Whether I'm gonna curse you out or
Take you back to my house
Take you back to my house
Flora’s just finishing up her last response to Soh about meeting her for a spa day, when the door slams open hard enough to rattle the glass, causing her head to jerk up, curls shifting over her shoulder, aqua eyes going abruptly, unmistakably flat. She doesn’t interrupt Kaisel; she lets him come in hot, lets the volume and the flailing and the dripping and the frankly unnecessary flamingo-foot door-kick unfold in full, her gaze tracking him with the kind of stillness that looks a lot like restraint and feels nothing like it.
The moment he hits But, she’s already pushing up from her seat, the chair legs scraping back just enough to underline the fact that she’s not meeting him calmly, not even pretending to, one hand lifting in a sharp, slicing gesture that cuts straight through whatever justification he thinks is coming next. "Okay, but did you actually apologize?" she fires back, words quick and bright and edged in something that doesn’t bother pretending to be gentle, her free hand joining the first in a sweep that feels like it might knock something over if it were an inch to the left. "Like—actually apologize, Kai, not just—" her fingers flick in a vague, dismissive imitation of him, voice pitching higher for a beat before dropping back into something far more pointed, "—‘I was out of line, I know, I know,’ and then immediately launching into why you're actually not wrong at all?"
She steps around the table as the frustration sharpens into something more precise, more deliberate, her brows lifting as if the answer had better be correct even as she barrels straight past giving him time to provide one. "Did you tell her you were wildly out of line?" she presses, the words landing one after the other like they’ve been queued up the entire time he’s been talking. "Did you tell her you should have stapled your lips shut and that you’re going to make it up to her, properly?"
By the time he’s shrugging out of his raincoat, she’s already folding her arms over the oversized sweater she’d thrown on earlier, the motion tight enough to pull the fabric taut across her frame as she shifts her weight onto one hip, eyes rolling in a way that’s just this side of theatrical. "Yeah," she shoots back, voice dry enough to crack, "why wouldn’t my best friend immediately tell me that my husband made her feel like shit," the last word snapping a little sharper than the rest as her chin tips up, the gold at her fingers catching the light when she adjusts her grip against her own sleeves.
And then as he mentions point numero dos, despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitches, a flicker of something dangerously close to amusement slipping in before she catches it, tries to smooth it out into something far more neutral and doesn’t quite manage it. "We’ll get to that," she says, far too quickly for someone who definitely isn’t interested, the faint curve still threatening at the edge of her mouth as her eyes narrow just a fraction, recalibrating, redirecting, dragging the conversation firmly back where she wants it.
The moment he hits But, she’s already pushing up from her seat, the chair legs scraping back just enough to underline the fact that she’s not meeting him calmly, not even pretending to, one hand lifting in a sharp, slicing gesture that cuts straight through whatever justification he thinks is coming next. "Okay, but did you actually apologize?" she fires back, words quick and bright and edged in something that doesn’t bother pretending to be gentle, her free hand joining the first in a sweep that feels like it might knock something over if it were an inch to the left. "Like—actually apologize, Kai, not just—" her fingers flick in a vague, dismissive imitation of him, voice pitching higher for a beat before dropping back into something far more pointed, "—‘I was out of line, I know, I know,’ and then immediately launching into why you're actually not wrong at all?"
She steps around the table as the frustration sharpens into something more precise, more deliberate, her brows lifting as if the answer had better be correct even as she barrels straight past giving him time to provide one. "Did you tell her you were wildly out of line?" she presses, the words landing one after the other like they’ve been queued up the entire time he’s been talking. "Did you tell her you should have stapled your lips shut and that you’re going to make it up to her, properly?"
By the time he’s shrugging out of his raincoat, she’s already folding her arms over the oversized sweater she’d thrown on earlier, the motion tight enough to pull the fabric taut across her frame as she shifts her weight onto one hip, eyes rolling in a way that’s just this side of theatrical. "Yeah," she shoots back, voice dry enough to crack, "why wouldn’t my best friend immediately tell me that my husband made her feel like shit," the last word snapping a little sharper than the rest as her chin tips up, the gold at her fingers catching the light when she adjusts her grip against her own sleeves.
And then as he mentions point numero dos, despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitches, a flicker of something dangerously close to amusement slipping in before she catches it, tries to smooth it out into something far more neutral and doesn’t quite manage it. "We’ll get to that," she says, far too quickly for someone who definitely isn’t interested, the faint curve still threatening at the edge of her mouth as her eyes narrow just a fraction, recalibrating, redirecting, dragging the conversation firmly back where she wants it.
flora
I haven't decided yet
But I'm gonna get you back
But I'm gonna get you back
