EVEREST
Ever's head tilts toward her, the corners of his mouth pulling into something wry and quiet. "Shame, then," he says, voice low with a trace of dry amusement, "that I just bumped into you at a party. If you’d prefer, I can walk away and circle back around. You can pretend you haven’t seen me yet. That way the gesture lands better." He glances sidelong at her from beneath the shade, expression warm even if his delivery is still clinically precise.
At her offer to sit, he nods once—short and measured, then eases into one of the chairs with his free hand brushing against the wood first, checking for temperature. He doesn’t let go of hers until absolutely necessary. "I am still getting used to it," he agrees, brow furrowing slightly. "The markers are all still there—the way I process things, the way I respond to certain types of change. But without the anxiety constantly setting everything on fire, I have more control. Or...I think I do. It’s only been a few days."
He pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then offers her a look that is suspiciously close to a deadpan joke."We may need to run some tests. Controlled conditions. Repeatable stimuli. Variables like you and time of day." He pauses a moment and then adds: "Some people might call them dates."
But Isla’s emotion doesn’t go unnoticed. His hand, no longer held, comes to rest against his leg, flexing once—his version of a squeeze he can’t quite offer aloud. "I don’t know if feelings are always the best way to gauge whether something’s right or wrong," he says softly. "You felt terrible. That doesn’t mean the decision was wrong. Just that it was difficult for you."
A breath, then, because even now there are some things that are harder to say. But he gets there. "I could have done without Remi, though," he adds, tone carefully flat. "Being knocked out wasn’t a high point. At the time, it felt like a set-up. Like you were all conspiring to erase me. But now—" He shrugs, looking over at her again. "Now I can see it wasn’t. It was just...happenstance, and a way forward."
At her offer to sit, he nods once—short and measured, then eases into one of the chairs with his free hand brushing against the wood first, checking for temperature. He doesn’t let go of hers until absolutely necessary. "I am still getting used to it," he agrees, brow furrowing slightly. "The markers are all still there—the way I process things, the way I respond to certain types of change. But without the anxiety constantly setting everything on fire, I have more control. Or...I think I do. It’s only been a few days."
He pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then offers her a look that is suspiciously close to a deadpan joke."We may need to run some tests. Controlled conditions. Repeatable stimuli. Variables like you and time of day." He pauses a moment and then adds: "Some people might call them dates."
But Isla’s emotion doesn’t go unnoticed. His hand, no longer held, comes to rest against his leg, flexing once—his version of a squeeze he can’t quite offer aloud. "I don’t know if feelings are always the best way to gauge whether something’s right or wrong," he says softly. "You felt terrible. That doesn’t mean the decision was wrong. Just that it was difficult for you."
A breath, then, because even now there are some things that are harder to say. But he gets there. "I could have done without Remi, though," he adds, tone carefully flat. "Being knocked out wasn’t a high point. At the time, it felt like a set-up. Like you were all conspiring to erase me. But now—" He shrugs, looking over at her again. "Now I can see it wasn’t. It was just...happenstance, and a way forward."
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
