“I am not discussing that.”
“Thought not.”
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth shifts.
Good.
Just enough.
Just enough to take the sharp edge off the panic still sitting in him.
Then he leans forward, forehead briefly against my shoulder, and the weight of him says more than any speech has so far.
He is exhausted.
Not just tired.
Done in.
I slide one arm around his waist.
My other hand settles at the back of his neck.
“Come on,” I murmur.
He lifts his head slightly. “Where?”
“Shower.”
He blinks.
I glance pointedly at his shirt, his creased trousers, the faint film of travel still clinging to him.
“You look like Heathrow won.”
That earns me the smallest breath of a laugh.
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I keep my hand at his waist and turn him gently towards the stairs.
Philip goes with me without protest.
That more than anything tells me how wrung out he is.
Up the narrow staircase.
Slowly.
My palm stays warm against his side, steadying him whenever he hesitates, my thumb brushing once against the damp cotton of his shirt.
At the bathroom door he stops.
Just for a second.
I move in behind him, close enough that my chest touches his back.
