flora
Her laugh spills out before she can temper it, bright and unbothered by the admission, as if the idea of imprisonment is just another wild plot twist in the novel of Neron Launceleyn’s life. Whatever sting the memory still holds for him, it doesn’t seem to cling in her presence, and she nudges him gently with her elbow, warmth blooming in her tone. "Well, for what it’s worth, you were part of the reason I took over Torchline’s bar after the war," she says, casting him a sidelong look as if daring him to be surprised. "You made being a bartender seem very cool."
She raises her brows at his next words, not quite following at first, her head tilting as if waiting for the meaning to unfurl properly. But then it hits—slow at first, and then all at once—and her red lips part around a soft little O of realisation, her eyes sweeping over him again with a different sort of awareness. "Oh, right," she breathes. "Because you were an Ascended."
Her gaze moves over him like a painter retracing familiar lines as if she might somehow see the spark of metal or the hint of a fang. Whatever she’s looking for, it doesn’t seem to matter as much as the way he speaks, the way that confession stirs something tender at the edges of her expression, though she doesn’t let it linger for long. Instead, her mouth curves again, this time into a slow smile laced with mischief as she lets out a quiet, adoring chuckle under her breath. "Don’t threaten me with a good time," she murmurs, voice low and teasing.
"My old bar’s under construction at the moment...But if it’s wine you’re after, I know the cutest little boutique bar just up the beach if you're okay with a short walk?"
She raises her brows at his next words, not quite following at first, her head tilting as if waiting for the meaning to unfurl properly. But then it hits—slow at first, and then all at once—and her red lips part around a soft little O of realisation, her eyes sweeping over him again with a different sort of awareness. "Oh, right," she breathes. "Because you were an Ascended."
Her gaze moves over him like a painter retracing familiar lines as if she might somehow see the spark of metal or the hint of a fang. Whatever she’s looking for, it doesn’t seem to matter as much as the way he speaks, the way that confession stirs something tender at the edges of her expression, though she doesn’t let it linger for long. Instead, her mouth curves again, this time into a slow smile laced with mischief as she lets out a quiet, adoring chuckle under her breath. "Don’t threaten me with a good time," she murmurs, voice low and teasing.
"My old bar’s under construction at the moment...But if it’s wine you’re after, I know the cutest little boutique bar just up the beach if you're okay with a short walk?"
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
