I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
Flora has to bite at the inside of her cheek the moment she sees Kai bent so intently over the counter, shoulders hunched with concentration as he treats the construction of their hot chocolate like a sacred rite rather than a simple comfort, and the sight sends a warm, helpless fondness blooming through her that she almost resents for how easily it arrives. There is something about the way he meets even the smallest tasks with that same careful devotion that makes her chest ache in the best possible way, because it feels like proof that this is simply who he is, that the tenderness is not reserved for grand gestures but woven quietly into everything he does.
When he finally turns and their eyes meet, she makes a conscious effort to keep herself composed, to hold onto the coy, deliberate confidence she has dressed herself in, because it is far too easy to collapse into laughter and open affection around him, and right now at least she wants to stay here in the charged, shimmering space between anticipation and touch. The way his jaw drops when he takes her in rewards that effort instantly, a flush of confidence streaking through her that feels almost dizzying in its intensity, and when he reaches for her she does not hesitate or stiffen but flows into his arms. The warmth of his scarf and sweater presses against her bare skin, soft and comforting, and the contrast makes her keenly aware of how little she's decorated herself.
His hand settles at her waist, firm and sure, and the sensation makes her breath catch as she feels the lace slip beneath his palm, the delicate fabric shifting against her skin in a way that sends a shiver trailing up her spine. She feels suddenly small and precious in his hold, not diminished but cherished, the kind of fragile that invites care rather than caution, and when he draws her down into that smooth, effortless dip she lets herself trust him completely, body yielding without thought as his arm supports her back and his presence surrounds her. With his face near her shoulder, breath warm and uneven against her skin, she knows he will hear her smile before he ever sees it as she murmurs, "I taste even better." The words are low and playful and full of promise as she further arches herself into him as if there was no amount of space or shape he could make that she wouldn't fit herself into.
She tilts her head just enough that the pom-pom of her hat brushes her shoulder, because of course she never took it off, and the absurdity of that detail threaded through the intimacy makes the moment feel achingly, perfectly theirs; a blend of heat and humour and affection that leaves her wanting to stay right here, suspended between his hands and his breath, for as long as he will keep her. "Though maybe not as good as what you've made," Flora adds, glancing at the mugs of hot chocolate before turning back into him with a little shrug. A pity the store had only sold the conventional flavours of edible underwear. "You'll have to be the judge."
When he finally turns and their eyes meet, she makes a conscious effort to keep herself composed, to hold onto the coy, deliberate confidence she has dressed herself in, because it is far too easy to collapse into laughter and open affection around him, and right now at least she wants to stay here in the charged, shimmering space between anticipation and touch. The way his jaw drops when he takes her in rewards that effort instantly, a flush of confidence streaking through her that feels almost dizzying in its intensity, and when he reaches for her she does not hesitate or stiffen but flows into his arms. The warmth of his scarf and sweater presses against her bare skin, soft and comforting, and the contrast makes her keenly aware of how little she's decorated herself.
His hand settles at her waist, firm and sure, and the sensation makes her breath catch as she feels the lace slip beneath his palm, the delicate fabric shifting against her skin in a way that sends a shiver trailing up her spine. She feels suddenly small and precious in his hold, not diminished but cherished, the kind of fragile that invites care rather than caution, and when he draws her down into that smooth, effortless dip she lets herself trust him completely, body yielding without thought as his arm supports her back and his presence surrounds her. With his face near her shoulder, breath warm and uneven against her skin, she knows he will hear her smile before he ever sees it as she murmurs, "I taste even better." The words are low and playful and full of promise as she further arches herself into him as if there was no amount of space or shape he could make that she wouldn't fit herself into.
She tilts her head just enough that the pom-pom of her hat brushes her shoulder, because of course she never took it off, and the absurdity of that detail threaded through the intimacy makes the moment feel achingly, perfectly theirs; a blend of heat and humour and affection that leaves her wanting to stay right here, suspended between his hands and his breath, for as long as he will keep her. "Though maybe not as good as what you've made," Flora adds, glancing at the mugs of hot chocolate before turning back into him with a little shrug. A pity the store had only sold the conventional flavours of edible underwear. "You'll have to be the judge."
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
