Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
Everest follows her toward the rougher edge of the beach, shoes crunching against packed sand and scattered shell fragments with a rhythmic consistency he finds mildly comforting. The terrain shift pulls a faint frown between his brows—automatic, not disapproving—as he catalogues the uneven footing and adjusts accordingly. The satchel is shifted again. One, two. Balanced.
Isla’s shoulder brushing his doesn’t seem to startle him—just earns a subtle glance to check proximity, followed by a quiet intake of breath he doesn’t comment on, though has the tips of his ears flushing. When she steps out of her sandals, he watches her for a moment—gauging the transition from cobble to sand—before his gaze flicks back up at her words. "I appreciate that," he says honestly, his thumb brushing over the edge of the satchel again. "This was the third outfit I tried. The first two made me look like I was applying for a job at the Skyport. In administration." His mouth tugs wryly. "Too many buttons."
When she compliments his look more directly, Ever’s fingers still for a moment. His eyes meet hers briefly—flicker away—then return with more steadiness than he used to be capable of. "Thank you," he murmurs, quieter than before. "You make it easier to look and feel like I'm meant to be somewhere." His voice doesn’t sound performative; he’s just stating a personal truth.
At her question, he scans the terrain with a methodical gaze. "There—under that palm, near the flat stone?" He points to a patch of shade edged in scattered leaves, semi-screened by greenery and well away from any high-tide line. "The rock will give us back support and there's minimal slope. Sand looks dry. There's sun for you and shade for me." He glances at her again, gesturing gently. "Would that be acceptable?"
Isla’s shoulder brushing his doesn’t seem to startle him—just earns a subtle glance to check proximity, followed by a quiet intake of breath he doesn’t comment on, though has the tips of his ears flushing. When she steps out of her sandals, he watches her for a moment—gauging the transition from cobble to sand—before his gaze flicks back up at her words. "I appreciate that," he says honestly, his thumb brushing over the edge of the satchel again. "This was the third outfit I tried. The first two made me look like I was applying for a job at the Skyport. In administration." His mouth tugs wryly. "Too many buttons."
When she compliments his look more directly, Ever’s fingers still for a moment. His eyes meet hers briefly—flicker away—then return with more steadiness than he used to be capable of. "Thank you," he murmurs, quieter than before. "You make it easier to look and feel like I'm meant to be somewhere." His voice doesn’t sound performative; he’s just stating a personal truth.
At her question, he scans the terrain with a methodical gaze. "There—under that palm, near the flat stone?" He points to a patch of shade edged in scattered leaves, semi-screened by greenery and well away from any high-tide line. "The rock will give us back support and there's minimal slope. Sand looks dry. There's sun for you and shade for me." He glances at her again, gesturing gently. "Would that be acceptable?"
