“He nearly had a cardiac event.”
“Philip.”
His voice cuts through the panic.
Low.
Steady.
I stop moving.
Mark reaches in slowly, lifts the beanie first, then scoops Heath into it so the little idiot has somewhere dark to burrow.
Heath vanishes into the wool almost instantly, trembling.
Mark cups the bundled beanie in one hand against his chest and strokes one finger lightly over the top.
“There,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”
I stare.
At Heath.
At Mark.
At the absurd gentleness of a heavily tattooed ex-army engineer murmuring reassurance to a traumatised hamster in a woolly hat.
My own breathing is still somewhere near sprint level.
Mark glances sideways at me.
“He’s fine.”
I let out a breath that comes shakier than I’d like.
“That thing looked like it wanted to eat him.”
“It wanted chips.”
“It looked open to both.”
That gets the smallest huff of laughter out of him.
Only then do I realise Mark’s free hand is resting against the back of my neck.
Warm.
Steady.
His thumb moves once.
Just once.
Without comment.
The adrenaline rush ebbs enough for me to become embarrassingly aware that I am leaning into it.
I clear my throat.
