flora
Flora tries to temper the smirk pulling at her lips by biting gently at the inside of her cheek, but the effort’s half-hearted at best, and the amusement still glows brightly in her eyes. Lifting her glass, she takes another slow sip; not because she needs to pace herself the way Neron might, but simply because the wine is lovely, and she sees no reason to rush.
The moment he speaks of a bar balanced between realms, her grin blooms wider, mischief curling through her like sunlight through warm water. She’s already layering another cracker with goat cheese and carefully wrapping it in a paper-thin slice of salami as she tilts her head toward him. "That sounds like an incredible idea," she says, pausing only to admire the balance of her creation before popping it into her mouth. "A cozy little purgatory with candlelight and impeccable wine. Very exclusive."
She swallows, then rolls her eyes with a huff that carries more affection than frustration. "If my dad weren’t such a bore, he could probably arrange it." Her tone is dry, but not unkind, softened by the smile she casts toward her wineglass. "Still," she adds, glancing back at him, "we’ve both run bars, and regions. Surely we can handle one little pocket between worlds?"
At his fuck, the laugh that bursts from her is quick and delighted, her shoulders lifting in an almost helpless shrug as she watches him revel in the simple pleasure of taste like it’s sacred. She doesn’t rush to speak, just leans back slightly to admire the way wonder still lingers in his expression, subtle but sincere. Then, brows lifting with suggestive curiosity, she arches one brow and gestures lightly toward the menu. "Oh?" she echoes, her voice low and playful. "Well, by all means. If you’ve got a list, I say start crossing things off. Order anything you want."
The moment he speaks of a bar balanced between realms, her grin blooms wider, mischief curling through her like sunlight through warm water. She’s already layering another cracker with goat cheese and carefully wrapping it in a paper-thin slice of salami as she tilts her head toward him. "That sounds like an incredible idea," she says, pausing only to admire the balance of her creation before popping it into her mouth. "A cozy little purgatory with candlelight and impeccable wine. Very exclusive."
She swallows, then rolls her eyes with a huff that carries more affection than frustration. "If my dad weren’t such a bore, he could probably arrange it." Her tone is dry, but not unkind, softened by the smile she casts toward her wineglass. "Still," she adds, glancing back at him, "we’ve both run bars, and regions. Surely we can handle one little pocket between worlds?"
At his fuck, the laugh that bursts from her is quick and delighted, her shoulders lifting in an almost helpless shrug as she watches him revel in the simple pleasure of taste like it’s sacred. She doesn’t rush to speak, just leans back slightly to admire the way wonder still lingers in his expression, subtle but sincere. Then, brows lifting with suggestive curiosity, she arches one brow and gestures lightly toward the menu. "Oh?" she echoes, her voice low and playful. "Well, by all means. If you’ve got a list, I say start crossing things off. Order anything you want."
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
