flora
"Mmm," Flora murmurs with a smile, her eyes slanting sidelong to catch his expression as they walk. "You always made an impression with me, one way or another." Her tone remains light, not quite flirtatious but undeniably fond, and she shrugs with a slow roll of her shoulders, curls brushing against her collarbone as she adds, "But Vai’s still better at twisting my dad’s arm than I am. Comes with the whole terrifying matriarch thing." The grin that follows is sharper, almost conspiratorial. "That said, I’ve probably racked up enough parental blunders to cash in a few favours of my own. Remi might not like it, but he owes me more than one miracle."
The words soften as her smile does, and though the sea continues humming around them, the shift in the air between them is unmistakable. "Enzo was still alive the last time we talked," she says quietly, her voice more steady than sad. "He died in the war." There’s no dramatics to the statement, no shattering grief dragging behind it—just a truth worn smooth from being carried too long. "Just like you."
She’s forgotten until now that Neron had mentioned a twin of his own all those years ago, the memory buried beneath layers of other conversations, other versions of herself. Her lips twitch faintly, not quite a smile, and she presses her shoulder gently against his. Her fingers tighten around his arm just enough for him to feel the weight of her understanding as she looks up at him. "No one else really knows what it’s like," she says, not as a question or a reach for comfort, but as something that simply is. "Losing a twin, I mean."
As Neron opens the door for her with an easy charm, Flora beams up at him as she slips inside, only to pause when the hostess holds up a single finger in that universal just a moment gesture. Turning slightly toward him, she arches one lazy brow, a wicked glint sparking in her gaze. "For all I remember of you," she purrs, her voice dropping to a velvet drawl, “"I doubt very much you need me to be gentle." The smirk that follows is quicksilver sharp, though softened by the sudden burst of laughter that escapes before she can contain it. "Mort’s realm really must’ve softened you up."
The hostess returns with a polished smile and a wave of her hand, guiding them toward a booth tucked into the back corner of the room. The high-top table is circled by a tall couchined booth and half-wrapped in a curve of pale wood that turns the little space into its own private alcove.
The words soften as her smile does, and though the sea continues humming around them, the shift in the air between them is unmistakable. "Enzo was still alive the last time we talked," she says quietly, her voice more steady than sad. "He died in the war." There’s no dramatics to the statement, no shattering grief dragging behind it—just a truth worn smooth from being carried too long. "Just like you."
She’s forgotten until now that Neron had mentioned a twin of his own all those years ago, the memory buried beneath layers of other conversations, other versions of herself. Her lips twitch faintly, not quite a smile, and she presses her shoulder gently against his. Her fingers tighten around his arm just enough for him to feel the weight of her understanding as she looks up at him. "No one else really knows what it’s like," she says, not as a question or a reach for comfort, but as something that simply is. "Losing a twin, I mean."
As Neron opens the door for her with an easy charm, Flora beams up at him as she slips inside, only to pause when the hostess holds up a single finger in that universal just a moment gesture. Turning slightly toward him, she arches one lazy brow, a wicked glint sparking in her gaze. "For all I remember of you," she purrs, her voice dropping to a velvet drawl, “"I doubt very much you need me to be gentle." The smirk that follows is quicksilver sharp, though softened by the sudden burst of laughter that escapes before she can contain it. "Mort’s realm really must’ve softened you up."
The hostess returns with a polished smile and a wave of her hand, guiding them toward a booth tucked into the back corner of the room. The high-top table is circled by a tall couchined booth and half-wrapped in a curve of pale wood that turns the little space into its own private alcove.
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
