His options are still a bit more limited here, where he's not free to blow things up in her honor, and also where he can't manipulate the plant life any more than a regular gardener could. Even so long afterward, Molotov still blushes when she thinks of that flower portrait he grew.
She won't leave, at least not for more than a few angry nights -- she's put too much into this, given up too much to let him go. But it might be worse for her to stay, because Molotov is capable of holding a grudge and enforcing punishments for a really long time.
Decades, actually.
Reaching back, she circles her arms around his neck, sighing happily and closing her eye for a moment as she sinks down. Her hips move before she opens her eye again, but when she does, her gaze is stuck on the ground (or floor, rather), the snow and ice sparkling in the setting sun. She slides one hand into his hair, holds the back of his head, and leans her head toward his, resting it on his shoulder as she keeps looking down.
"You're too good for me, Thomas Cassidy," she murmurs, though it fades out into a quiet pleased sound.
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She won't leave, at least not for more than a few angry nights -- she's put too much into this, given up too much to let him go. But it might be worse for her to stay, because Molotov is capable of holding a grudge and enforcing punishments for a really long time.
Decades, actually.
Reaching back, she circles her arms around his neck, sighing happily and closing her eye for a moment as she sinks down. Her hips move before she opens her eye again, but when she does, her gaze is stuck on the ground (or floor, rather), the snow and ice sparkling in the setting sun. She slides one hand into his hair, holds the back of his head, and leans her head toward his, resting it on his shoulder as she keeps looking down.
"You're too good for me, Thomas Cassidy," she murmurs, though it fades out into a quiet pleased sound.