Phil’s sitting beside his grandfather at one of the small tables near the window, a deck of cards spread between them. His posture is loose, shoulders relaxed, his attention fully on the older man beside him.
This is not the Phil from the pub.
This Phil is calm. Grounded. At home in himself.
For a moment, I simply stand there, watching him exist without the armour he wears everywhere else.
Then he looks up.
Sees me.
And the reaction is immediate and unfiltered.
“Christina?”
My name leaves him like he wasn’t expecting it to exist here.
For a second, neither of us moves. He’s still holding his cards, but his attention is entirely on me now, his brain visibly trying to reconcile the girl from the pub with the girl standing in his grandfather’s retirement home holding a vase of flowers.
His grandfather turns his head slowly, following Phil’s gaze until his eyes land on me. He studies me with open curiosity, taking in everything.
Phil clears his throat, scrambling back into himself.
“Grampy,” he says, voice slightly tight, “this is Christina.”
There’s a small pause, and I realise he’s nervous about the introduction itself, like this moment carries more weight than it should.
“Christina,” he continues, turning slightly toward me now, “this is my grandfather, Arthur.”
Arthur extends his hand immediately, his grip firm and warm.
“Well,” he says, looking at me with unmistakable interest, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”
I blink.
Phil freezes beside him.
I take Arthur’s hand, smiling despite myself. “Finally?”
Arthur glances at Phil, then back at me, completely unapologetic.
“Oh yes,” he says mildly. “You come up surprisingly often for someone he insists he barely knows.”
“Grampy,” Phil says, mortified.
Arthur ignores him.
“He mentioned,” Arthur continues conversationally, “that you sat on his lap in the pub.”
I press my lips together, failing to suppress my smile.
Phil looks like he might actually die.
“And that you fed him a chip,” Arthur adds.
“Grampy,” Phil says again, more desperately now.
Arthur waves him off.