you can call me honey if you want
Her gaze sharpens with challenge as she turns her head to look at him, eyes narrowing in exaggerated righteousness. "One morning," she begins, lifting her chin with great drama, "I was out for a run—planning the next RQ for Torchline, being a leader—and a giant void sea panther literally rose up out of the sand and started attacking people on the beach." Her brows shoot up, arms wide like so there, and she gives him a look that practically demands an apology for doubting her obstacle-course-across-monsters scenario.
But then he says booby traps and she snaps her fingers like a diva confirming a feature she didn’t realise she’d always wanted. "Yes," she breathes with fervour, nodding emphatically, curls bouncing with each decisive tilt. "Absolutely. Mandatory. Fire traps. Spike pits. A cannon that asks policy questions and shoots you if you get them wrong."
Of course, it only takes seconds before they’re giggling again, that unstoppable loop of joy where breath becomes optional and everything is funny, and her laughter stutters into hiccups when he dares challenge her word choice. "Wombled is absolutely a word," she says through a squeal, turning her face away as if it might save her from laughing harder. "It’s a verb, adjective, and a lifestyle."
His own sudden outburst catches her mid-snort, and when he turns and buries his face into the towel, she gasps dramatically, swiping at a few stray droplets and mumbling, "That was retaliation during wartime, thank you very much. This was supposed to be a spa day." But she’s laughing again anyway, and barely finishes the sentence before his hand slaps her flaking clay-covered ass. "Rude!" she yelps, grinning too widely to carry any heat. "I'm docking your tips for that."
Pushing up from the table, she takes a moment to look down at herself, the dry, dusty coating across her golden skin turning her into a cracked sculpture. Striking a dramatic pose—one hand overhead, the other at her hip, chin tilted toward the heavens—she mimes tossing her curls with all the grandeur of a garden fountain, even though they're knotted on top of her head. "How do I look as a statue?" she asks, voice full of faux elegance.
With a pivot on her toe and a mischievous sway to her hips, she starts off down the hall toward one of the downstairs showers, her voice trailing back over her shoulder like a tease wrapped in silk. "Sure hope I can manage in the shower alone all right," she says, flirtation rich and sweet in her tone. Then, with a mock-sigh and a wicked little grin, she adds just loudly enough for him to hear, "Good thing all the spirits will be around to thoroughly help wash me off."
And she disappears down the hallway, hips wombling.
But then he says booby traps and she snaps her fingers like a diva confirming a feature she didn’t realise she’d always wanted. "Yes," she breathes with fervour, nodding emphatically, curls bouncing with each decisive tilt. "Absolutely. Mandatory. Fire traps. Spike pits. A cannon that asks policy questions and shoots you if you get them wrong."
Of course, it only takes seconds before they’re giggling again, that unstoppable loop of joy where breath becomes optional and everything is funny, and her laughter stutters into hiccups when he dares challenge her word choice. "Wombled is absolutely a word," she says through a squeal, turning her face away as if it might save her from laughing harder. "It’s a verb, adjective, and a lifestyle."
His own sudden outburst catches her mid-snort, and when he turns and buries his face into the towel, she gasps dramatically, swiping at a few stray droplets and mumbling, "That was retaliation during wartime, thank you very much. This was supposed to be a spa day." But she’s laughing again anyway, and barely finishes the sentence before his hand slaps her flaking clay-covered ass. "Rude!" she yelps, grinning too widely to carry any heat. "I'm docking your tips for that."
Pushing up from the table, she takes a moment to look down at herself, the dry, dusty coating across her golden skin turning her into a cracked sculpture. Striking a dramatic pose—one hand overhead, the other at her hip, chin tilted toward the heavens—she mimes tossing her curls with all the grandeur of a garden fountain, even though they're knotted on top of her head. "How do I look as a statue?" she asks, voice full of faux elegance.
With a pivot on her toe and a mischievous sway to her hips, she starts off down the hall toward one of the downstairs showers, her voice trailing back over her shoulder like a tease wrapped in silk. "Sure hope I can manage in the shower alone all right," she says, flirtation rich and sweet in her tone. Then, with a mock-sigh and a wicked little grin, she adds just loudly enough for him to hear, "Good thing all the spirits will be around to thoroughly help wash me off."
And she disappears down the hallway, hips wombling.
