you can call me honey if you want
Flora’s laughter spills out before she can swallow it down, melodic and dramatically scandalised as she clutches the toast in one hand and lifts her brows in wide-eyed mockery. "Wait—wait. Are you telling me this whole thing is a scam to get me to give you a massage?" Her voice curls around the accusation like it’s silk-wrapped mischief, too amused to be anything but teasing. Still grinning, she scrubs the heel of her hand across her eye, chasing away the last of the sleepiness as his gesture towards the hall draws her gaze. The sunlight catches on the edge of a moving shadow, a pot in the distance clanging like the muted blare of a trumpet in a velvet-draped orchestra pit, and she tilts her head, lips quirking thoughtfully. "You must have left the spirits something real good last night," she murmurs, impressed.
As he flops near the foot of the bed, she adjusts her posture with a lazy stretch, curling more upright and letting the blanket fall to her waist. The toast is traded for her coffee as easily as if the tray had always been meant for swapping treasures, and she nurses the cup with both hands while he lays out the plan like it’s an itinerary for heaven. Her eyes stay on him the whole time, soft and full of an adoring sort of delight that makes the world shrink to just this room, just this morning, just him. There’s something so disarmingly young about the way it all hits her, like the version of love she once dreamed of but never really thought she'd wake up to. Her heart doesn’t flutter—it sings.
"Oh my gods, it all sounds amazing," she moans with theatrical pleasure, setting her coffee down only to clap her hands together beneath her chin in overjoyed approval. "Except I cannot wait to see what your plan is for the pedicure, given how ticklish your feet are." She bats her lashes with mock innocence, then rolls her eyes and nods solemnly at the mention of the fifty-page waiver, as if that part had been entirely expected. "But babe, the real issue here," she says, voice dipping into deadpan territory as she jabs her fork lightly in his direction, "is whether you expect me to eat all this food and then take my clothes off, and if you seriously think I’m supposed to drink coffee and orange juice and then brush my teeth without dying."
As he flops near the foot of the bed, she adjusts her posture with a lazy stretch, curling more upright and letting the blanket fall to her waist. The toast is traded for her coffee as easily as if the tray had always been meant for swapping treasures, and she nurses the cup with both hands while he lays out the plan like it’s an itinerary for heaven. Her eyes stay on him the whole time, soft and full of an adoring sort of delight that makes the world shrink to just this room, just this morning, just him. There’s something so disarmingly young about the way it all hits her, like the version of love she once dreamed of but never really thought she'd wake up to. Her heart doesn’t flutter—it sings.
"Oh my gods, it all sounds amazing," she moans with theatrical pleasure, setting her coffee down only to clap her hands together beneath her chin in overjoyed approval. "Except I cannot wait to see what your plan is for the pedicure, given how ticklish your feet are." She bats her lashes with mock innocence, then rolls her eyes and nods solemnly at the mention of the fifty-page waiver, as if that part had been entirely expected. "But babe, the real issue here," she says, voice dipping into deadpan territory as she jabs her fork lightly in his direction, "is whether you expect me to eat all this food and then take my clothes off, and if you seriously think I’m supposed to drink coffee and orange juice and then brush my teeth without dying."
