Not in front of us.
Behind.
More than one set.
Phil hears them too.
His body stills beside me.
The sound gets closer.
A low laugh.
I turn.
It’s him.
The man from the pub.
He isn’t alone.
Two others flank him, younger, broader, their confidence drawn from numbers.
They slow as they reach us, spreading slightly without needing to coordinate it.
Closing the space.
“Well,” the man says. “Look what we’ve got here.”
Phil doesn’t respond.
He steps slightly in front of me without making it obvious, his body shifting until he occupies the space between me and them.
The man notices.
His mouth curves.
“All alone without your friends,” he sneers.
Phil’s voice is calm.
“Leave.”
The man laughs.
“Leave?” he repeats. “This is my village.”
His eyes flick to me.
“Couldn’t find yourself a British girlfriend?” he asks Phil. “Had to go importing?”
Heat flashes through me.
Phil doesn’t move.
“Go,” he says again. I'm not sure if he means me or them.
One of the others steps closer.