your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora doesn’t flinch under Soren's stare. If anything, she meets those sharp emerald eyes with something softer, steadier, her own gaze open and uncomplicated, like clear water that does not mind being looked through. There is a whole conversation she could have offered him—about pride, about survival, about how help does not always come barbed—but she knows better than to speak it aloud. Words would turn the moment into something heavy, something exposed, and she will not be the one to make a kindness feel like a charity, so she does the simplest thing instead.
Her shoulders lift in a small, careless shrug, the kind you give when someone thanks you for holding a door or returning a dropped glove. A nod follows, easy and unremarkable, as if this is exactly what it looks like and nothing more. Found on the ground. Given back. End of story.
For a heartbeat, Enzo flickers there again—his grin, his stubborn pride, the way he used to hate being helped unless it came disguised as coincidence—and something warm and aching settles briefly behind her ribs before she lets it pass without ceremony.
Flora slides her hands back into her pockets, rings cool against her fingers, and turns away before the moment can curdle into awkwardness or suspicion. The Last Whisper swallows her quickly, the lane folding around her in torchlight and murmurs as she continues on, footsteps light, posture loose, as though nothing of note has happened at all. Just another stranger moving through smoke and stone, just another secret the Hollowed Grounds will keep.
~FIN
Her shoulders lift in a small, careless shrug, the kind you give when someone thanks you for holding a door or returning a dropped glove. A nod follows, easy and unremarkable, as if this is exactly what it looks like and nothing more. Found on the ground. Given back. End of story.
For a heartbeat, Enzo flickers there again—his grin, his stubborn pride, the way he used to hate being helped unless it came disguised as coincidence—and something warm and aching settles briefly behind her ribs before she lets it pass without ceremony.
Flora slides her hands back into her pockets, rings cool against her fingers, and turns away before the moment can curdle into awkwardness or suspicion. The Last Whisper swallows her quickly, the lane folding around her in torchlight and murmurs as she continues on, footsteps light, posture loose, as though nothing of note has happened at all. Just another stranger moving through smoke and stone, just another secret the Hollowed Grounds will keep.
~FIN
