wish I could bottle the taste
Something in The Ark stills as Kaisel turns toward her, a subtle tightening beneath the surface, like a current drawing inward before it breaks, the shape of him settling into her awareness not as a surprise but as a point she has already charted. It flickers there for only a moment, that low, predatory alignment, before it smooths away entirely, leaving nothing behind but the soft disarray of someone caught off-balance.
Her lashes lift as he closes in, the blue of her eyes brightened by the damp light, unfocused for just long enough to sell the haze of it before they find him properly, anchoring there as though he is the first solid thing in the aftermath. When she reaches for him it is not immediate, her hand hovering for a breath as if uncertain of its own strength, before settling against his arm with a light, trembling pressure that leans more than it grips.
"I—" The word falters, her voice catching in a way that feels unpracticed, as though the wind has stolen more than just her footing, and she swallows before trying again, softer this time, closer. "There was a boy—he said he wanted to show me something, and then there was all that—" her breath hitches, a small, incredulous sound slipping through as she glances briefly at the unsettled air around them, "—wind, and he was just gone, and so was my purse."
Her weight shifts more fully into him as she speaks, not collapsing outright but allowing just enough of herself to sag that it feels like the effort of staying upright is something she is losing ground on. Her shoulder brushes into him, her balance tethered there as though she has nowhere else to place it, leaving her instead with that same soft, disordered impression, something momentarily shaken loose.
"I think—" Her gaze drops, following the line of her own body to where one leg remains slightly twisted beneath her, the angle just wrong enough to catch the eye, and when she shifts it there is a sharp intake of breath, a quiet, pretty sound pulled tight with discomfort as her fingers curl faintly against his sleeve. "I think I rolled my ankle—" The movement is small, controlled, but she lets the reaction bloom larger than it needs to, her breath catching again as she tests it, the faintest tremor running through her as she stills, as though even that was too much. When her eyes lift back to him they are wide, open in a way that invites rather than demands, the line of her mouth softened by something that reads as uncertainty rather than design.
"Can you help me up?"
Her lashes lift as he closes in, the blue of her eyes brightened by the damp light, unfocused for just long enough to sell the haze of it before they find him properly, anchoring there as though he is the first solid thing in the aftermath. When she reaches for him it is not immediate, her hand hovering for a breath as if uncertain of its own strength, before settling against his arm with a light, trembling pressure that leans more than it grips.
"I—" The word falters, her voice catching in a way that feels unpracticed, as though the wind has stolen more than just her footing, and she swallows before trying again, softer this time, closer. "There was a boy—he said he wanted to show me something, and then there was all that—" her breath hitches, a small, incredulous sound slipping through as she glances briefly at the unsettled air around them, "—wind, and he was just gone, and so was my purse."
Her weight shifts more fully into him as she speaks, not collapsing outright but allowing just enough of herself to sag that it feels like the effort of staying upright is something she is losing ground on. Her shoulder brushes into him, her balance tethered there as though she has nowhere else to place it, leaving her instead with that same soft, disordered impression, something momentarily shaken loose.
"I think—" Her gaze drops, following the line of her own body to where one leg remains slightly twisted beneath her, the angle just wrong enough to catch the eye, and when she shifts it there is a sharp intake of breath, a quiet, pretty sound pulled tight with discomfort as her fingers curl faintly against his sleeve. "I think I rolled my ankle—" The movement is small, controlled, but she lets the reaction bloom larger than it needs to, her breath catching again as she tests it, the faintest tremor running through her as she stills, as though even that was too much. When her eyes lift back to him they are wide, open in a way that invites rather than demands, the line of her mouth softened by something that reads as uncertainty rather than design.
"Can you help me up?"
'cause i'd drink up the look on your face
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
