you can call me honey if you want
Flora's hand flies to her chest in mock distress as Kaisel calls her ma’am, eyes wide with performative shame while her lips tremble around a gasp that is far too theatrical to be anything but teasing. "Oh no," she breathes, fluttering her lashes in overblown apology, "I’m so sorry. I had no idea I was endangering the integrity of the entire spa. I'll understand if my robe privileges need to be revoked as punishment." Each word drips with sweet irreverence, but the warmth behind them is real; the kind that pulses in her chest like honey-soft sunlight, stirred loose by the way he keeps making her feel so damn loved before she’s even had her first proper sip of coffee.
And then he looks at her like that.
There’s something boyish about the way his eyes lift to meet hers, caught not by cunning or design but by sheer, stunned affection, like he hadn’t expected to be seen so easily, or wanted so fully, and certainly not in the middle of stealing bacon. The morning light behind him brushes gold along the edge of his dark hair, framing his profile in a soft, gilded glow that makes his already unfairly handsome face look carved from myth. That expressive mouth, usually so full of teasing or sass, has curved into something gentler, something honest. The sharpness of his jaw and the warm slope of his cheekbones only accentuate the softness in his eyes, that quiet, stunned devotion that sneaks through when he’s caught off guard.
To Flora, he’s something too beautiful for this ordinary room. A boy with the sun behind him and the sea in his smile, who’s filled the whole house with breakfast and magic just because he wanted to. Not for show. Not to prove anything. Just because he loves her.
She hums softly against his mouth, her breath sweet with syrup and laughter as she murmurs, "Won’t happen again," in a tone that practically promises she’ll make it happen again the first chance she gets. But then he’s pulling back and slipping out of reach, vanishing through the door with a grin and a wave, leaving only the scent of food and that helpless tug in her chest in his wake. "Orangery!" she calls after him through her laugh, correcting his departure with a sing-song lilt that echoes just faintly off the stairwell walls.
She's quick to rejoin him, brushing her teeth with one hand then wrangling her curls into a knot. Spice, meanwhile, takes full advantage of her distraction to demolish what remains of the tray with tiny dragon delight and not a shred of remorse. By the time Flora pads down the stairs, the golden spill of sunlight through the orangery’s wide windows casts soft beams across her skin and clothes, making everything seem even more delicate than it already is. Her tank top clings in the way thin, white cotton does when it’s barely there, especially without the presence of a bra, and her sweatpants hang low and loose on her hips, all softness and suggestion. She doesn't care how undone she looks, not least of all because mud bath is apparently first on his list, but also because she never does around him. That’s the whole point. She’s not performing here. She’s home. He's home.
Striding into the warmth of the glass-walled room, her feet silent on the floor as light dapples across her skin. "Did I ever tell you that my mother used to run a spa in Halo?" Her gaze slides over to him, head tilted just so, sunlight catching in the little wisps of hair that have slipped free from her bun.
And then he looks at her like that.
There’s something boyish about the way his eyes lift to meet hers, caught not by cunning or design but by sheer, stunned affection, like he hadn’t expected to be seen so easily, or wanted so fully, and certainly not in the middle of stealing bacon. The morning light behind him brushes gold along the edge of his dark hair, framing his profile in a soft, gilded glow that makes his already unfairly handsome face look carved from myth. That expressive mouth, usually so full of teasing or sass, has curved into something gentler, something honest. The sharpness of his jaw and the warm slope of his cheekbones only accentuate the softness in his eyes, that quiet, stunned devotion that sneaks through when he’s caught off guard.
To Flora, he’s something too beautiful for this ordinary room. A boy with the sun behind him and the sea in his smile, who’s filled the whole house with breakfast and magic just because he wanted to. Not for show. Not to prove anything. Just because he loves her.
She hums softly against his mouth, her breath sweet with syrup and laughter as she murmurs, "Won’t happen again," in a tone that practically promises she’ll make it happen again the first chance she gets. But then he’s pulling back and slipping out of reach, vanishing through the door with a grin and a wave, leaving only the scent of food and that helpless tug in her chest in his wake. "Orangery!" she calls after him through her laugh, correcting his departure with a sing-song lilt that echoes just faintly off the stairwell walls.
She's quick to rejoin him, brushing her teeth with one hand then wrangling her curls into a knot. Spice, meanwhile, takes full advantage of her distraction to demolish what remains of the tray with tiny dragon delight and not a shred of remorse. By the time Flora pads down the stairs, the golden spill of sunlight through the orangery’s wide windows casts soft beams across her skin and clothes, making everything seem even more delicate than it already is. Her tank top clings in the way thin, white cotton does when it’s barely there, especially without the presence of a bra, and her sweatpants hang low and loose on her hips, all softness and suggestion. She doesn't care how undone she looks, not least of all because mud bath is apparently first on his list, but also because she never does around him. That’s the whole point. She’s not performing here. She’s home. He's home.
Striding into the warmth of the glass-walled room, her feet silent on the floor as light dapples across her skin. "Did I ever tell you that my mother used to run a spa in Halo?" Her gaze slides over to him, head tilted just so, sunlight catching in the little wisps of hair that have slipped free from her bun.
