you can call me honey if you want
"Mmm?" Flora murmurs over her shoulder, feigning distraction even as the corners of her mouth lift in a smile. Her voice is steam-thickened and teasing, like sugar melting on a sun-warmed spoon. "I thought you'd be preparing for my next treatment," she muses aloud, twisting slightly to catch him in her periphery. The moment her eyes land on his form—bare, glistening just faintly with the heat of the room—her teeth find her lower lip, a lazy scrape of appreciation drawn across it as her gaze slides up the length of him, slow and thorough. "Unless," she adds, a sly spark lighting in the aquamarine of her eyes, "you are my next treatment."
The sigh that escapes her when he nears is soft but unmissable, drawn out with arousal and anticipation both. Steam clings to the space between them, but the warmth that races through her is entirely his. A shiver dances up her spine as his breath grazes the nape of her neck, delicate and claiming in the same breath. "You should’ve seen how helpful the house was while you were off in Stormbreak," she says with exaggerated innocence, though the glint in her eyes as she looks back at him is anything but. "I was very thoroughly looked after."
His fingers move gently through her hair, undoing the loose knot as if unwrapping a gift, and though the thick paste of mud mixing with her curls isn’t the most pleasant texture, everything is transformed by the press of his body behind her. Each graze of his skin makes her pulse thrum harder, grounding her in the delicious, unhurried intimacy of the moment.
With a hum that’s more wicked than sweet, Flora twists purposefully in his arms, pressing back into him with intent. Mud smears across his chest in soft, gritty trails as her back meets him, and she doesn’t stop there; her arms loop around his neck, pulling her fully against him, her breasts slipping silkily against his bare skin, streaked in water and earthen clay. She stands on her toes, the angle lifting her body to meet his in full, steam curling around them like something summoned.
Their hair—so often the first thing to protest water—has already begun its unruly transformation. Her golden curls are sticking and frizzing and drooping all at once, flattening around her cheeks as if trying to kiss her skin. And Kaisel, gods, he’s the most handsome thing she’s ever seen, every inch of him glowing beneath the haze, the amber of his eyes shining like light through honey.
She looks at him and feels it crest so suddenly in her chest that she could drown in it. Joy. Not the fleeting kind. Not the borrowed or built kind. But the unfiltered, full-to-bursting joy that comes when you realise your heart has never been this full before, and it’s all because of him. The way he listens. The way he laughs. The way he cares about her like it’s as natural as breathing, without condition, without demand. The way his presence doesn’t just complement hers, it magnifies it, like he’s the exclamation point punctuating every beautiful thing that might’ve once felt ordinary. Not just because he’s playful or sharp or infuriatingly hot. But because he’s Kaisel. And there is no one else in the world who makes life feel as rich, as real, as right.
While it isn’t quite rain, this shower overhead—its lazy drizzle is nothing like the storms she usually dreams of kissing him in—she doesn’t care. There’s water and warmth and him, and that’s enough. Still on her toes, pressed to him like a prayer, she tips her chin up, gaze soft and molten and glowing. Her voice is barely a breath when she says, "kiss me."
The sigh that escapes her when he nears is soft but unmissable, drawn out with arousal and anticipation both. Steam clings to the space between them, but the warmth that races through her is entirely his. A shiver dances up her spine as his breath grazes the nape of her neck, delicate and claiming in the same breath. "You should’ve seen how helpful the house was while you were off in Stormbreak," she says with exaggerated innocence, though the glint in her eyes as she looks back at him is anything but. "I was very thoroughly looked after."
His fingers move gently through her hair, undoing the loose knot as if unwrapping a gift, and though the thick paste of mud mixing with her curls isn’t the most pleasant texture, everything is transformed by the press of his body behind her. Each graze of his skin makes her pulse thrum harder, grounding her in the delicious, unhurried intimacy of the moment.
With a hum that’s more wicked than sweet, Flora twists purposefully in his arms, pressing back into him with intent. Mud smears across his chest in soft, gritty trails as her back meets him, and she doesn’t stop there; her arms loop around his neck, pulling her fully against him, her breasts slipping silkily against his bare skin, streaked in water and earthen clay. She stands on her toes, the angle lifting her body to meet his in full, steam curling around them like something summoned.
Their hair—so often the first thing to protest water—has already begun its unruly transformation. Her golden curls are sticking and frizzing and drooping all at once, flattening around her cheeks as if trying to kiss her skin. And Kaisel, gods, he’s the most handsome thing she’s ever seen, every inch of him glowing beneath the haze, the amber of his eyes shining like light through honey.
She looks at him and feels it crest so suddenly in her chest that she could drown in it. Joy. Not the fleeting kind. Not the borrowed or built kind. But the unfiltered, full-to-bursting joy that comes when you realise your heart has never been this full before, and it’s all because of him. The way he listens. The way he laughs. The way he cares about her like it’s as natural as breathing, without condition, without demand. The way his presence doesn’t just complement hers, it magnifies it, like he’s the exclamation point punctuating every beautiful thing that might’ve once felt ordinary. Not just because he’s playful or sharp or infuriatingly hot. But because he’s Kaisel. And there is no one else in the world who makes life feel as rich, as real, as right.
While it isn’t quite rain, this shower overhead—its lazy drizzle is nothing like the storms she usually dreams of kissing him in—she doesn’t care. There’s water and warmth and him, and that’s enough. Still on her toes, pressed to him like a prayer, she tips her chin up, gaze soft and molten and glowing. Her voice is barely a breath when she says, "kiss me."
