I think I can manage being collateral damage
At her mention of the Northaven’s quieter shores, he nods immediately, his free hand already reaching into his satchel to add a mental note with his finger along the inside flap. "Less ship traffic, stable tides, controlled exposure window—yes, that would be ideal." He glances over the wood again, the ridged grains of one sample catching the light like water rippling across a lakebed, the pull of it blurring away whatever feelings might have tried to surface about the Northaven's proximity to a certain demigod.
Everest turns toward her at that, expression flickering somewhere between intrigued and conspiratorial. "That would fulfill multiple variables," he murmurs, as if she’s just handed him the golden blueprint of their entire day. "An objective reference sample for testing. A subjective one to satisfy instinctual urges. And one for sentiment." His gaze lingers on hers for just a second longer than necessary. "Marked accordingly."
He doesn’t let go of Isla’s hand as they approach the stall but does flex his fingers gently, a quiet cue in case she wants to step closer or help with the selection. "Three samples," he says to the vendor, tone quiet but certain. "Marked cedar A, B, and C, if you could." Then, to Isla with a softer look, "I’ll need your help deciding which is for science, which is for instinct, and which one I just like because you touched it." He might be deadpan in delivery, but the slight crook of his mouth suggests he’s very aware of how ridiculous—and ridiculously happy—he sounds.
Everest turns toward her at that, expression flickering somewhere between intrigued and conspiratorial. "That would fulfill multiple variables," he murmurs, as if she’s just handed him the golden blueprint of their entire day. "An objective reference sample for testing. A subjective one to satisfy instinctual urges. And one for sentiment." His gaze lingers on hers for just a second longer than necessary. "Marked accordingly."
He doesn’t let go of Isla’s hand as they approach the stall but does flex his fingers gently, a quiet cue in case she wants to step closer or help with the selection. "Three samples," he says to the vendor, tone quiet but certain. "Marked cedar A, B, and C, if you could." Then, to Isla with a softer look, "I’ll need your help deciding which is for science, which is for instinct, and which one I just like because you touched it." He might be deadpan in delivery, but the slight crook of his mouth suggests he’s very aware of how ridiculous—and ridiculously happy—he sounds.
.
