we're always running scared but holding knives
She's sorry for that, too, that he has to feel all of her emotions, however selfish or pathetic they might be, but it's only partially why she steps in and reaches up to try and wipe away the tears that track his cheeks. Isla just can't stand to see him upset, not like this, and she gives his hand a gentle squeeze in return, however clumsy his own might be. "It's never too late," she whispers, "not with me. Three years is nothing."
Letting him go that he might kneel down, Isla doesn't need to be invited to sit - she's already doing it, plonking herself right beside him and accepting the bottle of gin. "Did you?" she asks, giving him a shy sort of smile for his trouble and uncorking the bottle, lifting it to her lips. She tastes little more than the burn, but even then it's enough. It's something.
"Why did you send my vial back?" Lowering the bottle, she offers it back out to him.
Letting him go that he might kneel down, Isla doesn't need to be invited to sit - she's already doing it, plonking herself right beside him and accepting the bottle of gin. "Did you?" she asks, giving him a shy sort of smile for his trouble and uncorking the bottle, lifting it to her lips. She tastes little more than the burn, but even then it's enough. It's something.
"Why did you send my vial back?" Lowering the bottle, she offers it back out to him.
Isla
