His mouth opens slightly.
“Are you trying to become a famous singer?” he asks, humour slipping into his voice.
I laugh.
“Not famous,” I say. “Let’s be realistic. It’s the Crazy Dogs. Their biggest gig was the FMR fundraiser. Otherwise it’s just pub nights and the occasional wedding where the bride’s dad gets too emotional and requests ‘Wonderwall.’”
He watches me, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
“I love singing,” I continue, “and in Fellside the choices are church choir or local rock band. I’m not religious, and I’m definitely at least a little crazy.”
I grin at him.
“Obvious choice.” I shrug.
He studies me for a long moment.
“You are fascinating,” he says softly.
The words hit me, warm and unexpected.
I swallow, trying not to show how much that matters.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice back into teasing brightness, “are you going to help me?”
He nods once.
“I’ll help you.”
I smile, relief spreading through me.
“Good,” I say, then tap my fork lightly on his plate. “Now eat. Nothing cures poor life choices like a fry-up.”
Phil finally starts eating properly, like his body has remembered its original purpose. He moves slower than usual, careful with himself, but the colour is beginning to return to his face. The tightness around his eyes has softened. He doesn’t look like a man on the verge of collapse anymore. He looks like someone who made a mistake and is quietly trying to climb out of it.
We fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation from the other tables. Outside, Fellside is fully awake now. People pass the windows carrying shopping bags, walking dogs, living lives untouched by the emotional rollercoaster that has defined the last twelve hours of mine.
Phil reaches for his tea, takes a careful sip, and exhales slowly.
“I really am sorry,” he says again, his voice stronger now.
I look at him for a moment.
“I know,” I reply.
Because I do.
The apology isn’t performative. It isn’t a tool to win me back over. It’s simply there. An offering without expectation.
He nods once, accepting that, and we return to our breakfast.
For a brief, fragile stretch of time, everything feels almost normal. Almost easy. The kind of morning that could belong to people who haven’t already complicated things beyond repair.
Then his phone vibrates on the table.
The sound cuts cleanly through the quiet.
Phil frowns and glances at the screen.