I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
As Kaisel hurls himself after her with all the confidence of a man who has not yet accepted that the kitchen has become a hazard, Flora only laughs brighter. She makes no real attempt to get away, though there is a half-hearted twist of her shoulders, more instinct than escape, and for a second the ice carries her just far enough ahead that his fingers slip along her sleeve instead of catching properly. Then his arm hooks around her, yanking her back against him in a messy collision of warmth and cold tile and startled laughter, and whatever balance either of them might have claimed to possess vanishes immediately.
"Oh—shit, Kai—" Flora gasps, but the warning dissolves into another laugh as they skid forward together, her bare feet sliding uselessly over the frosted floor before she's grabbing onto him with both hands, fingers twisting into the soft, hole-worn fabric of his tank top as if that is going to help either of them stay upright. It does not, not really, but it gives her something to hold onto as they careen across the kitchen in a tangle of longjohns, loose shorts, and increasingly poor decisions. Her pom-pom bounces wildly with each uneven glide, and she presses herself closer against him when their combined momentum tips sideways, laughing into the curve of his shoulder as if this had been the plan all along.
Spice chirrups from the counter, far too pleased with her contribution.
Their slide begins to slow near the far stretch of counter, the drag of their feet finally winning against the ice. Flora’s grip loosens by degrees, though she keeps one hand curled against him, not quite ready to give up the warm, ridiculous closeness of it. Her curls have fallen loose beneath the winter hat, her shirt is dusted with melting frost, and the kitchen behind them looks less like a festive activity and more like a mess they'll have to eventually clean up. Still, when she tilts her face up to him, her expression is all innocence.
"What d’you mean?" Flora asks, fluttering her lashes with shameless sweetness. "Don’t you like it?" She glances around the slick floor, the abandoned cheese grater, the half-melted block of ice, and Spice preening on the counter, then looks back at him as if this is all an entirely reasonable way to spend a morning.
"Oh—shit, Kai—" Flora gasps, but the warning dissolves into another laugh as they skid forward together, her bare feet sliding uselessly over the frosted floor before she's grabbing onto him with both hands, fingers twisting into the soft, hole-worn fabric of his tank top as if that is going to help either of them stay upright. It does not, not really, but it gives her something to hold onto as they careen across the kitchen in a tangle of longjohns, loose shorts, and increasingly poor decisions. Her pom-pom bounces wildly with each uneven glide, and she presses herself closer against him when their combined momentum tips sideways, laughing into the curve of his shoulder as if this had been the plan all along.
Spice chirrups from the counter, far too pleased with her contribution.
Their slide begins to slow near the far stretch of counter, the drag of their feet finally winning against the ice. Flora’s grip loosens by degrees, though she keeps one hand curled against him, not quite ready to give up the warm, ridiculous closeness of it. Her curls have fallen loose beneath the winter hat, her shirt is dusted with melting frost, and the kitchen behind them looks less like a festive activity and more like a mess they'll have to eventually clean up. Still, when she tilts her face up to him, her expression is all innocence.
"What d’you mean?" Flora asks, fluttering her lashes with shameless sweetness. "Don’t you like it?" She glances around the slick floor, the abandoned cheese grater, the half-melted block of ice, and Spice preening on the counter, then looks back at him as if this is all an entirely reasonable way to spend a morning.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
