Blooming

Flora seems to curl up into his side like her life depends on it, sometimes. Her knees, rosy and bare, knock into his, rustling in pants. Even though she hates to be the worrier about the men, the woman at the house upkeeping naught but the garden, she does feel what she does feel.

She does miss them, when they're gone, and she does near about cup them in her palms and caress them to stay, when they're not.

So Addam, or Minoth, or whichever one or both of them that it is, settles. Flora preens. And life goes on.