you call me reckless, I call it art

flora

Flora steps out onto the terrace, bare feet warm against the coral stone, her black one-piece bathing suit cutting a decisive line down her torso to her navel. The brim of her hat casts her face in cinematic shadow, oversized glasses catching the light, gold glinting at her wrists and throat and fingers, and she pauses just long enough at the threshold to properly appreciate the way Mateo was sprawled over wicker and borrowed silk and teal lenses like he’s been personally appointed ambassador of indulgence. The sight of him there, sun-drunk and stubbornly thriving, does something quiet and unnameable in her chest, and instead of naming it she lets her mouth tilt upward, slow and feline, as if she’s caught him mid-heist and couldn’t be more pleased about it.

She crosses the deck with an easy sway, one hand resting at her hip, the other holding a single bloom between careful fingers. The petals are a soft, bruised violet, delicate as tissue paper, but the stem is vicious with thorns; aggressive, unapologetic, almost comical in their hostility. Her engagement ring catches the light as she extends the flower toward him, able to wear her ring openly here given that the people within the walls of her home were the only ones who knew about secret marriage.

"What’s this one?" she asks, voice warm and curious and edged with that familiar, playful challenge, like she’s testing him on a pop quiz she already knows he’ll pass.

The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!