“He’s fine,” I add quickly. “No emergency.”
“I didn’t think there was. Although with Heath, one never knows.”
I glance down.
Heath is sitting calmly against my shirt, entirely unconcerned by the havoc he continues to create.
“He’s good,” I say. “Really good.”
“Yeah?”
The softness in Philip’s voice cause my stomach to flip.
I lean against the kitchen counter.
“Yeah. He travelled in my shirt pocket. Slept most of the way.”
There is a small silence.
“In your shirt pocket.”
“Yeah.”
“You are aware he is a hamster, not a handkerchief.”
“Worked though.”
“He didn’t panic?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“Not once.”
Philip is quiet for a second.
When he speaks again, his voice is different.
“That’s good.”
Just two words.
But I hear what sits underneath.
Relief. Fondness. Something else he probably does not want named at half past midnight.
“He feels safe with you,” he says.
I look down at Heath.
The tiny weight of him against me.
The way he doesn’t flinch when I move.
“Maybe.”
“No maybe.” Philip’s voice is still rough with sleep, but certain now. “He does.”
