Whether I'm gonna curse you out or
Take you back to my house
Take you back to my house
Flora’s mouth curves faintly against his chest at that, the movement small but knowing, her cheek still pressed to his skin as if she can read him better from here, as if the warmth of him carries more truth than anything said out loud, and when he suggests that Soh hadn’t wanted a moment alone, she gives the slightest shrug, the motion brushing against him in a way that feels more like a thought than a gesture. "That’s not fair," she murmurs, her voice soft but certain, her fingers idly tracing along his back as if mapping something she already knows by heart. "I’m her best friend." It stood to reason that alone sometimes included her.
There’s a breath after that, one that lingers just a little longer in her chest before she lets it out, her head tilting back enough to look up at him, curls shifting where they’ve fallen, her expression threading something more complicated through the softness. "Besides," she adds, a quiet sigh slipping into the word, "based on her letter, I’m pretty sure she’s on her way to Kings’ End right now to see Zavien, so..." She trails off there, not finishing it because she doesn’t need to, her eyes widening just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them—something tangled and knowing and just a little bit so, you know what that means—before she lets it settle, lets him take from it whatever he will.
But then he pulls her closer, and everything else—every thread of it, every lingering complication—loosens its grip the second her skin meets his, the contact immediate and consuming in the quietest way, like stepping into sunlight after being cold for too long, her body responding before her thoughts can catch up. The sound of his voice against her, low and barely there, hums through her chest like a second heartbeat, and she smiles to herself, something soft and private blooming there as her fingers curl more securely into him.
"I’ve had a lot of practice," she says, a quiet laugh threading through it, the meaning left loose and unpinned as to whether she means in general or with him specifically, because it doesn’t really matter which version of it is true when both of them are.
And when he pulls back, even just a little, she follows without thinking, drawn after him like there’s a line between them that refuses to slacken, her hands slipping from his waist up around his neck, her body already rising onto her toes before the space has even fully formed. She meets him halfway, like she always does. The kiss unfolds slowly, deliberately, something unhurried and deepening all at once, and the world doesn’t so much disappear as it softens, edges blurring, the sharpness of everything else dissolving into something distant and unimportant as her focus narrows entirely to the warmth of his mouth against hers, the way his breath mingles with hers, the subtle shift of him as she presses closer, closer still, until there’s nothing left between them but the shared rhythm of it.
Her fingers tighten slightly at the nape of his neck, her body fitting against his, her thoughts scattering like startled birds the longer it lingers, replaced instead with sensation, with the slow, spiralling pull of him that makes everything else feel smaller by comparison, quieter, easier to ignore. She exhales into the kiss without realizing she’s holding her breath, and whatever tension had been left in her unwinds there, not in some grand unraveling but in the subtle, steady way her shoulders soften, the way she leans into him like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, like there never has been.
There’s a breath after that, one that lingers just a little longer in her chest before she lets it out, her head tilting back enough to look up at him, curls shifting where they’ve fallen, her expression threading something more complicated through the softness. "Besides," she adds, a quiet sigh slipping into the word, "based on her letter, I’m pretty sure she’s on her way to Kings’ End right now to see Zavien, so..." She trails off there, not finishing it because she doesn’t need to, her eyes widening just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them—something tangled and knowing and just a little bit so, you know what that means—before she lets it settle, lets him take from it whatever he will.
But then he pulls her closer, and everything else—every thread of it, every lingering complication—loosens its grip the second her skin meets his, the contact immediate and consuming in the quietest way, like stepping into sunlight after being cold for too long, her body responding before her thoughts can catch up. The sound of his voice against her, low and barely there, hums through her chest like a second heartbeat, and she smiles to herself, something soft and private blooming there as her fingers curl more securely into him.
"I’ve had a lot of practice," she says, a quiet laugh threading through it, the meaning left loose and unpinned as to whether she means in general or with him specifically, because it doesn’t really matter which version of it is true when both of them are.
And when he pulls back, even just a little, she follows without thinking, drawn after him like there’s a line between them that refuses to slacken, her hands slipping from his waist up around his neck, her body already rising onto her toes before the space has even fully formed. She meets him halfway, like she always does. The kiss unfolds slowly, deliberately, something unhurried and deepening all at once, and the world doesn’t so much disappear as it softens, edges blurring, the sharpness of everything else dissolving into something distant and unimportant as her focus narrows entirely to the warmth of his mouth against hers, the way his breath mingles with hers, the subtle shift of him as she presses closer, closer still, until there’s nothing left between them but the shared rhythm of it.
Her fingers tighten slightly at the nape of his neck, her body fitting against his, her thoughts scattering like startled birds the longer it lingers, replaced instead with sensation, with the slow, spiralling pull of him that makes everything else feel smaller by comparison, quieter, easier to ignore. She exhales into the kiss without realizing she’s holding her breath, and whatever tension had been left in her unwinds there, not in some grand unraveling but in the subtle, steady way her shoulders soften, the way she leans into him like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, like there never has been.
flora
I haven't decided yet
But I'm gonna get you back
But I'm gonna get you back
