flora
Spice answers him with a chilly snorffle in the shell of his ear, something halfway between a disgruntled sigh and the sound of a snowstorm breaking against glass. Her tail loops around the back of his neck like an ice-breathing scarf, her tiny body tense and puffed, wings twitching at the tips as if she too has been holding herself together just enough for this moment.
Upstairs, Flora’s restraint has thinned to a trembling edge. She’d known there wouldn’t be anything practical left here—no cozy sweaters, no soft shorts or oversized hoodies—but somehow that hadn’t mattered until she’d opened the closet and come face-to-face with a sequin bikini, a hot pink robe made entirely of feathers, and three floor-length gowns that looked more like punishment than possibility given how she'd have to squeeze into them. These were all the kind of clothes meant for parties and pool decks and performances, not...y'know, a casual menty B.
So she stands frozen in the centre of it just in her shirt and underwear, her bra discarded on the floor and her jeans somewhere on the stairs, but none of it softens the tightness wound in her chest. Her toes curl into the floor. Her fingers twitch at her sides. The scream building in her throat isn't rage or grief or fury, it’s the kind that comes from being so tired and so alone in the decisions that keep wrecking her.
She turns slowly, then, almost like the movement costs something, to find Kaisel leaning in the doorway. Her gaze catches on the small, familiar things first: the slant of his mouth that never quite rests, always curling toward a smile or mischief; the way his hands cradle the wine glass like he’s afraid to grip it too tightly, like everything he touches deserves to be held gently. His hair’s a mess—fluffed up like he’s been running his fingers through it again—and his eyes, impossible and so easy to drown in, glow molten in the light, gold sunk deep into amber. He’s in sweatpants, which she shouldn’t find this attractive, and yet something about the knot at his waist, the way he leans one shoulder into the frame, all loose-limbed and unhurried, makes her want to dissolve against him. Because he doesn’t just look like home—he feels like it. Like she could crawl into his arms and hide there until the world stops spinning.
His comment about Hadama the delivery is so simple, so dry, so Kaisel, that it shatters something in her. A humourless laugh tears out before she can stop it; crooked and cracked, the kind of laugh that always comes just before the sob. Her chest lifts as she inhales, eyes burning, and her hand lifts to gesture helplessly at the closet. The ridiculous closet, clearly indicative of the ridiculous person who owned it. Her voice wavers, too close to the edge now to pretend she isn’t.
"..Can I wear one of your shirts?" she asks, soft and sad and overwhelmed.
Upstairs, Flora’s restraint has thinned to a trembling edge. She’d known there wouldn’t be anything practical left here—no cozy sweaters, no soft shorts or oversized hoodies—but somehow that hadn’t mattered until she’d opened the closet and come face-to-face with a sequin bikini, a hot pink robe made entirely of feathers, and three floor-length gowns that looked more like punishment than possibility given how she'd have to squeeze into them. These were all the kind of clothes meant for parties and pool decks and performances, not...y'know, a casual menty B.
So she stands frozen in the centre of it just in her shirt and underwear, her bra discarded on the floor and her jeans somewhere on the stairs, but none of it softens the tightness wound in her chest. Her toes curl into the floor. Her fingers twitch at her sides. The scream building in her throat isn't rage or grief or fury, it’s the kind that comes from being so tired and so alone in the decisions that keep wrecking her.
She turns slowly, then, almost like the movement costs something, to find Kaisel leaning in the doorway. Her gaze catches on the small, familiar things first: the slant of his mouth that never quite rests, always curling toward a smile or mischief; the way his hands cradle the wine glass like he’s afraid to grip it too tightly, like everything he touches deserves to be held gently. His hair’s a mess—fluffed up like he’s been running his fingers through it again—and his eyes, impossible and so easy to drown in, glow molten in the light, gold sunk deep into amber. He’s in sweatpants, which she shouldn’t find this attractive, and yet something about the knot at his waist, the way he leans one shoulder into the frame, all loose-limbed and unhurried, makes her want to dissolve against him. Because he doesn’t just look like home—he feels like it. Like she could crawl into his arms and hide there until the world stops spinning.
His comment about Hadama the delivery is so simple, so dry, so Kaisel, that it shatters something in her. A humourless laugh tears out before she can stop it; crooked and cracked, the kind of laugh that always comes just before the sob. Her chest lifts as she inhales, eyes burning, and her hand lifts to gesture helplessly at the closet. The ridiculous closet, clearly indicative of the ridiculous person who owned it. Her voice wavers, too close to the edge now to pretend she isn’t.
"..Can I wear one of your shirts?" she asks, soft and sad and overwhelmed.
lust's a liar, a short lived fire
it isn't what you and I are at all
it isn't what you and I are at all
