slow down, you're doing fine
Flora huffs with enough theatrical grandeur to belong on a stage, lifting her chin as though deeply offended by any suggestion that the Sugartide might ever be anything less than iconic. "The Sugartide will always have main character energy," she declares with a lofty sweep of her voice, as if this is an immutable law of Caido. Her eyes flick toward his ribs with a spark of calculation—wondering whether she could tickle him from this angle—but the booth is too cramped, and she’s not willing to risk elbowing the table and hitting her own funny bone in the process. Instead she leans heavily into him, her weight warm and deliberate. "And I do not ding her that much," she adds, huffing again for emphasis even as amusement curls through her chest.
She’s about to tease him right back—about spots left unattended, and the very specific one she knows damn well he never forgets—when his hand slides up her inner thigh with that wicked, lazy confidence that always lights her nerves like starfire. Heat blooms low in her stomach, bright and sweeping, and her cheeks flush as if someone has just cupped her face in both hands. She presses her lips into a thin line, trying desperately to maintain an expression of stern disapproval despite the giddy swell of delight threatening to puff her cheeks out like a chipmunk’s. "I hate you," she whispers, though the soft breath of it betrays her, warm and fond and absolutely overflowing with the opposite.
Recovering with a gulp of orange juice straight from the pitcher, she nods with an exaggerated solemnity, miming the act of zipping her lips shut. "You’re absolutely right," she intones, as if he has saved her from a catastrophic misstep. "What was I thinking."
At the mention of butter and cheese, she lets out a low, approving moan, eyebrows lifting as she turns her gaze back to him with a smile that borders on sinful. "Sooooo, what are your basic Caido taste buds in the mood for?" she asks as she nudges the menu toward him.
She’s about to tease him right back—about spots left unattended, and the very specific one she knows damn well he never forgets—when his hand slides up her inner thigh with that wicked, lazy confidence that always lights her nerves like starfire. Heat blooms low in her stomach, bright and sweeping, and her cheeks flush as if someone has just cupped her face in both hands. She presses her lips into a thin line, trying desperately to maintain an expression of stern disapproval despite the giddy swell of delight threatening to puff her cheeks out like a chipmunk’s. "I hate you," she whispers, though the soft breath of it betrays her, warm and fond and absolutely overflowing with the opposite.
Recovering with a gulp of orange juice straight from the pitcher, she nods with an exaggerated solemnity, miming the act of zipping her lips shut. "You’re absolutely right," she intones, as if he has saved her from a catastrophic misstep. "What was I thinking."
At the mention of butter and cheese, she lets out a low, approving moan, eyebrows lifting as she turns her gaze back to him with a smile that borders on sinful. "Sooooo, what are your basic Caido taste buds in the mood for?" she asks as she nudges the menu toward him.
Flora
you can't be everything you wanna be before your time
