flora
For someone who’s grown up surrounded by gods and ghosts, who has watched people die and come back, it still somehow takes Flora a moment to properly parse the world Neron describes. The formality of it. The weight. The rules.
She opens her mouth to speak, closes it again, then blinks at him with a furrow in her brow that’s more curious than critical. "Wait. Were you married?" she asks, voice lifting with a touch of disbelief, as if trying to picture it and finding the image refusing to fit. Then, more urgently, her expression sharpening with a flicker of true concern beneath the humour, "Did you have children?" The thought alone sends her reeling in a way she didn’t expect, though she tucks it neatly beneath a laugh a second later, leaning back in her seat as if putting emotional distance between herself and the possibility.
"Alright, dramatic chains it is," she says with a delighted grin, recovering her usual rhythm. "Maybe I’ll even make it so you show up in mirrors too. That way you could haunt people by watching their whole lives like one long, badly edited TV show." Her eyes sparkle as the idea builds, ridiculous and oddly perfect, and she lifts her glass just slightly in toast to it. "You’d be the most stylish poltergeist Caido’s ever had, and then maybe you wouldn't be so bored."
She catches the way his eyes settle on her, and though it isn’t the first time someone’s looked at her like that, the warmth in his gaze makes her blush anyway. It’s subtle—just a faint colouring beneath her cheeks—but it’s enough to make her laugh softly under her breath as she straightens slightly, the change in posture doing little to chase the heat that lingers along her skin.
Their server arrives, the scent of warm bread, cheese, and cured meat curling into the air, and Flora hums her thanks as the plates are placed gently between them. She’s still thinking about his earlier comment as she reaches for her wine, her fingers resting lightly against the stem. "I didn’t even notice what I was wearing," she says with a shrug, her voice gentler now. "The time I died. I was too focused on getting back out again to pay attention."
Her smile returns at the sound of his laughter, softer now but no less sincere, and she picks up her glass with an almost matching laugh of her own. Nudging her shoulder lightly against his, her grin curves as she murmurs, "I’m sure it tastes even better than it smells," before raising the glass to her lips and letting the first sip melt across her tongue.
She opens her mouth to speak, closes it again, then blinks at him with a furrow in her brow that’s more curious than critical. "Wait. Were you married?" she asks, voice lifting with a touch of disbelief, as if trying to picture it and finding the image refusing to fit. Then, more urgently, her expression sharpening with a flicker of true concern beneath the humour, "Did you have children?" The thought alone sends her reeling in a way she didn’t expect, though she tucks it neatly beneath a laugh a second later, leaning back in her seat as if putting emotional distance between herself and the possibility.
"Alright, dramatic chains it is," she says with a delighted grin, recovering her usual rhythm. "Maybe I’ll even make it so you show up in mirrors too. That way you could haunt people by watching their whole lives like one long, badly edited TV show." Her eyes sparkle as the idea builds, ridiculous and oddly perfect, and she lifts her glass just slightly in toast to it. "You’d be the most stylish poltergeist Caido’s ever had, and then maybe you wouldn't be so bored."
She catches the way his eyes settle on her, and though it isn’t the first time someone’s looked at her like that, the warmth in his gaze makes her blush anyway. It’s subtle—just a faint colouring beneath her cheeks—but it’s enough to make her laugh softly under her breath as she straightens slightly, the change in posture doing little to chase the heat that lingers along her skin.
Their server arrives, the scent of warm bread, cheese, and cured meat curling into the air, and Flora hums her thanks as the plates are placed gently between them. She’s still thinking about his earlier comment as she reaches for her wine, her fingers resting lightly against the stem. "I didn’t even notice what I was wearing," she says with a shrug, her voice gentler now. "The time I died. I was too focused on getting back out again to pay attention."
Her smile returns at the sound of his laughter, softer now but no less sincere, and she picks up her glass with an almost matching laugh of her own. Nudging her shoulder lightly against his, her grin curves as she murmurs, "I’m sure it tastes even better than it smells," before raising the glass to her lips and letting the first sip melt across her tongue.
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
