He opens it carefully, like whatever is inside deserves respect.
“Crispy bacon and brown sauce,” he says, almost reverently.
“I spoil you.”
He glances at me then, that small, private smile appearing again. The one that belongs to quiet spaces.
“You do.”
Without thinking, I step closer.
My hand finds his arm.
Not dramatic. Not claiming. Just resting there, the way it had yesterday morning in his kitchen while he waited for the kettle to boil.
His body stills.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning in.
Just… aware.
Behind him, voices drift through the open doorway. Footsteps. Movement. The ordinary sounds of people existing nearby.
Phil shifts slightly.
The paper bag crinkles in his hands.
He turns toward his toolbox.
“I should finish this hinge,” he says. “It’s catching when it closes.”
My hand slips from his arm.
The absence of contact arrives before I’m ready for it.
He crouches, setting the sandwich bag carefully on the low stone wall beside him, his attention already narrowing onto the gate like it had when I first arrived.
His hands move with quiet certainty, adjusting the screws, testing the weight, solving the problem in front of him.
He isn’t dismissing me.
He isn’t cold.
He’s still talking.
“They get worse when the wood swells,” he says, glancing up briefly. “The rain doesn’t help.”
I nod.
“Of course.”
I stand beside him, close enough that I could touch him again if I wanted to.
I don’t.
A couple walks past the end of the path, their voices low. One of them glances toward us and smiles politely.