His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then lift again.
“You don’t have to be good at it,” I say quietly.
He lets out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
His hand emerges from his pocket, hesitates in the space between us, then settles at my waist.
Carefully.
Like he’s reacquainting himself with something he’dlost.
His thumb moves once against my side. Small. Unconscious.
“I liked this morning,” he says.
“So did I.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
He steps closer, close enough now that the cold air can’t reach the space between us.
His other hand rises, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face before resting briefly at the back of my neck.
He kisses me.
Not like he’s proving something.
Not like he’s asking permission.
Like he’s come home to it.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine. It’s become his signature move, this quiet press of skin against skin, like he needs the contact to steady himself.
Behind us, the pub door opens.
Voices spill out.
Phil’s hand stills.
He doesn’t pull away immediately.
But I feel it.
The moment his awareness shifts outward.
His hand slides from my waist.
Not abruptly.
Not cold.
Just… gone.
He steps back half a pace.
The distance slips back in, quiet but unmistakable. Something uneasy settles low in my chest.
Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? Have I misread whatever this is between us? Maybe it was never shyness. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy being paraded through thevillage rumour mill at my side. Small place. Long memories. Narrow minds.