wish I could bottle the taste
The breath she lets out is soft and unsteady, a quiet exhale that seems to sink rather than leave her, her head tipping faintly as though she cannot quite make sense of the way the moment has unfolded. "I thought Torchline was supposed to be safe," she says, the word drawn just slightly, not sharpened into accusation but held there between them with enough weight that it settles, her eyes lifting to his as if the answer might be found somewhere in the space he occupies, something he might correct if only he reached for it.
Her gaze slips away a fraction, her mouth pressing thin before easing again, and the next words come quieter, nearly lost beneath the lingering noise of the market but shaped clearly enough to find him all the same. "Maybe I won’t move here." The thought hangs there only a moment before she seems to catch herself, her throat clearing gently as she nods, pulling the thread back into something more manageable. "I only saw him for a second, but—I can try. I’ll do my best."
When he shifts to lift her, she yields to it easily, her arm settling around his shoulders as though it belongs there, her weight folding into his hold with a softness that feels less like being carried and more like being gathered. The contact draws closer than it needs to, her body aligning to his in a way that is subtle but unmistakable, her fingers resting against his shoulder not as a grip but as a presence, light and deliberate.
Her hair spills with the motion, those long red waves sliding forward and catching the damp air without ever truly succumbing to it, brushing faintly against him as he brings her up, the faint scent of salt deepening in the space between them. She turns her face toward him then, just enough, her lips curving into something small and warm despite the strain she lets linger in the rest of her, wine-dark and parted slightly as she draws in a careful breath. "I’m so lucky you came along," she murmurs, the words soft and touched with something that trembles at the edges, her voice dipping low in a way that feels less like speaking and more like something slipping quietly beneath the surface.
Her gaze slips away a fraction, her mouth pressing thin before easing again, and the next words come quieter, nearly lost beneath the lingering noise of the market but shaped clearly enough to find him all the same. "Maybe I won’t move here." The thought hangs there only a moment before she seems to catch herself, her throat clearing gently as she nods, pulling the thread back into something more manageable. "I only saw him for a second, but—I can try. I’ll do my best."
When he shifts to lift her, she yields to it easily, her arm settling around his shoulders as though it belongs there, her weight folding into his hold with a softness that feels less like being carried and more like being gathered. The contact draws closer than it needs to, her body aligning to his in a way that is subtle but unmistakable, her fingers resting against his shoulder not as a grip but as a presence, light and deliberate.
Her hair spills with the motion, those long red waves sliding forward and catching the damp air without ever truly succumbing to it, brushing faintly against him as he brings her up, the faint scent of salt deepening in the space between them. She turns her face toward him then, just enough, her lips curving into something small and warm despite the strain she lets linger in the rest of her, wine-dark and parted slightly as she draws in a careful breath. "I’m so lucky you came along," she murmurs, the words soft and touched with something that trembles at the edges, her voice dipping low in a way that feels less like speaking and more like something slipping quietly beneath the surface.
'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.
