flora
It takes Flora longer than it should to speak, if only because every part of her is far too content being tangled against him, surrounded by the warmth of his limbs and the echo of his words still reverberating sweetly through her chest. The pull of him is constant, magnetic in that slow-blooming way that never quite lets her go, and while she’s always known their chemistry had teeth, today it sinks in like silk; soft, inevitable, and utterly impossible to resist. Even so, some stubborn part of her manages to find enough breath to laugh, and she gives him a playful nudge with her shoulder, just sharp enough to be scolding, but still tucked in close as if she can’t quite bear the idea of parting from him yet.
"Babe, that was so four days ago," she murmurs, grinning like he’s said something scandalous and she fully intends to reward him for it later. "And yes, you were at your best between the sheets, and the counter, and the hallway, and definitely the shower," she adds, the words sliding between them like sun-warmed honey as her fingers begin to trace lazy, circling patterns over the muscles of his back. He’s tight, she notices, in the way that speaks of hauling lumber and swinging tools. "But this is now," she goes on, nose wrinkling affectionately, the glow in her smile impossible to contain. "And now I love you even more. I haven’t hit my limit on how much I love you."
Her voice drops gently at the end, not from shyness, but from the gravity of how true it feels. There’s no edge to the statement, no jest curled in the corner of her mouth to blunt the vulnerability, just quiet sincerity held between them like something sacred. She leans into his touch with all the easy devotion of someone who knows exactly where she belongs, her cheek resting in the cradle of his palm like it was carved just for her, and for a moment she simply breathes in the comfort of it.
The grin returns, quick and playful as a spark catching dry bark. "Cursed Ash could absolutely be a cocktail name," she muses, her fingers still exploring the landscape of his back, her voice threading amusement and approval together like golden twine. But her teasing dissolves as her gaze finds his again, and what rises in her expression this time is quieter, deeper; less about the thrill of revenge and more about the future they might still have the audacity to build. Her aqua eyes don’t flicker or falter, only steady with slow, endless intent as her thumb brushes lightly over the curve of his shoulder.
"I want everything with you," she whispers, not because the words need to be quiet, but because they’re too large to say any louder.
"Babe, that was so four days ago," she murmurs, grinning like he’s said something scandalous and she fully intends to reward him for it later. "And yes, you were at your best between the sheets, and the counter, and the hallway, and definitely the shower," she adds, the words sliding between them like sun-warmed honey as her fingers begin to trace lazy, circling patterns over the muscles of his back. He’s tight, she notices, in the way that speaks of hauling lumber and swinging tools. "But this is now," she goes on, nose wrinkling affectionately, the glow in her smile impossible to contain. "And now I love you even more. I haven’t hit my limit on how much I love you."
Her voice drops gently at the end, not from shyness, but from the gravity of how true it feels. There’s no edge to the statement, no jest curled in the corner of her mouth to blunt the vulnerability, just quiet sincerity held between them like something sacred. She leans into his touch with all the easy devotion of someone who knows exactly where she belongs, her cheek resting in the cradle of his palm like it was carved just for her, and for a moment she simply breathes in the comfort of it.
The grin returns, quick and playful as a spark catching dry bark. "Cursed Ash could absolutely be a cocktail name," she muses, her fingers still exploring the landscape of his back, her voice threading amusement and approval together like golden twine. But her teasing dissolves as her gaze finds his again, and what rises in her expression this time is quieter, deeper; less about the thrill of revenge and more about the future they might still have the audacity to build. Her aqua eyes don’t flicker or falter, only steady with slow, endless intent as her thumb brushes lightly over the curve of his shoulder.
"I want everything with you," she whispers, not because the words need to be quiet, but because they’re too large to say any louder.
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?
