EVEREST
The shift in Isla's weight is subtle, but Ever feels it instantly; his hands tighten just enough to steady her without startling her, one arm sliding more securely around her as the other moves instinctively to the small of her back. His palm finds the curve there and begins tracing small, firm circles, measured and consistent—exactly as the books had recommended, exactly as he had practised in his mind—pressure, release. pressure, release. Not too fast. Not too light. He watches her face instead of the clock, instead of the door, instead of anything else. When her breathing begins to even again, when the tension drains fractionally from her expression, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
"You did really well," he says softly, the words earnest and almost clinical in their sincerity, as though acknowledging a completed procedure. But when she speaks again—when she names the part he cannot fix—something unsettled passes over him. It is not fear of noise or chaos; he can catalogue those. It is the knowledge that pain will arrive and he will not be able to intercept it, reroute it, or absorb it on her behalf. The idea lodges somewhere sharp behind his ribs and he swallows hard against it. "I know," he says quietly, because he does. They have discussed this too. He has read about the unpredictability, about the loss of composure, about the animal sounds and the disorientation and the intensity of it all.
"You are more than strong enough to do this," he tells her, and there is no exaggeration in it. He believes in her competence the way he believes in gravity, and he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead again, lingering there, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. "Whatever you need to do to get through it," he continues, voice firming into something anchored and deliberate, "I will be right there with you. The whole time."
Keeping one arm secure around her, he bends to retrieve the neatly packed bag with his free hand, straightening carefully so as not to jostle her balance. The apartment feels suddenly smaller, charged with purpose, and he finds he's suddenly eager to leave. He offers Isla a steady look, calm and ready despite the quickened rhythm in his chest. "Shall we?"
"You did really well," he says softly, the words earnest and almost clinical in their sincerity, as though acknowledging a completed procedure. But when she speaks again—when she names the part he cannot fix—something unsettled passes over him. It is not fear of noise or chaos; he can catalogue those. It is the knowledge that pain will arrive and he will not be able to intercept it, reroute it, or absorb it on her behalf. The idea lodges somewhere sharp behind his ribs and he swallows hard against it. "I know," he says quietly, because he does. They have discussed this too. He has read about the unpredictability, about the loss of composure, about the animal sounds and the disorientation and the intensity of it all.
"You are more than strong enough to do this," he tells her, and there is no exaggeration in it. He believes in her competence the way he believes in gravity, and he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead again, lingering there, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. "Whatever you need to do to get through it," he continues, voice firming into something anchored and deliberate, "I will be right there with you. The whole time."
Keeping one arm secure around her, he bends to retrieve the neatly packed bag with his free hand, straightening carefully so as not to jostle her balance. The apartment feels suddenly smaller, charged with purpose, and he finds he's suddenly eager to leave. He offers Isla a steady look, calm and ready despite the quickened rhythm in his chest. "Shall we?"
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
