Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
Everest falls into step beside her with a measured pace, not too fast, not too slow, adjusting naturally to her stride without needing to glance. His fingers ghost along the edge of the satchel again before stilling, then starting up—one, two—then stilling once more. "I don’t anticipate awkward silences," he confirms matter-of-factly. "But I like to account for the possibility." His head tilts slightly, expression somewhere between earnest and dry. "Contingency planning. Standard procedure."
They pass the first few vendor stalls, the scent of grilled fruit and sea salt mingling with the floral perfume of someone behind them. He shifts the satchel to his other shoulder, more to keep the balance even than out of necessity, and maybe so that if he should brush against Isla accidentally, it wouldn't be the canvas that would press against her.
Her response to the compliment pulls his gaze sideways for a moment—just a flicker—and something in his jaw eases. "You succeeded," he says after a pause, the words soft but definite. "It’s a good first impression." He hesitates just long enough to notice it before adding, "I also considered dressing up, but Mateo said my definition of formalwear made me look like I was going to file a tax report." The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smirk. "So this was the compromise."
His hand brushes down the line of his shirt in explanation—clean, pressed, neutral—but clearly chosen with care. ['say]"You’re much easier to look at. But I tried."
They pass the first few vendor stalls, the scent of grilled fruit and sea salt mingling with the floral perfume of someone behind them. He shifts the satchel to his other shoulder, more to keep the balance even than out of necessity, and maybe so that if he should brush against Isla accidentally, it wouldn't be the canvas that would press against her.
Her response to the compliment pulls his gaze sideways for a moment—just a flicker—and something in his jaw eases. "You succeeded," he says after a pause, the words soft but definite. "It’s a good first impression." He hesitates just long enough to notice it before adding, "I also considered dressing up, but Mateo said my definition of formalwear made me look like I was going to file a tax report." The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smirk. "So this was the compromise."
His hand brushes down the line of his shirt in explanation—clean, pressed, neutral—but clearly chosen with care. ['say]"You’re much easier to look at. But I tried."
