you can call me honey if you want
Flora’s grin blooms slow and wicked when Melita nudges her, shoulder to shoulder in a conspiratorial bump that nearly sends her swaying toward the stream, and she steadies herself with a hand braced lightly on the picnic blanket as though the illusion of tide and timber might actually sweep her off her feet.
She turns that beam toward Colt and Sohalia, gaze flicking between storm-grey silk and blush-pink softness, and there’s something quietly delighted in the way she takes them in, as if the universe has momentarily misplaced its usual categories. A rancher, a trickster demigod, a romantic, and a queen walk into a spa, she thinks, and the punchline is apparently emotional damage and excellent cheese.
Colt’s complaint earns a low, humming agreement from Flora, the sound vibrating in her throat as she reaches for her glass. "Mm," she echoes at Sohalia’s amen, lifting her brows in solemn solidarity. She tips her chin toward Colt, smile sharpening. "But yes, if we’re drafting a public advisory notice, I’d like names."
The request hangs there only briefly before Melita detonates something far more interesting. Flora’s head snaps toward her with such theatrical speed that one curl escapes its pin and brushes her cheek. "You did not," she gasps, delight unfiltered and immediate, before pivoting fully, tucking one leg beneath her as she leans in, robe slipping just enough to reveal a flash of gold at her collarbone. "Tell us everything."
Her eyes flick to Sohalia in shared, gleeful interrogation, and she gestures between them with two fingers as though convening an emergency council. "We’ve had a complaint and a confession,"she declares lightly. "Which means one of us owes a catastrophe." There’s a beat where she pauses to see if Soh will volunteer, gaze softening briefly before she inhales and clears her throat instead, lifting her glass in mock formality. "Fine. I’ll go."
She swirls the mimosa once, watching the bubbles climb like they’re attempting escape. "At the rodeo," she begins, tone airy in a way that is absolutely not accidental, "my ex-boyfriend spilled an entire drink all over me." She pauses only long enough to pop another grape into her mouth, chewing through the sweetness before continuing. "While his new girlfriend—presumably—and his daughter watched and laughed." Her brows rise higher. "Oh," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "and his daughter also happens to be my boyfriend’s ex, so, that's fun."
She widens her eyes dramatically at the snarl of it, as if even she can’t quite believe the geometry of her own life, then lifts her glass and downs the rest of the mimosa in one smooth tilt. The citrus bites bright and sharp as she lowers it with a crisp, satisfied exhale.
She turns that beam toward Colt and Sohalia, gaze flicking between storm-grey silk and blush-pink softness, and there’s something quietly delighted in the way she takes them in, as if the universe has momentarily misplaced its usual categories. A rancher, a trickster demigod, a romantic, and a queen walk into a spa, she thinks, and the punchline is apparently emotional damage and excellent cheese.
Colt’s complaint earns a low, humming agreement from Flora, the sound vibrating in her throat as she reaches for her glass. "Mm," she echoes at Sohalia’s amen, lifting her brows in solemn solidarity. She tips her chin toward Colt, smile sharpening. "But yes, if we’re drafting a public advisory notice, I’d like names."
The request hangs there only briefly before Melita detonates something far more interesting. Flora’s head snaps toward her with such theatrical speed that one curl escapes its pin and brushes her cheek. "You did not," she gasps, delight unfiltered and immediate, before pivoting fully, tucking one leg beneath her as she leans in, robe slipping just enough to reveal a flash of gold at her collarbone. "Tell us everything."
Her eyes flick to Sohalia in shared, gleeful interrogation, and she gestures between them with two fingers as though convening an emergency council. "We’ve had a complaint and a confession,"she declares lightly. "Which means one of us owes a catastrophe." There’s a beat where she pauses to see if Soh will volunteer, gaze softening briefly before she inhales and clears her throat instead, lifting her glass in mock formality. "Fine. I’ll go."
She swirls the mimosa once, watching the bubbles climb like they’re attempting escape. "At the rodeo," she begins, tone airy in a way that is absolutely not accidental, "my ex-boyfriend spilled an entire drink all over me." She pauses only long enough to pop another grape into her mouth, chewing through the sweetness before continuing. "While his new girlfriend—presumably—and his daughter watched and laughed." Her brows rise higher. "Oh," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "and his daughter also happens to be my boyfriend’s ex, so, that's fun."
She widens her eyes dramatically at the snarl of it, as if even she can’t quite believe the geometry of her own life, then lifts her glass and downs the rest of the mimosa in one smooth tilt. The citrus bites bright and sharp as she lowers it with a crisp, satisfied exhale.
