Eventually, Phil drains the last of his pint.
“We should go,” he says.
It isn’t an instruction.
It’s an offering.
I nod.
Emma stands immediately.
“I’ll come with you.”
I shake my head.
“No. Stay. I’m fine.”
Her eyes search mine, making sure I mean it.
Alex rests his hand lightly on her back.
“They’ll be alright,” he says.
She hesitates, then nods reluctantly.
“Message me when you get home.”
“I will.”
Phil stands beside me, his hand finding the small of my back automatically as we move through the pub. Not possessive. Protective.
We don’t look toward the bar as we leave.
The night air is cooler than I expect, sharp against my skin after the heat inside. The door closes behind us with a solid finality that makes my shoulders drop slightly.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Our footsteps echo softly against the pavement as we walk through the empty street. Fellside at night feels smaller, quieter, like the world has drawn in around itself.
“I’m sorry,” he says eventually.
I turn toward him.
“You didn’t do anything.”
His jaw tightens.
“I should have—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “You did exactly what you needed to do.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t argue either.
We turn down the narrow alley that cuts between the back of the shops and the row of cottages beyond. It’s darker here, the single streetlight at the far end casting more shadow than illumination.
I hear the footsteps before I see them.