He leans forward slightly.
“Do you want some air?” he asks quietly.
Not loud enough for the others.
Just for me.
I am confused why he is reacting like this, so I nod and get up to follow him out of the pub.
The air outside is cold enough to clear the noise from my head.
The pub door closes behind us with a dull thud, sealing the warmth and voices inside. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The sounds from inside blur into something indistinct, laughter and movement softened by wood and glass.
Phil exhales beside me.
Not loudly.
Just… releases something.
He steps away from the wall and into the narrow stretch of pavement, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. His shoulders loosen, the tightness I hadn’t fully noticed inside unwinding piece by piece.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I turn toward him.
“For what?”
He shrugs, but the movement is restless.
“They don’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.”
And I do. Tommy’s grin hadn’t been cruel. Emma’s delight hadn’t been judgement. None of it had been meant to hurt.
That doesn’t mean it hadn’t shifted something.
Phil glances at me, then away again, his breath visible in the cold air.
“I don’t…” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not very good at that.”
“At what?”
He looks at me then, properly.
“Being watched.”
The honesty in it catches me off guard.
He isn’t asking for reassurance. He isn’t apologising for me. He’s just stating a fact about himself, like the weather or gravity.
Something in me softens.
I step closer.
Not enough to trap him. Just enough that he would have to move deliberately to create distance.
He doesn’t.