it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora lets out a long, exaggerated sigh the second Kai points out that he asked first, her head tipping back with theatrical defeat as though he’s just caught her in something deeply unfair, even if the movement feels more like buying herself a second than actually conceding anything. The edge of her oodie sleeve slips down over her knuckles while she listens, her gaze staying on him as he talks through it, the licorice tapping at his chin, the confidence in his voice building as he pieces together a version of the story that makes sense to him, something clean and solvable and entirely separate from the shape she’d meant it to take. There’s a moment—brief, quiet—where she almost smiles at it, at how certain he is, at how easily he slots the whole thing into something manageable.
But then, as he finds his own conclusion, something inside of Flora dips. It’s subtle, barely there in the way her shoulders soften just a fraction, the way her fingers stop fidgeting with the fabric at her wrist, but it’s enough that she feels it, that small, inward fold of herself as she realises she shouldn’t be surprised, not really, that he hasn’t seen it, hasn’t followed the thread she’d laid out because of course he wouldn’t, because she hadn’t actually said it, and now she’s sitting there with the uncomfortable, squirming awareness that if she wants an answer, she’s going to have to be the one to ask it properly.
He talks about breaking doors, about leaving marks, about never stopping, and she believes him, which almost makes it worse. "Babe," she cuts in, the word slipping out before he’s quite finished, softer than it usually is, edged with something that doesn’t quite match the easy rhythm they’ve been keeping. Flora shifts then, decisively this time, scooching forward until the space between them disappears entirely, lifting her legs to settle around his waist and over his thighs in a way that would probably read as the start of some weird tantric sex position if not for the way her hands come up immediately after, as she cups his cheeks to hold his attention where she wants it.
"Are you sure that you don’t feel like the guy in the story?" she asks, her brows knitting as she searches his face, her voice quieter now, stripped of the playful edges she’s been hiding behind. For a second she holds it there, steady, but it doesn’t last, her expression softening, then dipping, her shoulders slumping just slightly as she exhales, the air leaving her in a small, uneven breath. "I mean...it’s my region," she says, the words coming a little slower now, less certain, her thumbs brushing faintly along his jaw without her really noticing she’s doing it. "You moved into my apartment, and then my house, and—" She trails off, her gaze dropping between them as though the rest of it might be written somewhere safer than his face.
Her head shakes once, small and frustrated, like she’s annoyed it’s taken her this long to even get here. "I’ve never even asked you if you like being here," she admits, quieter still now, the words slipping out before she can tidy them up into something easier. "In Torchline, or..in the house, or.."
But then, as he finds his own conclusion, something inside of Flora dips. It’s subtle, barely there in the way her shoulders soften just a fraction, the way her fingers stop fidgeting with the fabric at her wrist, but it’s enough that she feels it, that small, inward fold of herself as she realises she shouldn’t be surprised, not really, that he hasn’t seen it, hasn’t followed the thread she’d laid out because of course he wouldn’t, because she hadn’t actually said it, and now she’s sitting there with the uncomfortable, squirming awareness that if she wants an answer, she’s going to have to be the one to ask it properly.
He talks about breaking doors, about leaving marks, about never stopping, and she believes him, which almost makes it worse. "Babe," she cuts in, the word slipping out before he’s quite finished, softer than it usually is, edged with something that doesn’t quite match the easy rhythm they’ve been keeping. Flora shifts then, decisively this time, scooching forward until the space between them disappears entirely, lifting her legs to settle around his waist and over his thighs in a way that would probably read as the start of some weird tantric sex position if not for the way her hands come up immediately after, as she cups his cheeks to hold his attention where she wants it.
"Are you sure that you don’t feel like the guy in the story?" she asks, her brows knitting as she searches his face, her voice quieter now, stripped of the playful edges she’s been hiding behind. For a second she holds it there, steady, but it doesn’t last, her expression softening, then dipping, her shoulders slumping just slightly as she exhales, the air leaving her in a small, uneven breath. "I mean...it’s my region," she says, the words coming a little slower now, less certain, her thumbs brushing faintly along his jaw without her really noticing she’s doing it. "You moved into my apartment, and then my house, and—" She trails off, her gaze dropping between them as though the rest of it might be written somewhere safer than his face.
Her head shakes once, small and frustrated, like she’s annoyed it’s taken her this long to even get here. "I’ve never even asked you if you like being here," she admits, quieter still now, the words slipping out before she can tidy them up into something easier. "In Torchline, or..in the house, or.."
anything to get more of this feeling
