slow down, you're doing fine
Flora regards him with an expression of wide, suspicious innocence as he all but chokes on his own spit, her brows lifting higher with each cough until a grin breaks through, bright and delighted at her own success. When he calls her out of this world, laughter spills warm and easy from her, far more flattering to her ears than alien could ever hope to be.
The huff that follows is tremendously dramatic, and she swats at his chest with the back of her hand in a gesture so playful it barely qualifies as a reprimand. "Excuse you, I haven’t hit anything in months," she declares, chin lifting with exaggerated pride. "And all those little dings give the Sugartide character." Her eyes narrow in faux offence before she tilts her head at him with a slow, pointed side-eye. "Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re usually the reason I can’t focus on flying properly in the first place."
She widens her eyes accusingly as the drinks arrive, then sits back with just enough elegance to let the server set everything down without risking orange-juice collateral damage. The moment they’re alone again, she ignores the glass entirely and slips a straw straight into the pitcher before taking an enormous, indulgent sip. The sigh that leaves her borders on blissful. It is absolutely, undeniably the cure for everything still lingering from last night.
At his question about breakfast, she fights back a giggle, then lets it escape anyway, soft and conspiratorial. "I’m really glad I can finally open up about this with you," she says, lowering her voice as if sharing a deeply personal confession. "Because yes, basically everything tastes lacklustre to my interstellar tastebuds, and no one understands the struggle I go through." Her tone is so solemnly dramatic she barely keeps a straight face, her aqua eyes shimmering with feigned tragedy as she lifts the pitcher for another long sip.
The huff that follows is tremendously dramatic, and she swats at his chest with the back of her hand in a gesture so playful it barely qualifies as a reprimand. "Excuse you, I haven’t hit anything in months," she declares, chin lifting with exaggerated pride. "And all those little dings give the Sugartide character." Her eyes narrow in faux offence before she tilts her head at him with a slow, pointed side-eye. "Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re usually the reason I can’t focus on flying properly in the first place."
She widens her eyes accusingly as the drinks arrive, then sits back with just enough elegance to let the server set everything down without risking orange-juice collateral damage. The moment they’re alone again, she ignores the glass entirely and slips a straw straight into the pitcher before taking an enormous, indulgent sip. The sigh that leaves her borders on blissful. It is absolutely, undeniably the cure for everything still lingering from last night.
At his question about breakfast, she fights back a giggle, then lets it escape anyway, soft and conspiratorial. "I’m really glad I can finally open up about this with you," she says, lowering her voice as if sharing a deeply personal confession. "Because yes, basically everything tastes lacklustre to my interstellar tastebuds, and no one understands the struggle I go through." Her tone is so solemnly dramatic she barely keeps a straight face, her aqua eyes shimmering with feigned tragedy as she lifts the pitcher for another long sip.
Flora
you can't be everything you wanna be before your time
