“My hair?”
“The purple.”
“Lilac.”
“Lilac,” I repeat carefully. “It’s… hypnotic.”
She laughs again.
This time, there’s affection in it.
For a brief, fragile moment, everything feels possible.
I see the future unfold in small, impossible glimpses. Walking beside her through Fellside. Sitting across fromher like this without fear. Existing in her orbit without feeling like an intruder.
Then the alcohol shifts again.
Confidence arrives.
False. Loud. Unwelcome.
“You know,” I say, leaning forward, “I’ve thought about kissing you.”
The silence that follows is enormous.
Her eyes widen again and I should take this as a sign to stop. But I can’t.
“I mean, not constantly. That would be obsessive. But occasionally. Frequently. Sometimes daily.”
Stop talking.
Stop talking.
She studies me carefully now, her expression changing.
Concern.
“Phil,” she says quietly, “how much have you had to drink?”
“Not much.”
Lie.
My stomach rolls slightly.
The room tilts.
I lean back too quickly, nearly knocking my chair.
“I’m okay,” I say.
She reaches across the table, placing her hand lightly over mine.
The contact is grounding.
Real.
Warm.