i can't help it if i want to kiss you in the rain, so
Flora flounces into the kitchen, bare feet cool against the coral stone floor, white bikini top stark against her sun-warmed skin, denim shorts short and sun-faded. Her red lipstick is still intact from that morning, a bright slash of colour across her lips as she takes in the noise first—the relentless thud of ice meeting rolling pin—before her gaze slides to the counter and the spread of bottles and fruit bleeding pink onto the surface. She pauses, then plants her hands on her hips, one brow lifting as she watches Danta, before grinning at him. "You know, we have a dragon for that."
Flora's whistle is sharp and practiced, and the air answers almost immediately with Spice a streak of white and frost, delighted with purpose, circling once before hovering near the counter as if this is the most sensible request anyone has ever made. Flora’s laugh follows, light and unguarded, satisfaction settling easily into her shoulders as she leans back against the counter, hip pressed into cool stone, gold rings flashing as she gestures vaguely at the chaos of ingredients.
Her gaze tracks the gin, the aperol, the lemon, the watermelon. "Make me one?"
Flora's whistle is sharp and practiced, and the air answers almost immediately with Spice a streak of white and frost, delighted with purpose, circling once before hovering near the counter as if this is the most sensible request anyone has ever made. Flora’s laugh follows, light and unguarded, satisfaction settling easily into her shoulders as she leans back against the counter, hip pressed into cool stone, gold rings flashing as she gestures vaguely at the chaos of ingredients.
Her gaze tracks the gin, the aperol, the lemon, the watermelon. "Make me one?"
