I think I can manage being collateral damage
Ever’s breath hitches like something caught in his throat—like her offer is a gust of wind against a paper-thin structure he’s spent all day carefully assembling. His hands, steady by trade and necessity, now twitch faintly against her spine before they ease off altogether. The tension in his jaw doesn’t vanish, not with her hand brushing it, but shifts. Refocuses. He shifts closer—too close—before retreating half a step like his shoes have registered the mistake before his brain has. His chest rises, then falls too fast. "I—" he tries, voice hoarse. "I want to," he murmurs, words low and fraying as he glances down toward the pressure building at the front of his trousers, damning proof of just how accurate his statement is.
"But we’re supposed to be midway through stall four of eight," he mutters, as if saying it out loud might reinforce the boundaries. It doesn't, though, not with the way she’s looking at him. Not with the heat in his spine or the sudden, aching clarity that if they stroll all the way back to her apartment, at a pace he can manage, it’ll take too long. The tension will leak out of him like steam from a valve and he’ll go back to thinking instead of feeling and the impulsivity he recalls Isla being fond of will be drained from the moment.
His gaze flits around the market, searching for a lifeline, something—anything—and lands on a stall nearby. Clothes: racks and folds and, mercifully, a changing area screened off with thick canvas curtains. A glimmer of possibility edges into the chaos of his thoughts.
Turning slightly, he tilts his head toward Isla and lowers his voice to a whisper. "If you...picked something out," he says slowly, like he’s assembling the words as he goes, "and said I needed your help putting it on—" Everest was a terrible liar, but if Isla was willing to compromise her own moral standards about truthtelling, perhaps their research could continue.
"But we’re supposed to be midway through stall four of eight," he mutters, as if saying it out loud might reinforce the boundaries. It doesn't, though, not with the way she’s looking at him. Not with the heat in his spine or the sudden, aching clarity that if they stroll all the way back to her apartment, at a pace he can manage, it’ll take too long. The tension will leak out of him like steam from a valve and he’ll go back to thinking instead of feeling and the impulsivity he recalls Isla being fond of will be drained from the moment.
His gaze flits around the market, searching for a lifeline, something—anything—and lands on a stall nearby. Clothes: racks and folds and, mercifully, a changing area screened off with thick canvas curtains. A glimmer of possibility edges into the chaos of his thoughts.
Turning slightly, he tilts his head toward Isla and lowers his voice to a whisper. "If you...picked something out," he says slowly, like he’s assembling the words as he goes, "and said I needed your help putting it on—" Everest was a terrible liar, but if Isla was willing to compromise her own moral standards about truthtelling, perhaps their research could continue.
.
