum in a long, loving sigh, her lashes fluttering as she nuzzles in like it’s the safest place she’s ever known, before chuckling softly as he admits to fast trash duty, her voice muffled by his shirt. "You need a dragon," she murmurs. "Or maybe like...a weird winged toad that screams when monsters get too close." She pauses. "Spice is pretty good for that, actually. She screams at everything."
At the mention of sharks, Flora lifts her head, grinning down at him, eyes brightening as her curls tumble around them like sunlit seaweed. "Okay, as soon as it’s warm enough, we’re going swimming with manta crystals. They let you breathe underwater and if we take the bubble jet to the mer city, you’ll see loads of sharks." She beams. "Exposure therapy, right?"
She snorts softly, a crooked little smile tugging at her mouth as she lets her head settle once more across his chest. Her fingers drift lazily over his shirt, starbursting outward, chasing invisible wrinkles and smoothing each one down as she hums. "Oh, you know," she says lightly. "Just the usual stuff. Never being good enough, crippling fear of being abandoned...cellulite." Her nails trace lightly down his ribs. "Just the usual things."
Still, when he groans and splays a hand across his forehead like a man struck by lightning, her grin brightens, dazzling and delighted. It steals across her face like dawn over saltwater, all sparkle and slow-blooming joy. And yes, maybe she offers a bit of silent applause, lifting her brows in faux awe at his restraint, even if she does love those tiny, chaotic voices in his head.
When he pulls back in theatrical horror, she wrinkles her nose with dramatic innocence, shrugging with the most unconvincing who, me? expression she can muster. "I was only preserving the moment," she says, voice dripping with mockery and fondness both. "I mean, if all we ever have are non-squinty moments, how would we know they’re special, hmm?" Before he can offer a retort, she’s reaching out, fingers snatching the collar of that ridiculous frog shirt with all the power of a dagger-thrower turned fort-queen, dragging him back toward her with absolutely no effort concealed, and press her lips to his.
The kiss is not deep, not heated, but full of flourish, like sealing a pact or finishing a scene with the perfect final note. Her lips press to his in a kiss that’s laughter-soft and affection-sweet, one hand resting lightly against his chest, the other still tangled in fabric.
When he kisses her forehead—her favourite, always, always her favourite—she exhales against his sternum in a long, loving sigh, her lashes fluttering as she nuzzles in like it’s the safest place she’s ever known, before chuckling softly as he admits to fast trash duty, her voice muffled by his shirt. "You need a dragon," she murmurs. "Or maybe like...a weird winged toad that screams when monsters get too close." She pauses. "Spice is pretty good for that, actually. She screams at everything."
At the mention of sharks, Flora lifts her head, grinning down at him, eyes brightening as her curls tumble around them like sunlit seaweed. "Okay, as soon as it’s warm enough, we’re going swimming with manta crystals. They let you breathe underwater and if we take the bubble jet to the mer city, you’ll see loads of sharks." She beams. "Exposure therapy, right?"
She snorts softly, a crooked little smile tugging at her mouth as she lets her head settle once more across his chest. Her fingers drift lazily over his shirt, starbursting outward, chasing invisible wrinkles and smoothing each one down as she hums. "Oh, you know," she says lightly. "Just the usual stuff. Never being good enough, crippling fear of being abandoned...cellulite." Her nails trace lightly down his ribs. "Just the usual things."
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
