your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora’s smile blooms instantly, wide and unguarded, the kind that feels almost too bright for the quiet hallway as she looks up at him like he’s just said something far more impressive than I have a year to figure it out, like the future itself has already been solved simply because he exists in it with her. There’s something dangerously cinematic about the way they move together—barefoot and tipsy and slightly off-balance, her arm looped around him as though letting go isn’t even a concept worth entertaining—like if anyone had the sense to capture it, to bottle it, it would look exactly like this: her curls falling loose, his laughter still lingering in the air, both of them suspended in that soft, golden edge between celebration and exhaustion where everything feels a little bit more real.
So when he murmurs that there’s one more thing, her attention drops immediately, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion as they land on the very obvious bulge in his pocket, her brows lifting slowly as she tips her gaze back up to him, unimpressed in the most performative way possible. "Oh, is there?" she drawls, tone thick with playful skepticism as she eyes him like she’s already decided whatever this is, it’s ridiculous. And when he adds instructions, she lets out a soft scoff, rolling her eyes with a dramatic tilt of her head. "Uh uh. You think I’m going to fall for that again?"
But of course, she will and does, and as he gestures toward the chair, she drops into it without much protest, her body giving in easily now that it’s been reminded just how tired it is, even as her mouth opens immediately, indignation already rising to defend herself. "I was not snooping, I was—" she starts, the lie collapsing almost instantly under its own weight as she catches herself mid-protest, lips pressing together as she exhales sharply through her nose. A beat, and then a huff, all theatrical annoyance as she lifts her chin, defiance settling into her posture like she’s decided that if she can’t win on honesty, she’ll win on attitude instead.
"Fine," she declares, as though she’s doing him a favour, closing her eyes with deliberate exaggeration and holding out her hands, palms up, fingers slightly curled in expectation. "But if this is an onion, you're sleeping on the floor."
So when he murmurs that there’s one more thing, her attention drops immediately, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion as they land on the very obvious bulge in his pocket, her brows lifting slowly as she tips her gaze back up to him, unimpressed in the most performative way possible. "Oh, is there?" she drawls, tone thick with playful skepticism as she eyes him like she’s already decided whatever this is, it’s ridiculous. And when he adds instructions, she lets out a soft scoff, rolling her eyes with a dramatic tilt of her head. "Uh uh. You think I’m going to fall for that again?"
But of course, she will and does, and as he gestures toward the chair, she drops into it without much protest, her body giving in easily now that it’s been reminded just how tired it is, even as her mouth opens immediately, indignation already rising to defend herself. "I was not snooping, I was—" she starts, the lie collapsing almost instantly under its own weight as she catches herself mid-protest, lips pressing together as she exhales sharply through her nose. A beat, and then a huff, all theatrical annoyance as she lifts her chin, defiance settling into her posture like she’s decided that if she can’t win on honesty, she’ll win on attitude instead.
"Fine," she declares, as though she’s doing him a favour, closing her eyes with deliberate exaggeration and holding out her hands, palms up, fingers slightly curled in expectation. "But if this is an onion, you're sleeping on the floor."
