I don’t dress it up.
Because there’s no point.
I’ve thought that myself more than once.
He shifts slightly, still not moving off my lap, but adjusting just enough that his weight shifts slightly.
“And what if it doesn’t look like that?” he asks.
I meet his gaze.
“Then it’s not it.”
The words come out steady.
Simple.
But even as I say them, something about them feels… less certain than it used to.
Philip holds my gaze for a second longer.
He moves, sliding off my lap, not abruptly, just… choosing distance. He settles beside me instead, back against the pillows again, a small gap between us now where there hadn’t been one before.
“That’s kind of romantic,” he says.
I watch him.
“Even if I’m not entirely convinced it actually works like that.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Most people aren’t.”
He glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “And you still are.”
“I believe in it,” I reply. “Or something close enough.”
“Close enough?”
“Soulmates,” I say.
The word hangs there for a second.
He doesn’t laugh.
Doesn’t dismiss it.
Just lets it sit.
Then he yawns.
It catches him mid-breath, sudden enough that he tries to stifle it and fails.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not— it’s not you. I’ve been up since five this morning and it’s…” he glances vaguely towards the window, like the time might be written somewhere out there in the dark, “ridiculous o’clock.”
“Two,” I say.
There’s a faint flush to his expression now, like he’s worried it’s come across wrong.
“I’m not bored,” he adds. “Just… exhausted.”
