Warmth.
Philip is half on top of me, one arm draped across my stomach, one leg tangled with mine under the duvet as though at some point in the night he drifted closer and, in his sleep, never found a reason to move away again.
His face is turned into my shoulder, mouth slightly open, hair sticking up at the back.
Morning light creeps around the blinds in pale grey strips. Somewhere outside, seagulls are already screaming at each other like the day has opened with litigation.
Philip breathes out against my chest.
Small.
Warm.
I feel it all the way through me.
Not sharing a bed. Not waking up beside someone.
This immediate awareness that if I move too quickly I will lose something I am not ready to lose yet.
Which is a fairly impressive level of emotional instability for eight hours’ acquaintance.
I should probably be more concerned.
Instead I keep looking at him.
Asleep, he looks younger somehow. Less arranged. All the dry sharpness gone from his face, leaving only a man who trusted my bed enough to feel safe in it.
Warmth floods through me in a way I am not remotely equipped to deal with this early in the morning.
His fingers twitch once against my stomach.
My mouth betrays me with the hint of a smile.
Carefully I reach for my phone.
6:12.
Too early for any civilised person.
Perfect.
I usually run before breakfast when I’m down here. Clear my head. Get the sea air in before Whitstable fills with tourists in expensive knitwear.
My head could use the help.
Slowly, carefully, I ease out from under him.
He makes a quiet protesting sound and reaches instinctively towards the warmth I’m taking with me.
My chest does something deeply unhelpful.
I wedge a spare pillow against him and he folds around it immediately with a small exhale, settling again.
I pull on running shorts, a hoodie and trainers, then stand there for a second, watching him.
Still asleep.
Still wrapped around the pillow.
