Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
Everest nods once, his breath catching softly in the pause between her words and the weight of their meaning. Anything you think feels right. That would’ve terrified him, once—trying to measure rightness in a body that rarely seemed to speak the same language as those around it. But with Isla, so much of that fear is blunted, dulled like the clatter of sound under water.
He tries, instinctively, to take stock. To calculate angle, distance, the best placement of hands. But something in him releases—like the cork from the bottle earlier, clean and sudden—and everything else just...quietly falls away.
His hand rises slowly, reverently, fingertips brushing against the softness of her cheek. There’s a feather-light pause as if he means to stay there, to just touch her, but then his palm slides further back into her hair. It curls around his fingers like it remembers him as he tugs her closer. He leans in, the kiss not rushed but inevitable, and when their mouths meet, it’s gentle at first, almost searching—until it isn’t. The moment their lips catch, the physicality of it becomes total, electric, grounding. The usual buzz of variables and internal self-checks fades completely, like someone dimmed the lights on the world outside her skin.
He moves as if led by instinct and memory both, coaxing her into the kiss rather than pressing into it. His free hand comes down to brace against the blanket, subtly shifting them so that she might tip toward him rather than backward, the sweep of her dress spared the grass and sand in favour of his linen shirt.
And it’s good; gods, it’s good how quiet his mind is. No spiralling, no static. Just Isla. Just the press of her lips and the warmth of her body, the soft shape of her sigh and the scent of her skin, and the way the feel of her against him has everything else fading further and further away.
He tries, instinctively, to take stock. To calculate angle, distance, the best placement of hands. But something in him releases—like the cork from the bottle earlier, clean and sudden—and everything else just...quietly falls away.
His hand rises slowly, reverently, fingertips brushing against the softness of her cheek. There’s a feather-light pause as if he means to stay there, to just touch her, but then his palm slides further back into her hair. It curls around his fingers like it remembers him as he tugs her closer. He leans in, the kiss not rushed but inevitable, and when their mouths meet, it’s gentle at first, almost searching—until it isn’t. The moment their lips catch, the physicality of it becomes total, electric, grounding. The usual buzz of variables and internal self-checks fades completely, like someone dimmed the lights on the world outside her skin.
He moves as if led by instinct and memory both, coaxing her into the kiss rather than pressing into it. His free hand comes down to brace against the blanket, subtly shifting them so that she might tip toward him rather than backward, the sweep of her dress spared the grass and sand in favour of his linen shirt.
And it’s good; gods, it’s good how quiet his mind is. No spiralling, no static. Just Isla. Just the press of her lips and the warmth of her body, the soft shape of her sigh and the scent of her skin, and the way the feel of her against him has everything else fading further and further away.
