I take the glass back to refill it, then go looking for a bucket. If this evening has taught me anything, it’s that I like contingency plans. I find a plastic bucket in a tiny utility cupboard off the kitchen and bring it back, placing it beside the sofa like a very unromantic accessory.
When I look up again, he’s asleep.
Just like that. His breathing has evened out, his face slack with exhaustion. The tension that usually lives in his posture has drained away, leaving him looking younger, almost innocent, in a way that makes my chest ache despite myself.
It would be a lot easier to stay angry if he looked less like someone who genuinely hates himself right now.
There’s still a faint greenish tint to his skin, and his dark blond hair is a mess, falling across his forehead. He has stubble along his jaw and cheeks. Not enough to be properly rugged, just enough to make him look like a man who forgot to shave because he had bigger problems. Like being terrified of a woman who has apparently decided to insert herself into his life whether he’s ready or not.
I reach out before I can stop myself and brush his fringe back.
His hair is soft.
His skin is warm.
My anger falters, irritatingly.
“Ah, Phil,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
There’s a stubbornness about me that never can be scared away, Elizabeth Bennet says. Or something close to that. I’m not good at quoting perfectly, but I’m excellentat the part where I refuse to back down. It’s one of my best traits and one of my worst. It’s the reason I moved to Fellside when my mum thought I’d lost my mind. It’s the reason I opened a shop with my best friend in a village that took one look at me and decided to watch carefully before deciding what category I belonged in.
It’s also the reason I’m still here.
Because part of me is furious at him for making a choice that put me in the position of caretaker on our first date.
And part of me can’t stop thinking about why he made that choice.
He didn’t show up drunk because he didn’t care.
He showed up drunk because he cared too much and didn’t know how to hold it.
My phone vibrates. I step back into the kitchen so I don’t wake him when I answer.
“Hey, Alex.” I tried calling him as we left the restaurant. My decidedly unheroic frame was not designed for hauling six feet of unsteady man through the night, so I rang Alex in the vague hope of backup. Straight to voicemail. So I adjusted my grip, hitched him higher against my side, and carried on as best I could.
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear the familiar grin in his voice. “Sorry I missed your call. Everything okay?”
I glance toward the living room.
“Yes,” I say. “Mostly. Your best mate decided to drink his courage and then drown in it.”
Alex groans. “Oh, for— I’m sorry. I’m with Emma.”
I hear her in the background saying something that makes him laugh, which is both irritating and comforting. Alex and Emma are revoltingly happy and I love them for it.
“Say no more,” I reply. “He’s home. He’s asleep. I’m staying so he doesn’t choke on his own stupidity.”
There’s a pause.
“You sure?” Alex asks, and the humour fades. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Emma’s voice corrects him immediately to forty.
I snort.
“Nah,” I say. “If he starts looking like he’s about to meet his maker, I’ll call an ambulance. Otherwise, I can handle it.”
“You’re a good friend,” Alex says quietly.