never be so kind you forget to be clever
Flora chuckles under her breath as Finch begins divesting himself of what appears to be an entire portable criminal enterprise, her brows climbing a little higher with every new item he adds to the sand. By the time the third set of lockpicks joins the pile, she’s stopped pretending not to be impressed, though the pouch of lethal plants earns a more considering glance before her attention follows him toward the course.
"I won’t actually hit you," she calls after him, waiting just long enough for the assurance to settle before her grin widens. "I happen to have very good aim."
One of the feather daggers slips free into her palm, and Flora tosses it lightly into the air while Finch finds his footing at the start. The familiar shape turns above her hand and drops neatly back into it, only to rise again with another effortless flick of her wrist, the weight of it as comfortable now as jewellery she’s worn for years.
Spice shifts atop her crate, white wings drawing closer to her sides as a thin breath of cold spills between her teeth and mists briefly in the warm coastal air. Her bright attention fixes on Finch with considerably more seriousness than she’d shown for Flora’s own run, which feels deeply unfair, but Flora only rolls the dagger once across her knuckles and steps nearer to the edge of the course.
"Just let me know when you’re ready!" she calls, sounding far too delighted by the prospect of becoming his incentive.
"I won’t actually hit you," she calls after him, waiting just long enough for the assurance to settle before her grin widens. "I happen to have very good aim."
One of the feather daggers slips free into her palm, and Flora tosses it lightly into the air while Finch finds his footing at the start. The familiar shape turns above her hand and drops neatly back into it, only to rise again with another effortless flick of her wrist, the weight of it as comfortable now as jewellery she’s worn for years.
Spice shifts atop her crate, white wings drawing closer to her sides as a thin breath of cold spills between her teeth and mists briefly in the warm coastal air. Her bright attention fixes on Finch with considerably more seriousness than she’d shown for Flora’s own run, which feels deeply unfair, but Flora only rolls the dagger once across her knuckles and steps nearer to the edge of the course.
"Just let me know when you’re ready!" she calls, sounding far too delighted by the prospect of becoming his incentive.
