it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora’s expression flickers, something quick and bright and gone again as she shifts the quartz between her fingers, her leg nudging a little more firmly into his as though proximity alone might ward off whatever nonsense he’s trying to manifest, even as her mouth curves with something that refuses to take him seriously for more than half a second at a time. "If I murder you in your sleep, it won’t be because of a curse," she says lightly, glancing at him from beneath the shadow of her hood before letting her gaze drift past him, already beginning to set the stage in her mind as much as in the room itself.
The walls respond almost lazily, the flicker of candlelight stretching outward into something broader and warmer until the cramped, ghost-blanketed nest dissolves into open space, into salt air and wide glass and the slow hush of the sea pressing itself against a house that gleams like it has never known a flaw. Everything is golden, sun-washed, effortless in the way only places that don’t belong to you ever are.
Flora watches it settle for a moment, before she shifts slightly within the circle of his legs, tucking one knee up and angling toward him without quite looking at him again, her voice slipping into something softer, more deliberate, though the edges of it still carry that same teasing lilt. "Okay," she says, dragging the word just a touch as if she’s not entirely convinced by her own premise. "So there’s this guy, right, and he ends up in this paradise, the kind of place where everything is just...perfect. Too perfect. Like someone staged it and then never left, or like a trap."
Her fingers tap absently against the quartz, and in the room the house sharpens: wide archways, polished floors, a view of the ocean that looks like it’s been painted to perfection. "And at first it’s great," she continues, one shoulder lifting in a small, casual shrug that doesn’t quite match the slow precision of the scene unfolding around them. "He doesn’t have to do anything. Everything’s already there: food, clothes, a bed that somehow fits him exactly even though he’s never slept in it before." A brief pause, her nose wrinkling faintly. "Which is weird, but whatever, he’s like, fine, I’ll take it and doesn't think too hard about it."
The room shifts again, subtle at first. A chair pulled slightly out, then sliding neatly back into place on its own. A door opening just before it’s touched. "But then he tries to make it his, as anyone would," she says, the words coming a little quicker now, though she keeps her tone light, almost dismissive, like she’s not paying too much attention to the details she’s choosing. "Moves something. A chair, maybe. And when he turns around it’s back where it was. Like it didn’t like being moved." Her gaze flicks sideways, just briefly, catching Kaisel for half a second before returning to the room as if the story requires her full attention to function properly.
"And it’s not just that," she adds, her voice softening a fraction. "There’s nowhere to put his things, even though there's room everywhere. Every space already feels taken. Like if he sets something down, it doesn’t stick. It just sort of..stops mattering." On the far wall, a reflection forms—not quite a mirror, not quite not—showing a figure standing in the room, still, unchanged, while the world around him subtly shifts.
"And the longer he stays, the easier everything gets," Flora goes on, her fingers stilling now against the quartz as she leans back just slightly into the curve of Kaisel's legs behind her. "He doesn’t have to choose anything, or fix anything, or build anything. It’s all just..done for him." A quiet exhale slips through her nose, almost a laugh, though there’s no humour in it. "Which sounds amazing, obviously, until he realizes he hasn’t actually done anything in weeks."
The house dims just a touch, not darker, but flatter somehow.
"And then it gets worse," she says, tilting her head faintly, her fingers stilling against the quartz as though the story has finally caught up to something she can’t just talk her way around. "Because it’s not just the house staying the same. It’s him." Her lips press together briefly before she lets them part again, her gaze slipping toward the shifting reflection on the wall without quite committing to it. "Like—his clothes start matching everything else. His voice doesn’t sound quite right anymore. And when he looks at himself, it’s like..." She trails off, her nose wrinkling faintly before she shrugs it away as if the detail isn’t worth keeping. "Like he fits too well, because there’s nothing really left of him to not fit."
Her shoulder rises and falls, small and almost dismissive. "So he stays. Obviously. Because why wouldn’t he? It’s easy, and it’s comfortable, and everything works the way it’s supposed to." Her thumb drags once along the edge of the quartz before she sets it down somewhere near her knee. "He stops moving things. Stops trying to make space. Stops noticing that none of it’s his." The house around them seems to settle with that, the sea beyond the windows going glassy and still, the doors along the walls standing open in that inviting, effortless way they always have.
"And then one day," she continues, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful than dramatic, "he decides he wants to leave. Not even for any big reason, just..he remembers that leaving is something people do, so he figures he probably should at some point." The nearest door shifts. It doesn’t slam. It doesn’t creak. It just.. stays where it is, open and waiting, exactly as it always has. "So he goes to walk out," she says, her gaze flicking briefly to that door before returning somewhere safer, "and the door is right there. Same as always, nothing stopping him." She pauses. "Except he doesn’t."
