you can call me honey if you want
Flora raises an eyebrow, fixing him with a sharp, mock-hurt look that only deepens the mischief in her expression. "Ohhhh," she says slowly, voice pitched in dangerous sweetness, "so you’re only using me because you have to? Is that it?"
His laughter—loud, helpless, impossible not to join—undoes her in an instant. She’s grinning before she can help it, girlish and wicked, her protest already spilling out even as she fights through her own laughter. "Even if you are the meat," she argues between giggles, "you’re still saying I’m not enough to get you all on my own, which is—"
But the rest is lost in a delighted squeal as he grabs her. She yelps, startled and gleeful, as he hauls her in with that sudden strength she's come to expect from him, her robe fluffing out and then collapsing against him as she lands squarely against his chest. She immediately covers his hand where it rests against her, both of theirs disappearing into the plush fuzz like some scandalously cozy magic trick.
"Of course I have very strict ice cream standards," she huffs, chin tilted up with royal indignation as if she’s halfway to declaring it law. Tilting her head back to look up at him—spying him upside-down now, from where her pinned-up curls drape along his collarbone—Flora narrows her eyes. "If you’re the kind of person who can’t wait for ice cream to reach the right temperature and has to carve it with a fork," she accuses, voice thick with suspicion, "then maybe you are the kind of maniac to chew it too, if you're in that much of a rush."
His laughter—loud, helpless, impossible not to join—undoes her in an instant. She’s grinning before she can help it, girlish and wicked, her protest already spilling out even as she fights through her own laughter. "Even if you are the meat," she argues between giggles, "you’re still saying I’m not enough to get you all on my own, which is—"
But the rest is lost in a delighted squeal as he grabs her. She yelps, startled and gleeful, as he hauls her in with that sudden strength she's come to expect from him, her robe fluffing out and then collapsing against him as she lands squarely against his chest. She immediately covers his hand where it rests against her, both of theirs disappearing into the plush fuzz like some scandalously cozy magic trick.
"Of course I have very strict ice cream standards," she huffs, chin tilted up with royal indignation as if she’s halfway to declaring it law. Tilting her head back to look up at him—spying him upside-down now, from where her pinned-up curls drape along his collarbone—Flora narrows her eyes. "If you’re the kind of person who can’t wait for ice cream to reach the right temperature and has to carve it with a fork," she accuses, voice thick with suspicion, "then maybe you are the kind of maniac to chew it too, if you're in that much of a rush."
