you can call me honey if you want
"Oh yeah," Flora drawls, flashing him a scandalously sweet smirk before tipping her head into a feigned nod of solemn agreement. "It’s got nothing to do with you, obviously. It’s just the trauma of a strict Nonna." Her grin curls higher, eyes dancing with laughter, though her fingers drift lazily across his stomach as if tasting her words. "Sexy? Absolutely. Colour of cookie dough? Sure. But..."
She pinches, expectantly and frowns when no gooey prize is earned, then pops the tip of her finger into her mouth and sucks it thoughtfully. "...and yet you weirdly taste like my laundry soap." She hums, head cocked as if considering the science of it, but the glint in her eyes betrays her teasing.
The truth is, it’s not that far off. Not the soap, obviously, but the way childhood shapes the palette of love. If she’d had a different upbringing, if her father(s) hadn’t disappeared into bitterness and guilt and ghosts, maybe she wouldn’t have craved the danger that eventually led her to Jack. And without that whole cursed shipwreck of a chapter, maybe she’d never have recognised the bright, ridiculous, relentless joy that Kaisel brings. Maybe she wouldn’t have known how rare it is to feel this kind of safe and happy.
"Clearly," she sighs, circling back to his dramatic groan, "some deep part of your subconscious thinks I need help with you. I’m just trying to figure out what kind." Her eyes narrow, faux-serious. "And yes. I had an entire topping bar, and you didn’t even say I’d be delicious. Which, honestly? Feels like a hate crime." Like failing one of those ridiculous couples tests. Would you kiss someone else for ten million dollars? If we broke up, would you get back with your ex? If I had a twin sister, would you be attracted to her?
The back-and-forth swells, both of them caught in the spiral of escalating absurdity, and when Kaisel tosses out the cookie dough line again, Flora gasps in mock delight. "What can I say?" she purrs, ass flexing under his hand with a deliberate little wiggle. "I have a sweet tooth." Then, casually as a wave lapping at the shore, she reaches back to hook one playful finger in the waistband of his pants, like she’s fishing in shallow waters and fully expects to catch something slippery.
Kaisel's scandalised whisper earns a snort. "If you’re the meat," she says with a lifted brow and a wicked glint, "then Niki would probably be happiest as the knife." It’s said with all the layered implication of someone who knows exactly what team their friend plays for (and it definitely isn't hers). "I'm not sure you're his type, though."
At Kaisel's enthusiastic agreement, she beams, lips twitching in thought. "You’re right though. If we mix too many, it’ll just be brown. And not even a cookie-dough brown. More like...old mop water." She taps her chin. "So maybe blue and yellow? Gold and green? Or ooh—red and blue?"
She pinches, expectantly and frowns when no gooey prize is earned, then pops the tip of her finger into her mouth and sucks it thoughtfully. "...and yet you weirdly taste like my laundry soap." She hums, head cocked as if considering the science of it, but the glint in her eyes betrays her teasing.
The truth is, it’s not that far off. Not the soap, obviously, but the way childhood shapes the palette of love. If she’d had a different upbringing, if her father(s) hadn’t disappeared into bitterness and guilt and ghosts, maybe she wouldn’t have craved the danger that eventually led her to Jack. And without that whole cursed shipwreck of a chapter, maybe she’d never have recognised the bright, ridiculous, relentless joy that Kaisel brings. Maybe she wouldn’t have known how rare it is to feel this kind of safe and happy.
"Clearly," she sighs, circling back to his dramatic groan, "some deep part of your subconscious thinks I need help with you. I’m just trying to figure out what kind." Her eyes narrow, faux-serious. "And yes. I had an entire topping bar, and you didn’t even say I’d be delicious. Which, honestly? Feels like a hate crime." Like failing one of those ridiculous couples tests. Would you kiss someone else for ten million dollars? If we broke up, would you get back with your ex? If I had a twin sister, would you be attracted to her?
The back-and-forth swells, both of them caught in the spiral of escalating absurdity, and when Kaisel tosses out the cookie dough line again, Flora gasps in mock delight. "What can I say?" she purrs, ass flexing under his hand with a deliberate little wiggle. "I have a sweet tooth." Then, casually as a wave lapping at the shore, she reaches back to hook one playful finger in the waistband of his pants, like she’s fishing in shallow waters and fully expects to catch something slippery.
Kaisel's scandalised whisper earns a snort. "If you’re the meat," she says with a lifted brow and a wicked glint, "then Niki would probably be happiest as the knife." It’s said with all the layered implication of someone who knows exactly what team their friend plays for (and it definitely isn't hers). "I'm not sure you're his type, though."
At Kaisel's enthusiastic agreement, she beams, lips twitching in thought. "You’re right though. If we mix too many, it’ll just be brown. And not even a cookie-dough brown. More like...old mop water." She taps her chin. "So maybe blue and yellow? Gold and green? Or ooh—red and blue?"
