“Yes,” I reply.
And this time, there’s no doubt in it.
By the time he knocks on my door, the last of the daylight has already drained from the sky.
I know it’s him before I open it.
Not because I’ve been watching for him, but because he said he would come, and Phil doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
I open the door.
He’s standing on the step with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling faintly at theedges. He looks up when the door opens, and something in his face shifts. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he’d been holding himself in suspension and can finally stop.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
He looks at me carefully, his eyes searching my face in a way that makes it clear he hasn’t quite trusted this moment would happen exactly like this.
“You look tired,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Thank you.”
His eyes widen slightly.
“No. Not—” He stops, searching for the right words. “You don’t look… bad.”
I wait.
He exhales softly, clearly dissatisfied with that attempt.
“You look like yourself,” he says finally. “Just tired.”
There’s a pause.
“You still look…” He hesitates, then commits to it. “Beautiful.”
The word lands quietly between us, unpolished but completely sincere.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
“Good recovery.”
He huffs a small breath, half relief, half embarrassment.
“I meant it the first time,” he says. “I just said it wrong.”
I smile, and something in his expression shifts when he sees it. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction without realising it.
His hand lifts, hesitates briefly, then settles against my cheek. His fingers are warm from his pocket, his thumbbrushing lightly along my jaw like he’s memorising the shape of it.
He leans in.
This time, the kiss isn’t careful.