you can call me honey if you want
The bed creaks faintly as Kaisel leaves, and though Flora doesn’t wake, some part of her stirs enough to sense the loss of warmth. Still tangled in sleep, her fingers grope blindly toward the now-empty space he’s left behind, a quiet, instinctive protest of the morning’s betrayal. Her face burrows deeper into the pillows, cheek squished and mouth parted with the faintest huff, utterly unaware of the dragon and boy tiptoeing out toward the kitchen.
She doesn’t rouse until the scent of butter and bacon ghosts across her nose, accompanied by the hush of light shifting through the curtains and the soft rhythm of Kaisel’s return. Her body moves before her mind catches up, limbs stretching and curling as she sits up groggily, lashes fluttering. A smear of drool clings to the corner of her mouth, and she swipes at it with the back of one hand, blinking in confusion as her aqua eyes narrow against the brightness of day. The sound that escapes her throat isn’t quite a word, more a croaked little question of whuh? as she squints at the tray Kaisel sets before her.
Spice hops up beside her, eyes locked on the bacon like it's a pearl clutched in the jaws of a treasure chest, and Flora’s own gaze follows the shimmering yolk of the egg-smile that waits for her on the plate. The whole scene—him, the tray, the mimosa, the tenderness of a morning curated for her—cracks her open so quickly and quietly that she barely notices the way joy spills through her chest like sun over tidepools. It’s not grand or dramatic. It’s soft and slow and utterly stunning; the realisation that someone has done this just because he wanted to, not to mention that no one has ever brought her breakfast in bed before. No one has ever cared enough to plan, to soften the morning, to make waking up feel like being loved. And Kaisel does it without fanfare or flourish, just socks on tile and pancakes shockingly not burned.
She beams at him, eyes now awake and bright and full of something so wide and shining it could drown her if she let it, one brow arching as her fingers swipe the bacon off the plate before Spice can get any ideas about claiming it for herself. With all the ceremony of a queen delivering judgement, she stabs the yolk-eye until it runs in golden rivulets across the white, then lifts the toast like a blade to catch it before it bleeds too far. "I thought the only thing on my to-do list today was you," she murmurs around a bite, voice still husky with sleep and satisfaction. "And I definitely don’t remember making any spa plans."
She doesn’t rouse until the scent of butter and bacon ghosts across her nose, accompanied by the hush of light shifting through the curtains and the soft rhythm of Kaisel’s return. Her body moves before her mind catches up, limbs stretching and curling as she sits up groggily, lashes fluttering. A smear of drool clings to the corner of her mouth, and she swipes at it with the back of one hand, blinking in confusion as her aqua eyes narrow against the brightness of day. The sound that escapes her throat isn’t quite a word, more a croaked little question of whuh? as she squints at the tray Kaisel sets before her.
Spice hops up beside her, eyes locked on the bacon like it's a pearl clutched in the jaws of a treasure chest, and Flora’s own gaze follows the shimmering yolk of the egg-smile that waits for her on the plate. The whole scene—him, the tray, the mimosa, the tenderness of a morning curated for her—cracks her open so quickly and quietly that she barely notices the way joy spills through her chest like sun over tidepools. It’s not grand or dramatic. It’s soft and slow and utterly stunning; the realisation that someone has done this just because he wanted to, not to mention that no one has ever brought her breakfast in bed before. No one has ever cared enough to plan, to soften the morning, to make waking up feel like being loved. And Kaisel does it without fanfare or flourish, just socks on tile and pancakes shockingly not burned.
She beams at him, eyes now awake and bright and full of something so wide and shining it could drown her if she let it, one brow arching as her fingers swipe the bacon off the plate before Spice can get any ideas about claiming it for herself. With all the ceremony of a queen delivering judgement, she stabs the yolk-eye until it runs in golden rivulets across the white, then lifts the toast like a blade to catch it before it bleeds too far. "I thought the only thing on my to-do list today was you," she murmurs around a bite, voice still husky with sleep and satisfaction. "And I definitely don’t remember making any spa plans."
