Ever nods, the motion clipped but not unkind, committing Isla’s words to memory even as he quietly edits them to his own design. She might be able to scorch the blood away with fire, but the bath he has in mind isn’t just about being clean. It’s about warmth, about stillness, about giving her body and mind permission to stop. And it isn’t just for Isla either; he knows the act of preparing it will ground him, too, and of course he wouldn't mind sitting by the Remedy while she soaked, either.
He clears his throat softly in lieu of voicing any of that, a simple confirmation passing between them before he steps aside and leaves her to the work that still needs her. Outside, he retraces their route with deliberate precision, groceries list still fully intact in his head. The clerk gives him an odd look when he explains, with characteristic candour, why he’s back for the exact same items, but the explanation is delivered in such factual, matter-of-fact tones that it doesn’t leave room for humour at his expense.
Once the bags are in hand, Ever brings them back to Isla’s apartment. Each item finds its place with quiet efficiency—produce stacked, dry goods stored, cold items tucked away—and then, when the last cupboard door clicks shut, he pulls a bottle of red wine from its rack. Setting it on the counter, he uncorks it just enough to breathe and come to room temperature, ready to be poured when she finally walks in.
He clears his throat softly in lieu of voicing any of that, a simple confirmation passing between them before he steps aside and leaves her to the work that still needs her. Outside, he retraces their route with deliberate precision, groceries list still fully intact in his head. The clerk gives him an odd look when he explains, with characteristic candour, why he’s back for the exact same items, but the explanation is delivered in such factual, matter-of-fact tones that it doesn’t leave room for humour at his expense.
Once the bags are in hand, Ever brings them back to Isla’s apartment. Each item finds its place with quiet efficiency—produce stacked, dry goods stored, cold items tucked away—and then, when the last cupboard door clicks shut, he pulls a bottle of red wine from its rack. Setting it on the counter, he uncorks it just enough to breathe and come to room temperature, ready to be poured when she finally walks in.
I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through
but i'm grateful to get through
