EVEREST
Everest nods, something about Isla’s words striking a quiet chord inside him. "I’d like that," he says, sincere and immediate. "The second opinions. I don’t always catch things as they happen, but you’re good at that. Observing. Naming things. I trust your judgement." His smile twitches into something shy but genuine, still a little surprised by how easily the words come now—not unfiltered, but unhindered.
The mention of tomorrow earns a nod just as sure. "Later is best. I know what Mateo’s mornings usually look like after parties like this. There’s a high probability of glitter in the galley and someone I don’t know asleep in the sink." There’s no edge to the comment, just dry affection, and his thumb shifts once more against the back of her hand. No doubt Everest will curl up as a canine in the corner of La Verbena to keep himself out of whatever antics take up the botanist's early hours.
For a moment he’s quiet again, watching the way her fingers rest in his. "It feels like it’s been longer since we've talked than objectively it has," he murmurs, voice lowering like the truth of it needs a softer place to land. "Not just weeks, but...longer." He reaches forward and slides his other hand beneath hers, cradling Isla’s hand between both of his. His hands are warm and solid, and while the touch is gentle, there’s a kind of anchoring weight to it too. Like he doesn’t want her to doubt that he’s here now; that he doesn't want to doubt it either.
The mention of tomorrow earns a nod just as sure. "Later is best. I know what Mateo’s mornings usually look like after parties like this. There’s a high probability of glitter in the galley and someone I don’t know asleep in the sink." There’s no edge to the comment, just dry affection, and his thumb shifts once more against the back of her hand. No doubt Everest will curl up as a canine in the corner of La Verbena to keep himself out of whatever antics take up the botanist's early hours.
For a moment he’s quiet again, watching the way her fingers rest in his. "It feels like it’s been longer since we've talked than objectively it has," he murmurs, voice lowering like the truth of it needs a softer place to land. "Not just weeks, but...longer." He reaches forward and slides his other hand beneath hers, cradling Isla’s hand between both of his. His hands are warm and solid, and while the touch is gentle, there’s a kind of anchoring weight to it too. Like he doesn’t want her to doubt that he’s here now; that he doesn't want to doubt it either.
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
