flora
Flora’s laugh rings bright as cut crystal at the mental image: some absurd winged toad swooping down just as Kaisel lifts a gummy worm to his mouth, snatching it away with zero remorse. "Okay, but that could be sort of hilarious," she snorts.
But as his voice shifts, softens, her laughter fades into something quieter, curious, listening. Her brows rise when he says he’ll get a dragon, her gaze sliding slowly upward without lifting her head fully. "Oh yeah?" she murmurs, and though it’s teasing on the surface, there’s a glint in her sea-glass eyes like she believes him. At the mention of Spice, though, Flora chuckles low in her throat and immediately nods. "Absolutely. She’s possessive as hell. She screams if I ask for ice cubes from anyone but her." The look she gives him is lopsided and loving, almost shy beneath the boldness of her grin. "You won her over too hard." Her voice trails off, but the way her eyes linger on him, the softness blooming in her expression, suggests he's very much won her over too.
When he groans dramatically and turns away, she huffs, curls bouncing as she nudges her face against his shoulder. "Nah, you won't have to worry," she drawls. "Sharks only eat people with lots of muscle." Her grin flashes, wicked and utterly unrepentant. But when he mentions the whales again—the plan, the trip they’ve talked about and delayed and promised and shelved—her expression gentles. She leans in and presses her nose to his jaw, her voice quieter but sure. "We should go," she says. "This season. No more putting it off."
Back against his chest again, her fingers dance absently over the fabric of his shirt, tracing the muscles and soft edges beneath, the heartbeat she’s come to crave. But his question stills her completely for just a breath. Then, slowly, her fingers move again. "It’s always whatever I’ve done," she murmurs, voice low and dry and cuttingly casual, "plus, like...twenty percent more." The truth of it settles in her like saltwater through a cracked hull; familiar, stinging, relentless. She’s died trying to do the right thing. Brought people back from the dead. Given everything. Bled in the dirt, carved plans into the skin of the future with her own hands, and still it was never enough. There’s always someone who says she did it wrong. That she missed a step. That the thread she wove should’ve been longer, stronger, the net cast wider, the fire hotter. She could’ve said more. Waited longer. Asked the right question. Been less selfish. Less loud. Less her. And no matter how much she gives—no matter how many pieces she breaks off and hands over—there’s always someone walking away with their back to her, muttering that it wasn't enough.
But then—she’s yanked upward with a squeak, dragged abruptly into a sitting position as Kaisel launches them both like the star overhead was a signal flare instead of a sticker slipping loose. Her hair fluffs out in every direction as the blanket above them shifts, casting shadows that ripple across the folds of their fort. But she doesn’t look up as Kaisel mentions making a wish, not at the star, not at the ceiling; she looks at him.
Kaisel, sitting there in the hush of their blanket universe, bathed in the sea-glow of pretend constellations. The light filters over him like it’s been waiting for this moment—like even pretend stars know he was meant to be admired. His copper eyes catch the green like moss kissed with moonlight, and even now, as he stares upward with all the urgency of someone who believes wishes might still work, there’s that crooked smile tugging at his mouth. That softness.
He’s all sharp lines and warmth, shoulders broad beneath the ridiculous frog shirt, hair tousled from her fingers, lashes casting delicate shadows over cheekbones that really should be illegal. He’s handsome in a way he doesn’t bother to notice, and that makes it worse somehow. Or better, maybe, Flora hasn’t decided.
And gods, the way he moves through the world. Like chaos and comfort braided into one breath. One moment he’s kissing her forehead and holding her like something precious; the next he’s yelling about falling stars like a kid on a sugar high. He drags her into joy without asking. Builds galaxies out of furniture and flings pillows like war. She’s never known someone who could make her laugh and feel safe in the same heartbeat.
So when he tells her to make a wish, she just stares at him, because there he is—hair glowing faintly green, eyes bright with hope, mouth still half-open from whatever spell he’s just cast over her—and how could she wish for anything else? So she just smiles up at him, slow and secret, as if the stars might get jealous if they saw her loving him this much.
