it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora’s head tilts at his echo of babe, the look she gives Kaisel is soft and faintly admonishing in that way that isn’t really correction so much as habit, something affectionate threaded through it even as she means to hold her ground, though the moment his lips brush against her palms in that slow, deliberate way, something in her gives anyway, a quiet flutter low in her chest that she doesn’t try to hide, her fingers flexing slightly beneath his as though she might keep the feeling there if she holds still enough.
But then as he says that he does understand, the breath she lets out is small and startled, her brows lifting as her head shakes once, not quite in disagreement, more like she’s trying to catch up to him where she didn’t expect him to be. "But you never punched a new door," she says, softer now, the argument slipping out on instinct before she falls quiet again, the words hanging there between them as she searches his face for something she hadn’t been sure she’d find. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling—wanting to be wrong—but she clings to it all the same, the tension in her shoulders easing and tightening all at once as she listens, the small details he offers settling into her one by one like something being carefully rebuilt from the inside out.
When he brushes off the idea that no one thought of Torchline as hers, she can’t quite help herself. "What about Floratopolis?" she murmurs, her mouth curving into a soft, fleeting smile, though it fades again as quickly as it comes, her attention snapping back to him with quiet focus. The mention of the ice cream stain earns a breath of laughter from her, surprised and warm, her eyes rolling in a way that feels more like relief than anything else, her forehead dipping briefly toward his as if she might tuck herself into the space between them and stay there for a second longer.
And still, even as he builds it for her, even as he shows her the marks he’s made, the space he’s carved out, there’s something in her that doesn’t quite settle, some small, stubborn thread that won’t lie flat, and when he leans closer, when his voice shifts, she feels it catch again. Her brows lift, just slightly, and she exhales, the sound soft and uneven, her thumbs brushing once more along his hands where they’re threaded together.
"Do you promise?" she asks, the words quieter now, her gaze holding his with something open and searching. "Because you can tell me," she adds, quickly, like she’s trying to get ahead of whatever answer he might soften for her sake, her grip tightening just a fraction. "And if you do want things to be different, I mean—" she hesitates, her eyes flicking down for the briefest second before she pulls them back up again, steadier now, more certain in what she’s offering, "I know it’d take some work, with everything I’ve got here, but we could figure it out. We could leave, or make something ours somewhere else, or differently, or..whatever you need." Her shoulders dip slightly with the weight of it, but she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t soften it into a joke this time, her voice staying where it is, earnest and a little too vulnerable for someone who usually hides so well.
But then as he says that he does understand, the breath she lets out is small and startled, her brows lifting as her head shakes once, not quite in disagreement, more like she’s trying to catch up to him where she didn’t expect him to be. "But you never punched a new door," she says, softer now, the argument slipping out on instinct before she falls quiet again, the words hanging there between them as she searches his face for something she hadn’t been sure she’d find. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling—wanting to be wrong—but she clings to it all the same, the tension in her shoulders easing and tightening all at once as she listens, the small details he offers settling into her one by one like something being carefully rebuilt from the inside out.
When he brushes off the idea that no one thought of Torchline as hers, she can’t quite help herself. "What about Floratopolis?" she murmurs, her mouth curving into a soft, fleeting smile, though it fades again as quickly as it comes, her attention snapping back to him with quiet focus. The mention of the ice cream stain earns a breath of laughter from her, surprised and warm, her eyes rolling in a way that feels more like relief than anything else, her forehead dipping briefly toward his as if she might tuck herself into the space between them and stay there for a second longer.
And still, even as he builds it for her, even as he shows her the marks he’s made, the space he’s carved out, there’s something in her that doesn’t quite settle, some small, stubborn thread that won’t lie flat, and when he leans closer, when his voice shifts, she feels it catch again. Her brows lift, just slightly, and she exhales, the sound soft and uneven, her thumbs brushing once more along his hands where they’re threaded together.
"Do you promise?" she asks, the words quieter now, her gaze holding his with something open and searching. "Because you can tell me," she adds, quickly, like she’s trying to get ahead of whatever answer he might soften for her sake, her grip tightening just a fraction. "And if you do want things to be different, I mean—" she hesitates, her eyes flicking down for the briefest second before she pulls them back up again, steadier now, more certain in what she’s offering, "I know it’d take some work, with everything I’ve got here, but we could figure it out. We could leave, or make something ours somewhere else, or differently, or..whatever you need." Her shoulders dip slightly with the weight of it, but she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t soften it into a joke this time, her voice staying where it is, earnest and a little too vulnerable for someone who usually hides so well.
anything to get more of this feeling
