Chapter 13
Mark
Sunday mornings always feel quieter in Whitstable.
Even when there’s noise.
The kettle boiling.
The low murmur of the radio Philip has turned on again.
The scrape of a chair over the kitchen floor.
Everything still carries that strange, muted quality, like the sea has pressed a hand over the whole house and told it to keep its voice down.
I stand at the foot of the stairs for a second and watch him.
He’s at the counter in my T-shirt again, barefoot, making breakfast with the easy confidence of someone who has apparently decided my kitchen belongs to him on weekends.
Heath’s cage sits on the island.
The hamster himself is still buried inside the beanie, recovering from yesterday’s brush with aerial death.
Philip glances over his shoulder.
“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.
He’s worried.
Genuinely.
About what happens to an elderly hamster when his already fragile routine gets detonated.
Philip opens the cage and peers in.
“I’m sorry in advance,” he tells Heath. “You are entering a difficult chapter.”
The offer forms before I have fully sorted through whether it’s sensible.
Maybe because it isn’t.
Maybe because sensible has been in short supply since Friday night.
“I can take him.”
Philip stills.
Then turns slowly.
“What?”
I nod towards the cage.
“He can stay with me.”
Philip blinks.
“With you.”
“Yes.”
For a second he just stares at me.
“Mark,” he says, “I’m taking him to my sister’s this afternoon.”
“I know.”
He waits.
As if I’m about to grin and tell him I’m taking the piss.
I don’t.
I nod towards Heath.
“You said yourself, your nephews are five and seven.”
Philip exhales through his nose. “That is not exactly a point in their favour, I guess.”
“And he doesn’t exactly seem built for chaos,” I argue.
Philip glances at the cage.
At the beanie.
At the faint twitch of movement inside it.
“No,” he says quietly. “He really doesn’t.”
There’s a pause.
Then he rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“He’s only one,” he says. “So if I’m lucky, he’s got another year maybe. I don’t want that year to be him getting stressed every five minutes.”
I lean one hip against the counter.
“He can stay with me.”
Philip looks up again.
I keep my tone easy.
“It’s quiet here. Quiet in London. I know the food, I know the routine now, and I’ve plenty of beanies for him.”
That pulls a faint laugh out of him.
Good.
But his eyes are still thoughtful.
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t.”
“Mark.”
“I mean it.”
He seems torn.
Probably trying to work out why I’m offering to permanently house a rodent I met less than two days ago.
Fair question.
I’m trying not to examen my own answer too hard.
I nod towards Heath.
“He seems settled enough.”
Philip’s fingers rest lightly against the cage bars.
“I felt guilty leaving him with Sophie,” he admits. “She offered and I said yes because I didn’t really have another option.”
I straighten slightly.
“Well. Now you do.”
His eyes lift to mine.
And there’s a beat there.
Quiet.
Loaded.
Because this is about the hamster.
But not just about the hamster.
Philip swallows.
“You’d really keep him?”
“Yeah.”
He looks at me another second.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
For a while after that, neither of us says much.
Philip finishes his coffee.
I rinse plates that don’t need rinsing.
He transfers Heath’s food, bedding, and three separate packets of treats into a neat stack beside the cage.
The house has gone strangely careful.
Every sound feels deliberate.
The zip of Philip’s wash bag.
The clink of Heath’s water bottle.
The low murmur of the radio neither of us is listening to.
It shouldn’t feel like a countdown.
And yet it does.
Philip crouches by the cage one last time, murmuring something too low for me to catch to Heath, who responds by refusing to leave the beanie like emotional conversations are beneath him.
I check the time.
Then check it again five seconds later as if the numbers might improve.
They don’t.
Philip straightens.
“Well,” he says softly.
Worst word in the English language.
“Yeah.”
He picks up his bag but doesn’t move towards the door yet.
Neither do I.
Sunlight cuts across the hallway floorboards.
I clear my throat.
“I can cancel lunch.”
Philip looks up.
“With your family?”
I shrug, trying for casual.
“They’ll survive one Sunday without me.”
His mouth softens.
That look again.
The one that makes me feel like I’ve said more than I meant to.
“Mark…”
“We could have the afternoon,” I say. “I can drive you to your sister’s later.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know what I’m doing.
Bargaining.
For hours.
Pathetic, really.
Philip knows it too.
I can see it in the way his expression shifts.
Warmth.
Regret.
And immediate caution.
He gives a small shake of his head.
“I should go when I said I would.”
“You sure?”
“My sister will have planned lunch.”
Practical excuse.
Not even a particularly strong one.
We both hear it for what it is.
A line.
A necessary one.
He grips the bag handle.
“I think if we start adding extra hours, we’ll just keep adding them.”
There it is.
The truer answer.
I lock eyes with him.
He looks tired suddenly.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like he is holding something shut with both hands.
I understand that feeling better than I’d like.
Still doesn’t stop me wishing he’d say sod it and stay.
“I wish we had longer,” he says quietly.
The honesty of it hits clean.
I hold his gaze.
“So do I.”
Silence settles.
Thick enough that even the sea outside feels distant.
I force myself to speak before I do something stupid like ask him to stay anyway.
“We can keep in touch.”
Philip closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them again, there is apology there before he even speaks.
“Mark…”
“It’s just messages.”
He gives a soft exhale.
“That’s the problem.”
I frown.
“I’m not good at in-between things,” he says quietly. “Things that don’t know what they are.”
I say nothing.
Because I already know where this is going and I hate it.
Philip glances down the hall, then back at me.
“If I keep talking to you from Toronto, and you’re here, and this weekend is... hovering in the middle of everything, I won’t know where to put it.”
I know he is right, but that doesn’t mean hearing him say it isn’t destroying my heart and soul.
Philip swallows.
“I think I need to let this be what it was.”
The sentence hits like a slammed door.
I nod once.
Not because I agree.
Because there is nothing useful I can say that won’t sound like asking.
And asking a man to build a half-life across an ocean is not fair.
“Okay,” I say.
The word tastes wrong.
Philip steps forward.
So do I.
My hands settle at his waist.
His come to my shoulders.
The kiss is slow.
No urgency.
No pretending this can be solved with enough heat.
Just mouths learning each other one last time because it seems we enjoy making things difficult.
I linger when it ends.
Forehead against his.
He’s breathing me in.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
I tighten my hands once against him.
Then let go before I forget how.
A taxi pulls up outside.
Perfect timing.
I hate it on sight.
Philip exhales shakily, picks up his suitcase, then hesitates.
Looks past me towards the kitchen.
“Look after him.”
I glance back at Heath.
Then at Philip.
“Yeah.”
His throat moves.
He nods once.
And walks out.
I follow him to the front door.
Watch him load the suitcase into the taxi.
Watch him get in.
He looks back through the open window.
I lift a hand.
He does the same.
Then the taxi pulls away.
I stand there until it turns at the end of the road and disappears.
Only then do I go back inside.
Heath rustles in his beanie.
The radio is still playing.
And the house, which felt warm all weekend, is suddenly far too cold.