Flora
Flora smirks, the expression carving its way across her features like seafoam whipped up by a sharp gust; faintly crooked, faintly relieved, and all the more grateful for how Melita doesn’t try to play devil’s advocate for the devil himself. Gods knew Jack had enough of those already.
"Revenge?" she echoes, letting the word hang like salt on a margarita rim. A sigh spills out, softer than expected, and she doesn’t bother hiding the hesitation that flickers through her like light through a net. "If it weren’t for all the other bullshit to consider?" Her brows lift. "Absolutely." And she means it. She’d drag Caly through the sand and make a whole show of it. She’d let the entire port watch. She’d crown herself Queen of Petty and sell tickets, but..
"There’s a lot of feathers that’d get ruffled if I did," she mutters, giving her curls a slow twist around one finger. “"Political ones. Personal ones." A shrug. "So instead, I’m just pretending nothing happened. That way no one actually knows what they did." Her gaze cuts sideways, sly as the tide pulling out. "I figure if I build a new bar and act like I don’t give a fuck, it’ll piss Caly off more than anything else." Grinning now, sharp-edged and sweet, she bumps her hip lightly into Melita’s. "And yeah. I’ll definitely take you up on that."
Before more can be said, there’s a shift in the air—a shimmer, a weight, something brighter than sun alone—and Flora turns to find Frey already there, standing amidst the withered lavender like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to join the scene.
Golden skin haloed by seaweed and netting, Frey is beautiful in the way of storms and tidepools, wild and unbothered. Flora steps back, beaming openly now, warmth suffusing her features as she breathes in the newly risen scent curling from the revitalized blooms. It spills down the Sugartide’s side like a blessing—rich and violet, sweet and soft—and when she meets Frey’s gaze again, she nods deeply, taking in the weight of the words. "Thank youuuuuuuuuu," she purrs, watching as they dissolve into sea breeze, smile still lingering like sunlight on water.
Turning to Melita again, she gives a small shrug and a nod. "Go for it."
And when the Honeybee reaches out and boops her shoulder—just a touch, simple and direct—Flora freezes for a breath, and then smiles. Not the crooked, painted version she wears for crowds or strategy. Not the tight one she gives when she’s trying not to cry. A real one. "Yeah," she says quietly, but firmly, like the truth it is. "I actually really think I am."
"Revenge?" she echoes, letting the word hang like salt on a margarita rim. A sigh spills out, softer than expected, and she doesn’t bother hiding the hesitation that flickers through her like light through a net. "If it weren’t for all the other bullshit to consider?" Her brows lift. "Absolutely." And she means it. She’d drag Caly through the sand and make a whole show of it. She’d let the entire port watch. She’d crown herself Queen of Petty and sell tickets, but..
"There’s a lot of feathers that’d get ruffled if I did," she mutters, giving her curls a slow twist around one finger. “"Political ones. Personal ones." A shrug. "So instead, I’m just pretending nothing happened. That way no one actually knows what they did." Her gaze cuts sideways, sly as the tide pulling out. "I figure if I build a new bar and act like I don’t give a fuck, it’ll piss Caly off more than anything else." Grinning now, sharp-edged and sweet, she bumps her hip lightly into Melita’s. "And yeah. I’ll definitely take you up on that."
Before more can be said, there’s a shift in the air—a shimmer, a weight, something brighter than sun alone—and Flora turns to find Frey already there, standing amidst the withered lavender like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to join the scene.
Golden skin haloed by seaweed and netting, Frey is beautiful in the way of storms and tidepools, wild and unbothered. Flora steps back, beaming openly now, warmth suffusing her features as she breathes in the newly risen scent curling from the revitalized blooms. It spills down the Sugartide’s side like a blessing—rich and violet, sweet and soft—and when she meets Frey’s gaze again, she nods deeply, taking in the weight of the words. "Thank youuuuuuuuuu," she purrs, watching as they dissolve into sea breeze, smile still lingering like sunlight on water.
Turning to Melita again, she gives a small shrug and a nod. "Go for it."
And when the Honeybee reaches out and boops her shoulder—just a touch, simple and direct—Flora freezes for a breath, and then smiles. Not the crooked, painted version she wears for crowds or strategy. Not the tight one she gives when she’s trying not to cry. A real one. "Yeah," she says quietly, but firmly, like the truth it is. "I actually really think I am."
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
