EVEREST
Ever’s fingers curl lightly around hers—not tight, but definite. Grounding. His thumb brushes once across the back of her hand, more a subconscious motion than anything deliberate, and he glances at her sidelong with a private, almost conspiratorial smile. "Romantic gestures are probably still going to be mostly lost on me," he murmurs. "But I did want to do something for you. Something that felt like it meant...something." He shrugs slightly, the admission soft-edged but honest.
The Hanged Man’s dusk-gilded coolness gives way to Torchline’s relentless, blinding sun, and Everest blinks hard in the sudden flood of light. He doesn’t let go of Isla’s hand—he simply tilts his head, eyes narrowed, and scans for something livable. A patch of shade, tucked just beneath the lean of the tavern’s overhang, finally earns his approval. He leads her there with slow steps, as if the moment might dissolve if they moved too quickly.
Settling into the sliver of shadow, Ever finally lifts his eyes to hers properly. "I think getting to know each other again is important," he says plainly. "Because this version of me isn’t one you’ve met before. And I don’t want you to commit to something just because you remember what it used to feel like." He says it without defensiveness—just the careful, deliberate cadence of someone laying facts out like compass points.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly in hers. "But I’m not upset about what happened," he adds, the words carrying a quiet, anchored weight. "Not about the beach. Not about the lily. Not at you. You made the only choice that was right. I understand that. I really do."
The Hanged Man’s dusk-gilded coolness gives way to Torchline’s relentless, blinding sun, and Everest blinks hard in the sudden flood of light. He doesn’t let go of Isla’s hand—he simply tilts his head, eyes narrowed, and scans for something livable. A patch of shade, tucked just beneath the lean of the tavern’s overhang, finally earns his approval. He leads her there with slow steps, as if the moment might dissolve if they moved too quickly.
Settling into the sliver of shadow, Ever finally lifts his eyes to hers properly. "I think getting to know each other again is important," he says plainly. "Because this version of me isn’t one you’ve met before. And I don’t want you to commit to something just because you remember what it used to feel like." He says it without defensiveness—just the careful, deliberate cadence of someone laying facts out like compass points.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly in hers. "But I’m not upset about what happened," he adds, the words carrying a quiet, anchored weight. "Not about the beach. Not about the lily. Not at you. You made the only choice that was right. I understand that. I really do."
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
