Phil doesn’t look at me.
He tightens the last screw, then lifts the gate and lets it fall back into place.
It closes cleanly.
He tests it again.
Satisfied.
He stands, wiping his hands on the cloth.
“Better,” he says.
He reaches for the sandwich.
Not for me.
He eats standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, far enough that nothing connects us.
This morning, he’d kissed me before I left his cottage.
His hand had lingered at my waist like he didn’t want to let go.
Now he chews, watching the gate like it might betray him again.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
He’s working.
People are around.
This is his job.
This is different.
His shoulder brushes mine when he shifts his weight.
The contact is brief.
Accidental.
He doesn’t move away.
He doesn’t move closer either.
He finishes the sandwich and folds the paper neatly, like it still has a purpose.
“Thank you for bringing it,” he says.
He looks at me properly then.
Warm.
Present.
Exactly the same.
Nothing has changed.