He’s half-turned away, one elbow resting against the wood, listening while Alex talks. His head tilts slightly when he listens properly, like the rest of the world fades out and only the person in front of him exists.
Alex says something that makes him smile.
Not the polite version he gives strangers.
The real one.
I don’t realise I’m staring until he looks up.
It happens in the smallest way. His eyes lift. His gaze moves across the room without purpose, and then it stops.
On me.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he straightens.
He says something to Alex I don’t catch and hands over his glass.
He doesn’t look away as he crosses the room.
The noise of the pub folds in around him. Someone shifts to let him pass. Someone else claps him on the shoulder. He barely reacts, his attention fixed forward like he’s following a line only he can see.
He stops in front of me.
“Hi.”
His voice is quieter up close.
I look at him properly. His hair is still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the edges. He hasn’t shaved. There’s a faint mark on his neck I don’t remember leaving but recognise immediately.
“Hi,” I say.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Then his hand settles at my back.
His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my jumper. The contact is steady, familiar in a way that makes something low in my stomach tighten.
Emma says something I don’t register.
Alex laughs.
Phil’s hand leaves my back.
He steps away, turning toward them, his fingers curling loosely at his side like they don’t quite know where to go now.
He answers Alex.
He doesn’t touch me again.
Emma slides into her chair and pulls Alex down beside her, her hand already grabbing the front of his shirt like she needs him anchored there. He laughs, bending toward her, his mouth close to her ear.
Phil stays standing.
“Webb.”
Tommy’s voice cuts across the table.