“It’s breakfast,” I say, keeping it light. “Not a date. No pressure.”
He stares at me as if he can’t quite process kindness without strings attached.
Then he nods slowly.
“I need to brush my teeth,” he mutters.
“And wash your face,” I add.
That gets the faintest hint of a smile, like his mouth is remembering how to do it.
I stand and stretch, my back cracking in protest.
“Got a spare toothbrush?” I ask, eyeing him pointedly.
He disappears upstairs and returns with a toothbrush still in its packaging, cheeks pink, eyes avoiding mine.
We end up side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth in silence. It’s absurdly domestic. Intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip with something that isn’t hunger. When our eyes meet in the mirror, I catch a tiny grin on his face.
It’s brief.
But it’s there.
The Mountain Spoon is tucked behind the post office, one of those places you only find if you live here or if your stomach is loud enough to guide you by instinct. The streets are quiet this early, the air crisp, Fellside still waking up slowly.
Phil walks beside me, hands in his pockets, moving carefully like he’s afraid sudden motion will make his head explode.
To break the silence, I gesture vaguely.
“So. Piano.”
He glances at me, surprised by the change.
“I played when I was younger,” he admits. “Not much anymore. But I always liked the idea of having a piano… even if my living room is almost too small for it.”
We stop to cross the road. I grab his hand automatically, tugging him along as a car comes past faster than it should in a village full of pedestrians.
I try to let go once we reach the pavement.
He doesn’t.
His fingers tighten around mine and then, slowly, deliberately, he laces them with mine properly.
My pulse jumps.
I glance at him.
He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight, like he’s concentrating on something important.
Like holding my hand is an act of courage.
We keep walking like that, silent, our joined hands warm between us.
This is the Phil I saw at the nursing home. The calm one. The grounded one. The one who isn’t running.
And the fact that he exists makes the doubt more complicated, not less.
Because if he can be this person, then why wasn’t he last night?