Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
Everest considers Isla’s words—the sample board, the textures, the notes—and something in his chest unfurls just a little. What had once felt like a looming inconvenience, another variable to catalogue and manage and fold into the rest of his already crowded mind, now slots neatly into place. Framed the way she puts it, it becomes a task with parameters. Predictable. Constructive. Maybe even satisfying. His fingers tap once against her palm, light and unthinking.
"You make it seem so simple," he murmurs, blinking down at the joined space between their hands like it’s something worth memorizing. "That helps."
And then she’s squeezing his fingers and speaking of promises, of knowing him—and whether or not she should say that, whether or not she’s right—his mind can’t conjure an argument. The version of him she’s referring to may be recent, but it feels less like something new and more like someone who’s been trying to surface for a long time.
So he shifts—minutely. The space between them hasn’t changed, but something inside him does. His fingers flinch against hers, not pulling away but tightening ever so slightly, and his breath slips in a little too sharply before he recovers it. He looks at her, truly looks, and though the lighting is soft and the breeze smells faintly of sea salt and fruit, there's nothing casual about the way he holds her gaze.
"Would it be alright," he whispers, voice just barely above the hush of the waves behind them, "if I kissed you?" Not because he doesn’t know the answer—but because asking is part of who he is. Because asking means she'll know he's sure.
"You make it seem so simple," he murmurs, blinking down at the joined space between their hands like it’s something worth memorizing. "That helps."
And then she’s squeezing his fingers and speaking of promises, of knowing him—and whether or not she should say that, whether or not she’s right—his mind can’t conjure an argument. The version of him she’s referring to may be recent, but it feels less like something new and more like someone who’s been trying to surface for a long time.
So he shifts—minutely. The space between them hasn’t changed, but something inside him does. His fingers flinch against hers, not pulling away but tightening ever so slightly, and his breath slips in a little too sharply before he recovers it. He looks at her, truly looks, and though the lighting is soft and the breeze smells faintly of sea salt and fruit, there's nothing casual about the way he holds her gaze.
"Would it be alright," he whispers, voice just barely above the hush of the waves behind them, "if I kissed you?" Not because he doesn’t know the answer—but because asking is part of who he is. Because asking means she'll know he's sure.