Her brows knit faintly, just for a second. "Because he realizes he doesn’t actually remember where he was going. Or why he’d leave. Or what he’d do if he did." Her mouth presses to one side. "So he turns around," she says, softer now, "and the door stays open. It always stays open, but it doesn’t matter anymore," she finishes with a small, almost careless lift of her shoulder, "because by the time he figures out he’s stuck, there isn’t enough of him left to do anything about it."
The walls respond almost lazily, the flicker of candlelight stretching outward into something broader and warmer until the cramped, ghost-blanketed nest dissolves into open space, into salt air and wide glass and the slow hush of the sea pressing itself against a house that gleams like it has never known a flaw. Everything is golden, sun-washed, effortless in the way only places that don’t belong to you ever are.
Flora watches it settle for a moment, before she shifts slightly within the circle of his legs, tucking one knee up and angling toward him without quite looking at him again, her voice slipping into something softer, more deliberate, though the edges of it still carry that same teasing lilt. "Okay," she says, dragging the word just a touch as if she’s not entirely convinced by her own premise. "So there’s this guy, right, and he ends up in this paradise, the kind of place where everything is just...perfect. Too perfect. Like someone staged it and then never left, or like a trap."
Her fingers tap absently against the quartz, and in the room the house sharpens: wide archways, polished floors, a view of the ocean that looks like it’s been painted to perfection. "And at first it’s great," she continues, one shoulder lifting in a small, casual shrug that doesn’t quite match the slow precision of the scene unfolding around them. "He doesn’t have to do anything. Everything’s already there: food, clothes, a bed that somehow fits him exactly even though he’s never slept in it before." A brief pause, her nose wrinkling faintly. "Which is weird, but whatever, he’s like, fine, I’ll take it and doesn't think too hard about it."
The room shifts again, subtle at first. A chair pulled slightly out, then sliding neatly back into place on its own. A door opening just before it’s touched. "But then he tries to make it his, as anyone would," she says, the words coming a little quicker now, though she keeps her tone light, almost dismissive, like she’s not paying too much attention to the details she’s choosing. "Moves something. A chair, maybe. And when he turns around it’s back where it was. Like it didn’t like being moved." Her gaze flicks sideways, just briefly, catching Kaisel for half a second before returning to the room as if the story requires her full attention to function properly.
"And it’s not just that," she adds, her voice softening a fraction. "There’s nowhere to put his things, even though there's room everywhere. Every space already feels taken. Like if he sets something down, it doesn’t stick. It just sort of..stops mattering." On the far wall, a reflection forms—not quite a mirror, not quite not—showing a figure standing in the room, still, unchanged, while the world around him subtly shifts.
"And the longer he stays, the easier everything gets," Flora goes on, her fingers stilling now against the quartz as she leans back just slightly into the curve of Kaisel's legs behind her. "He doesn’t have to choose anything, or fix anything, or build anything. It’s all just..done for him." A quiet exhale slips through her nose, almost a laugh, though there’s no humour in it. "Which sounds amazing, obviously, until he realizes he hasn’t actually done anything in weeks."
The house dims just a touch, not darker, but flatter somehow.
"And then it gets worse," she says, tilting her head faintly, her fingers stilling against the quartz as though the story has finally caught up to something she can’t just talk her way around. "Because it’s not just the house staying the same. It’s him." Her lips press together briefly before she lets them part again, her gaze slipping toward the shifting reflection on the wall without quite committing to it. "Like—his clothes start matching everything else. His voice doesn’t sound quite right anymore. And when he looks at himself, it’s like..." She trails off, her nose wrinkling faintly before she shrugs it away as if the detail isn’t worth keeping. "Like he fits too well, because there’s nothing really left of him to not fit."
Her shoulder rises and falls, small and almost dismissive. "So he stays. Obviously. Because why wouldn’t he? It’s easy, and it’s comfortable, and everything works the way it’s supposed to." Her thumb drags once along the edge of the quartz before she sets it down somewhere near her knee. "He stops moving things. Stops trying to make space. Stops noticing that none of it’s his." The house around them seems to settle with that, the sea beyond the windows going glassy and still, the doors along the walls standing open in that inviting, effortless way they always have.
"And then one day," she continues, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful than dramatic, "he decides he wants to leave. Not even for any big reason, just..he remembers that leaving is something people do, so he figures he probably should at some point." The nearest door shifts. It doesn’t slam. It doesn’t creak. It just.. stays where it is, open and waiting, exactly as it always has. "So he goes to walk out," she says, her gaze flicking briefly to that door before returning somewhere safer, "and the door is right there. Same as always, nothing stopping him." She pauses. "Except he doesn’t."
Her brows knit faintly, just for a second. "Because he realizes he doesn’t actually remember where he was going. Or why he’d leave. Or what he’d do if he did." Her mouth presses to one side. "So he turns around," she says, softer now, "and the door stays open. It always stays open, but it doesn’t matter anymore," she finishes with a small, almost careless lift of her shoulder, "because by the time he figures out he’s stuck, there isn’t enough of him left to do anything about it."
anything to get more of this feeling
