flora
Flora shakes her head almost immediately, curls coming loose at her temples as she reaches for another bottle and tucks it back into the wheelbarrow with a clink that sounds louder than it should. "No, no, don’t apologize, there isn’t a good place to stand anywhere on this dock right now," she says, breath still uneven but tone firm in that gently decisive way that brooks no argument. "It’s a full-contact sport just being out here today."
A soft, tired laugh slips out of her as she straightens a fraction, palm pressing briefly to her thigh before she bends again, scooping up the last of the runaway bottles. Sweat beads along her hairline and trails down the curve of her neck, the heat clinging to her like a second skin, and she gives Ellyra a grateful look as the other woman carefully slots glass back into place. "Thanks."
When the wheelbarrow is whole again, Flora rises fully, shoulders rolling back with a long, audible sigh that empties more than just her lungs. For a moment her expression slackens, exhaustion written plainly across her face, before she schools it into something warmer and more present, a smile tugged into place with practiced ease. She wipes the back of her wrist across her brow and nods toward the crowded docks and the skyships beyond. "Sooo," she asks, voice easy despite the fatigue threading through it, "are you coming or going, or waiting on someone?"
A soft, tired laugh slips out of her as she straightens a fraction, palm pressing briefly to her thigh before she bends again, scooping up the last of the runaway bottles. Sweat beads along her hairline and trails down the curve of her neck, the heat clinging to her like a second skin, and she gives Ellyra a grateful look as the other woman carefully slots glass back into place. "Thanks."
When the wheelbarrow is whole again, Flora rises fully, shoulders rolling back with a long, audible sigh that empties more than just her lungs. For a moment her expression slackens, exhaustion written plainly across her face, before she schools it into something warmer and more present, a smile tugged into place with practiced ease. She wipes the back of her wrist across her brow and nods toward the crowded docks and the skyships beyond. "Sooo," she asks, voice easy despite the fatigue threading through it, "are you coming or going, or waiting on someone?"
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
