And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do
Everest Hart is counting by colour again. Pale green. Frosted white. Cobalt blue (rare, rare, careful). He crouches near the edge of the tide with one hand curled protectively around a glinting shard, inspecting its edges for smoothness before tucking it into the pouch at his side. The sand here is coarse, almost coral-like, and sticks in clusters to his knees and cuffs where he's knelt a little too long—but he doesn't notice. Not really. Not when the sun keeps catching on bits of sea-glass like clues in a puzzle, like pieces left just for him to find and make into something useful.
He’s already got three greens, two clear, and one precious blue. Maybe if he finds enough he can group them into gradients, or make a layered piece. Isla likes texture, so maybe—
He doesn’t see the hoodie until he’s nearly walked into it.
"Oh—!" The sound is sharp, like a broken-off note, and Everest halts so suddenly that the glass in his pouch clinks. He stiffens, straightens, arms tight at his sides like he’s trying to disappear without shifting. "Sorry. I—sorry, I didn’t see you. I wasn’t... looking. I didn’t think anyone was here." His voice is quieter now, apology tucked between syllables, and his gaze flicks upward just once—enough to register the man’s face before retreating somewhere safer, like the horizon. Or the sand. Or his shoes.
He’s already got three greens, two clear, and one precious blue. Maybe if he finds enough he can group them into gradients, or make a layered piece. Isla likes texture, so maybe—
He doesn’t see the hoodie until he’s nearly walked into it.
"Oh—!" The sound is sharp, like a broken-off note, and Everest halts so suddenly that the glass in his pouch clinks. He stiffens, straightens, arms tight at his sides like he’s trying to disappear without shifting. "Sorry. I—sorry, I didn’t see you. I wasn’t... looking. I didn’t think anyone was here." His voice is quieter now, apology tucked between syllables, and his gaze flicks upward just once—enough to register the man’s face before retreating somewhere safer, like the horizon. Or the sand. Or his shoes.
