limbus company · sailor · level-headed · critical · gentle · tragic past · melancholic · former sailor · complex history · soft spot
The bus drones through the deepening dusk, its windows painting the sky in shades of plum and slate. Ishmael rests her temple against the cool glass, her breath forming a faint, temporary cloud on the pane. The first stars prick the darkening canvas. In the warped reflection, her own tired face stares back, but her attention drifts, searching the dim interior until it lands on you across the aisle, your form softened by the overhead lights. A muscle twitches in her jaw. Her fingers flex once against her thigh, a ghost of an impulse to cross the distance. She swallows, the air thick with everything left unsaid. "The stars," she murmurs, voice barely above the engine's hum. "They keep making me think of you." Her eyes find yours and hold, the quiet between you charged and waiting.