But as his voice shifts, softens, her laughter fades into something quieter, curious, listening. Her brows rise when he says he’ll get a dragon, her gaze sliding slowly upward without lifting her head fully. "Oh yeah?" she murmurs, and though it’s teasing on the surface, there’s a glint in her sea-glass eyes like she believes him. At the mention of Spice, though, Flora chuckles low in her throat and immediately nods. "Absolutely. She’s possessive as hell. She screams if I ask for ice cubes from anyone but her." The look she gives him is lopsided and loving, almost shy beneath the boldness of her grin. "You won her over too hard." Her voice trails off, but the way her eyes linger on him, the softness blooming in her expression, suggests he's very much won her over too.
When he groans dramatically and turns away, she huffs, curls bouncing as she nudges her face against his shoulder. "Nah, you won't have to worry," she drawls. "Sharks only eat people with lots of muscle." Her grin flashes, wicked and utterly unrepentant. But when he mentions the whales again—the plan, the trip they’ve talked about and delayed and promised and shelved—her expression gentles. She leans in and presses her nose to his jaw, her voice quieter but sure. "We should go," she says. "This season. No more putting it off."
Back against his chest again, her fingers dance absently over the fabric of his shirt, tracing the muscles and soft edges beneath, the heartbeat she’s come to crave. But his question stills her completely for just a breath. Then, slowly, her fingers move again. "It’s always whatever I’ve done," she murmurs, voice low and dry and cuttingly casual, "plus, like...twenty percent more." The truth of it settles in her like saltwater through a cracked hull; familiar, stinging, relentless. She’s died trying to do the right thing. Brought people back from the dead. Given everything. Bled in the dirt, carved plans into the skin of the future with her own hands, and still it was never enough. There’s always someone who says she did it wrong. That she missed a step. That the thread she wove should’ve been longer, stronger, the net cast wider, the fire hotter. She could’ve said more. Waited longer. Asked the right question. Been less selfish. Less loud. Less her. And no matter how much she gives—no matter how many pieces she breaks off and hands over—there’s always someone walking away with their back to her, muttering that it wasn't enough.
But then—she’s yanked upward with a squeak, dragged abruptly into a sitting position as Kaisel launches them both like the star overhead was a signal flare instead of a sticker slipping loose. Her hair fluffs out in every direction as the blanket above them shifts, casting shadows that ripple across the folds of their fort. But she doesn’t look up as Kaisel mentions making a wish, not at the star, not at the ceiling; she looks at him.
Kaisel, sitting there in the hush of their blanket universe, bathed in the sea-glow of pretend constellations. The light filters over him like it’s been waiting for this moment—like even pretend stars know he was meant to be admired. His copper eyes catch the green like moss kissed with moonlight, and even now, as he stares upward with all the urgency of someone who believes wishes might still work, there’s that crooked smile tugging at his mouth. That softness.
He’s all sharp lines and warmth, shoulders broad beneath the ridiculous frog shirt, hair tousled from her fingers, lashes casting delicate shadows over cheekbones that really should be illegal. He’s handsome in a way he doesn’t bother to notice, and that makes it worse somehow. Or better, maybe, Flora hasn’t decided.
And gods, the way he moves through the world. Like chaos and comfort braided into one breath. One moment he’s kissing her forehead and holding her like something precious; the next he’s yelling about falling stars like a kid on a sugar high. He drags her into joy without asking. Builds galaxies out of furniture and flings pillows like war. She’s never known someone who could make her laugh and feel safe in the same heartbeat.
So when he tells her to make a wish, she just stares at him, because there he is—hair glowing faintly green, eyes bright with hope, mouth still half-open from whatever spell he’s just cast over her—and how could she wish for anything else? So she just smiles up at him, slow and secret, as if the stars might get jealous if they saw her loving him this much.
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
