He glances at me, faintly amused.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “It just means people care about the shape of things.”
He considers that.
Emma disappears into the back again, giving us space without announcing it.
Phil shifts his weight slightly, and I see the moment he feels it. His body reminds him of something he would otherwise ignore. His expression doesn’t change, but I notice the small adjustment, the careful redistribution of balance.
He catches me watching.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“I know.”
“I meant what I said,” he tells me quietly.
I know he isn’t talking about the injuries.
“We are not leaving,” I say.
“I know. But if you ever want to, I’ll be right by your side.”
I realise then that something fundamental has shifted. Not just in him. In me.
Two days ago, I might have wondered if staying was stubbornness. If leaving would be easier. If belonging was something fragile enough to be taken.
Now I understand it isn’t.
Belonging isn’t the absence of challenge.
It’s the decision to remain.
Emma reappears, tossing her keys onto the counter.
“I’ll cover the shop,” she says. “You two look like you need fresh air.”
Phil glances at me.
“Walk?” he asks.
I nod.
Outside, the village moves around us without ceremony. A car passes slowly. Someone waves from across the street. The sky hangs low above the fells, familiar and steady.
Phil’s hand finds mine as we walk.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He doesn’t pull away when someone passes.
He just holds it.
We move through the centre of Fellside without urgency, without needing to explain ourselves to anyone.
The Devil’s Barrel comes into view at the far end of the square.