Ever’s frown would come immediately at Isla’s explanation, brow furrowing as his mind clicks through the implications. The Fingers are dangerous, yes, but even dangerous places have their rules, the sort of unspoken structure that keeps chaos from turning to full collapse. "Intentionally?" he murmurs, cataloguing the word with obvious weight. That would mean motive, planning, a breach of what balance Torchline usually manages to hold together. He doesn’t press further, but the thought slots itself firmly away to gnaw on later.
When Isla draws closer, he shifts—not away, but in mindful adjustment, the concern for germs and cross-contamination overriding the impulse to simply catch her hand. Instead he turns just so, offering her his elbow. It’s a small ritual, one they’ve unconsciously developed for these in-between spaces: when her hands are full, or his are occupied, or one or both of them have reason not to touch directly but still want that tether. His elbow fits comfortably against her side, his expression softening the moment she takes it.
"If you close up the clinic and then have to face another round of shopping, you won’t stop moving until dark." His thumb taps lightly against his sleeve in a tiny, unconscious staccato. "I know exactly what we need. I can go, pick everything up, and meet you at home. Then you can walk out of here and be done." He glances down at her shirt, the faint spatter of red not fully hidden despite her best efforts, then looks back up. "Or, if you’d prefer, I can meet you there and run you a bath, so it’s ready when you are." The offer is plain, practical, but his gaze holds an undercurrent of quiet affection, the sort that makes the phrasing less clinical than it sounds. "You shouldn’t have to do anything more after all of this."
When Isla draws closer, he shifts—not away, but in mindful adjustment, the concern for germs and cross-contamination overriding the impulse to simply catch her hand. Instead he turns just so, offering her his elbow. It’s a small ritual, one they’ve unconsciously developed for these in-between spaces: when her hands are full, or his are occupied, or one or both of them have reason not to touch directly but still want that tether. His elbow fits comfortably against her side, his expression softening the moment she takes it.
"If you close up the clinic and then have to face another round of shopping, you won’t stop moving until dark." His thumb taps lightly against his sleeve in a tiny, unconscious staccato. "I know exactly what we need. I can go, pick everything up, and meet you at home. Then you can walk out of here and be done." He glances down at her shirt, the faint spatter of red not fully hidden despite her best efforts, then looks back up. "Or, if you’d prefer, I can meet you there and run you a bath, so it’s ready when you are." The offer is plain, practical, but his gaze holds an undercurrent of quiet affection, the sort that makes the phrasing less clinical than it sounds. "You shouldn’t have to do anything more after all of this."
I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through
but i'm grateful to get through
