flora
Flora feels the slow unwinding of him beneath her like the tide drawing back from shore, and though she doesn't want to move—doesn't want to disturb the quiet hum of skin against skin, breath against breath—the slide of his hands along her back coaxes her upward just enough that she can meet him properly. The touch makes her shiver, a fine ripple of sensation travelling up her spine, and she leans into it instinctively, grateful for the support even as she resists the idea of creating even an inch of distance between them. Sitting up slightly feels like surfacing from warm water, and she does it reluctantly, still anchored to him, still half-draped across the rise and fall of his chest.
When he murmurs that he adores her, something inside her loosens in a way that feels almost embarrassingly tender. The words don't crash through her; they seep in, slow and luminous, and she has to bite back a breath that threatens to turn into something foolishly giddy. It is ridiculous how easily he can do that—how a simple confession can make her feel as though she is glowing from the inside out—as though every nerve has been brushed with gold leaf. She smiles at him with that barely-contained delight, the kind that trembles at the edges because it is too much to hold in neatly.
His gaze dropping to her neck makes her own still. She does not follow it at first; she watches his face instead, searching for something there; regret, uncertainty, pride, anything that might explain the flicker in his eyes. The absence of an immediate grin makes a tiny knot tighten low in her chest, a whisper of doubt threading in where pleasure has only just settled. She gives a small nod anyway, her smile soft and glowing despite the faint flutter of uncertainty beneath it. "Yeah," she breathes, and when she shakes her head, it is gentle and reassuring, her curls brushing against his hand. "No, not at all. It felt really good."
She turns her face just enough to press a quiet kiss into the pad of his thumb where it rests against her throat and when she looks back at him, her smile tilts lopsided, fond and careful all at once. "You... didn’t like it though, did you?" she asks slowly, not accusatory, not wounded, but curious and open, her eyes searching his for honesty.
When he murmurs that he adores her, something inside her loosens in a way that feels almost embarrassingly tender. The words don't crash through her; they seep in, slow and luminous, and she has to bite back a breath that threatens to turn into something foolishly giddy. It is ridiculous how easily he can do that—how a simple confession can make her feel as though she is glowing from the inside out—as though every nerve has been brushed with gold leaf. She smiles at him with that barely-contained delight, the kind that trembles at the edges because it is too much to hold in neatly.
His gaze dropping to her neck makes her own still. She does not follow it at first; she watches his face instead, searching for something there; regret, uncertainty, pride, anything that might explain the flicker in his eyes. The absence of an immediate grin makes a tiny knot tighten low in her chest, a whisper of doubt threading in where pleasure has only just settled. She gives a small nod anyway, her smile soft and glowing despite the faint flutter of uncertainty beneath it. "Yeah," she breathes, and when she shakes her head, it is gentle and reassuring, her curls brushing against his hand. "No, not at all. It felt really good."
She turns her face just enough to press a quiet kiss into the pad of his thumb where it rests against her throat and when she looks back at him, her smile tilts lopsided, fond and careful all at once. "You... didn’t like it though, did you?" she asks slowly, not accusatory, not wounded, but curious and open, her eyes searching his for honesty.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
