Everest
Everest nods to himself at Isla's answer, the small motion more about confirmation than acknowledgement, and he continues folding without assigning meaning to the brief space between her words. Pauses happen. They are normal. He aligns the shirt in his hands, smooths the fabric flat, and brings one sleeve over the other with practiced precision, his focus narrowing comfortably to the simple geometry of it.
The sound of her voice cutting through the apartment a moment later does not fit into that rhythm at all. He freezes, eyes widening with alarm, breath catching sharp and shallow in his chest as the word lands heavy and wrong in the quiet. His gaze flicks instinctively down to the half-folded shirt, because leaving it crumpled would be a problem and he knows that about himself well enough by now, so he finishes the fold with hands that are careful rather than fast, pressing the crease flat as if that might steady the sudden rush of thoughts trying to line up all at once, then he is moving.
Not running, not panicking, but crossing the space with a purposeful urgency that pulls him out of the laundry nook and down the hall toward the bathroom. He slows as he reaches it, instinctively tempering his approach so he does not startle her, and leans in to peer around the frame, head tilting slightly to one side in a way that is more reflex than affectation, the way a dog might. Isla is upright. and breathing; there is no blood, no obvious injury, no immediate sign of the kinds of emergencies his mind flicks through anyway, cataloguing possibilities even as he takes her in with careful blue eyes. He knows better than to assume that means everything is fine, though, and the absence of visible harm does nothing to fully ease the tightness in his chest.
"Are you...are you alright?"
The sound of her voice cutting through the apartment a moment later does not fit into that rhythm at all. He freezes, eyes widening with alarm, breath catching sharp and shallow in his chest as the word lands heavy and wrong in the quiet. His gaze flicks instinctively down to the half-folded shirt, because leaving it crumpled would be a problem and he knows that about himself well enough by now, so he finishes the fold with hands that are careful rather than fast, pressing the crease flat as if that might steady the sudden rush of thoughts trying to line up all at once, then he is moving.
Not running, not panicking, but crossing the space with a purposeful urgency that pulls him out of the laundry nook and down the hall toward the bathroom. He slows as he reaches it, instinctively tempering his approach so he does not startle her, and leans in to peer around the frame, head tilting slightly to one side in a way that is more reflex than affectation, the way a dog might. Isla is upright. and breathing; there is no blood, no obvious injury, no immediate sign of the kinds of emergencies his mind flicks through anyway, cataloguing possibilities even as he takes her in with careful blue eyes. He knows better than to assume that means everything is fine, though, and the absence of visible harm does nothing to fully ease the tightness in his chest.
"Are you...are you alright?"
I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
