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Her face is close enough that Florence can examine her thoroughly: the wetness of her hair, the lines cropped in the corners of her eyes, the dark blue of her eye that disappears into darker pupils, her pores, even. Taylor is looking at her as if she is doing exactly the same: taking inventory. She leans further into Florence, her nose bumping against her hair, her hand cradled at the base of her skull tenderly.
“Hm,” she hums. “Orange blossom. Good. Citrus suits you.”
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wlw kills me AUGH IM GOING TO HELL FOR THIS