I check my phone.
Seven in the morning.
Phil tries to sit up.
He groans again, his face contorting, one hand flying to his head.
“Good morning, Bambi,” I say, because if I don’t joke, I might start shouting.
He jolts into a sitting position and then winces, pressing his fingers to his temples.
“Oh God,” he rasps. “Christina. I’m so sorry.”
He grabs the water and drains it like a man who escaped from a trek through the Sahara Desert.
I watch him for a moment, letting him sit in the consequences.
Not cruelly.
Just honestly.
“How much did you drink before we met?” I ask.
He swallows hard.
“It wasn’t… loads,” he says, and the pause between the words tells me everything. “But I little more than usual. I'm not a big drinker. And I didn’t eat yesterday. I was too nervous.”
His stomach growls loudly on cue.
Mine answers in solidarity.
I didn’t get dinner either.
I sit forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees.
This is where the doubt slips in again, quiet but persistent. If he got this nervous about dinner, what happens when something real happens? Something scary? Something complicated? Does he reach for the nearest exit every time?
He looks at me like he’s bracing for me to walk out.
Like he’s already preparing for the rejection.
I don’t give it to him.
Not yet.
“Right,” I say briskly. “We’re going for a fry-up.”
His eyes widen.
“What?”
“You can pay,” I add. “To make up for last night.”
He blinks at me.
“You still want to… spend time with me?”
His voice is small. Barely there.