you can call me honey if you want
Flora's lips press into a flat line, chin tipping just slightly as she shoots Kaisel a look. Not the dangerous one—though that’s always in her back pocket—but the you tried to bait me and I almost fell for it kind of look. The one that twitches at the corner with amusement, no matter how theatrically annoyed her eyes try to be. "Mmhm," she says dryly of turning him into driftwood, brushing her fingers through his hair again, "then you’d better hold onto something. Tides don’t wait."
But the smile softens as he tucks himself closer, all languid limbs and those molten eyes slipping shut beneath her hand. She breathes it in, lets the moment lap at her like a lazy wave, half-melted against the seaweed and paste. His question floats up like driftwood on calm water and she considers it with more honesty than she’d meant to. "I didn’t do it on purpose," she murmurs. "I just liked the colours, but...yeah I guess it is kinda like the Greatwood and Torchline."
As Kaisel shifts, Flora has to bite at the inside of her lip to keep her smile from running away with her. Whether he's collapsing in her kitchenette on the Sugartide down onto the couch or folding himself down beside her now, a little too long for the angle but too perfectly him for it to matter, he seems to fit no matter where he is. He sinks into places like sunlight through curtains, easy and warm and grounding. She watches him through her lashes as her fingers slip idly through his hair, and the thought curls around her chest like smoke: she is so happy. Just...happy. And she can’t believe how much it sneaks up on her, how simple it all feels now that they’ve stopped pretending that this is something they can't have.
So when he says her colours are nicer, she just shakes her head, barely more than a tilt. She doesn’t believe that for a second, not with the way he’s sprawled here glowing like golden hour itself, and not with the way his hand finds her elbow and her skin and makes her want to climb right off the table just to be closer.
At the mention of purple, she grins slow and sharp, eyes narrowing like he’s just handed her a birthday gift with the bow already halfway untied. "I like purple too," she says, fingers still tangled in his hair. "We could always do more than one painting." Her gaze slides lazily around the Wildering House, the expanses of floors and windows and walls that feel more like a playground than a gallery. "Mine can be Twister with aqua and gold." Her lashes flick back to him, brows lifted now, the grin creeping wider. "And yours can be blue and red to make purple, and we can play..." Her voice dips, teasing, affectionate, "gummy-worm snakes and ladders."
But the smile softens as he tucks himself closer, all languid limbs and those molten eyes slipping shut beneath her hand. She breathes it in, lets the moment lap at her like a lazy wave, half-melted against the seaweed and paste. His question floats up like driftwood on calm water and she considers it with more honesty than she’d meant to. "I didn’t do it on purpose," she murmurs. "I just liked the colours, but...yeah I guess it is kinda like the Greatwood and Torchline."
As Kaisel shifts, Flora has to bite at the inside of her lip to keep her smile from running away with her. Whether he's collapsing in her kitchenette on the Sugartide down onto the couch or folding himself down beside her now, a little too long for the angle but too perfectly him for it to matter, he seems to fit no matter where he is. He sinks into places like sunlight through curtains, easy and warm and grounding. She watches him through her lashes as her fingers slip idly through his hair, and the thought curls around her chest like smoke: she is so happy. Just...happy. And she can’t believe how much it sneaks up on her, how simple it all feels now that they’ve stopped pretending that this is something they can't have.
So when he says her colours are nicer, she just shakes her head, barely more than a tilt. She doesn’t believe that for a second, not with the way he’s sprawled here glowing like golden hour itself, and not with the way his hand finds her elbow and her skin and makes her want to climb right off the table just to be closer.
At the mention of purple, she grins slow and sharp, eyes narrowing like he’s just handed her a birthday gift with the bow already halfway untied. "I like purple too," she says, fingers still tangled in his hair. "We could always do more than one painting." Her gaze slides lazily around the Wildering House, the expanses of floors and windows and walls that feel more like a playground than a gallery. "Mine can be Twister with aqua and gold." Her lashes flick back to him, brows lifted now, the grin creeping wider. "And yours can be blue and red to make purple, and we can play..." Her voice dips, teasing, affectionate, "gummy-worm snakes and ladders."
