flora
There’s a softness in Flora’s eyes as she lifts her glass again, rounding her cheeks in something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t far from it either—, something a little too full to be amusement alone. "To not being Jack," she murmurs gently, and even if there’s fondness in the words, the ache underneath lingers like salt in seawater. She doesn’t clarify the thought, though There was no one quite like him. That was the problem. That was the point.
She lets it go with a hum, leaning into the indulgence of the sundae instead. One taste has her groaning under her breath, the kind that turns heads if not kept in check, and she presses the cold sweetness against the roof of her mouth with slow, deliberate pleasure. "Okay, that is criminally good," she says, tongue catching at the corner of her lip like she’s trying to steal back every last molecule of chocolate. "You definitely need something like this at your bar."
She doesn’t mind the way Neron says her name at all. The weight of it lands warm across her collarbones, heavy and velveted with suggestion. Her spoon slows in her hand, fingers curling as if trying to wring the tension out of her own skin. And gods, when he says it like that...The flush that climbs her cheeks isn’t bashful so much as hungry, blooming vivid across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. She clears her throat, lashes sweeping low in a futile attempt to look unmoved. "Well," she says lightly, her voice a little too breathy to sell the act, "so long as I’m not just wearing stilettos..."
She lets it go with a hum, leaning into the indulgence of the sundae instead. One taste has her groaning under her breath, the kind that turns heads if not kept in check, and she presses the cold sweetness against the roof of her mouth with slow, deliberate pleasure. "Okay, that is criminally good," she says, tongue catching at the corner of her lip like she’s trying to steal back every last molecule of chocolate. "You definitely need something like this at your bar."
She doesn’t mind the way Neron says her name at all. The weight of it lands warm across her collarbones, heavy and velveted with suggestion. Her spoon slows in her hand, fingers curling as if trying to wring the tension out of her own skin. And gods, when he says it like that...The flush that climbs her cheeks isn’t bashful so much as hungry, blooming vivid across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. She clears her throat, lashes sweeping low in a futile attempt to look unmoved. "Well," she says lightly, her voice a little too breathy to sell the act, "so long as I’m not just wearing stilettos..."
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
