Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
"It was within acceptable range of weight I can safely carry," Everest says, kneeling on the sand with a practiced grace that makes clear he’s pre-planned every part of this. The blanket is unfolded and smoothed with a precision that borders on reverence. From the satchel, he begins to unpack the contents in order: a chilled bottle of Isla’s favourite tea nestled beside a smaller one of white wine, its label modest and handwritten. A wrapped parcel reveals two sandwiches—filled with roasted vegetables, herbed goat cheese, and crisp pancetta on crusty sourdough.
There’s fruit, too—figs and blackberries arranged in a small (labelled) container—and a separate bundle of napkins, utensils, and a folding corkscrew just in case. He says nothing as he works, only glancing up to make sure she’s still there, still smiling, still bathed in that afternoon warmth like it’s the sun that’s lucky to touch her.
Once everything is set, Ever folds his legs beneath him, sitting just enough in the shade to avoid the direct glare. He doesn’t immediately reach for the food. His gaze slips instead to Isla, and something inside him stutters—because though they’re starting over, and though so much of what happened between them feels like it happened to someone else, his body remembers. Remembers the softness of her hair brushing his neck. The way her fingers always seemed to know where his would be. The warm weight of her suspended over him in the half-light.
It’s difficult—impossible, really—to reconcile those memories with the polite space between them now. His mouth twitches, a flicker of something close to confusion or longing, and he quickly looks down at the blanket, cheeks colouring slightly. "I’ve been thinking of taking up woodworking," he says abruptly, as if the thought has just occurred to him.
There’s fruit, too—figs and blackberries arranged in a small (labelled) container—and a separate bundle of napkins, utensils, and a folding corkscrew just in case. He says nothing as he works, only glancing up to make sure she’s still there, still smiling, still bathed in that afternoon warmth like it’s the sun that’s lucky to touch her.
Once everything is set, Ever folds his legs beneath him, sitting just enough in the shade to avoid the direct glare. He doesn’t immediately reach for the food. His gaze slips instead to Isla, and something inside him stutters—because though they’re starting over, and though so much of what happened between them feels like it happened to someone else, his body remembers. Remembers the softness of her hair brushing his neck. The way her fingers always seemed to know where his would be. The warm weight of her suspended over him in the half-light.
It’s difficult—impossible, really—to reconcile those memories with the polite space between them now. His mouth twitches, a flicker of something close to confusion or longing, and he quickly looks down at the blanket, cheeks colouring slightly. "I’ve been thinking of taking up woodworking," he says abruptly, as if the thought has just occurred to him.
