if it falls, I would hold on for all it's worth.

Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind

Everest’s brow furrows ever so slightly, as if the act of uncorking the wine requires a fraction more effort than it should—but more likely, he's just overthinking his answer. "I...have a new shift," he says a touch stiffly. The cork comes free with a soft pop, and he sets it aside with reverent precision. "For a while, now, I think." While infected, his attuned inclinations had been dampened somewhat. "And I have...urges." To chew. To divert the naturally occurring movements of water. To strip bark from trees. He glances at Isla, expression as deadpan as it is sincere. "Woodworking seems like a reasonable outlet. Keeps my hands busy."

Glass in hand, he pours her wine first—precise, balanced, not quite full—and then his own. As he settles more comfortably onto the blanket, his free hand hovers, not quite fussing, but alert to the placement of the satchel and the alignment of their plates.

"I tried to account for everything," he says, gesturing vaguely at the spread. "But if there’s anything about this setup you’d prefer to adjust, I’d like to know. Lighting. Seating position. Food type. Clothing. Time of day." His gaze skims the edge of her dress before flicking back to her face. "If we’re going to continue this experiment regularly—" a pause, a faint tilt of humour in his mouth, "—we should standardize what variables we can."