“You’re staring.”
I walk in.
“You’re cooking.”
I lean in, kiss him once, slow and warm, and reach past him for the mugs.
Philip smiles faintly and turns back to the hob.
There’s an ease to him this morning that makes the room feel lived in.
That’s dangerous enough on its own.
Made worse by his bag currently sitting by the stairs.
He packed before I came downstairs.
Neat.
Practical.
A visible reminder that this is not just a lazy Sunday.
I pour hot water onto the tea bags in our mugs and tell myself not to look at the bag again.
Philip plates bacon, eggs, toast.
Hash browns, because apparently this is our thing now.
He sets Heath’s food bowl back into the cage and watches the beanie suspiciously.
“Well,” he says, “you have had quite the educational weekend.”
A tiny nose appears from the beanie.
Philip nods.
“Yes. I know. Sea air. Luxury accommodation. Two attentive homosexuals.”
I choke on my coffee.
Philip points at him.
“Tomorrow, my friend, you are going to my sister’s.”
Heath retreats back into the hat.
“Sophie’s boys are five and seven,” Philip continues. “Lovely children. Sticky hands. Very loud. Little concept of personal boundaries.”
I sit down on one of the stools and watch him.
Philip lowers his voice.
“They are going to think you are the greatest thing they’ve ever seen.”
He says it lightly.
But after yesterday’s seagull incident and the amount of time he spent checking whether Heath had recovered, I hear the edge underneath.
