‘His chest cracks with something he can’t put a name to.’
There’s a shuffle and a click of the door from Phil’s room an hour and a half later, and suddenly there’s an inexplicable hammering in Dan’s chest, his mouth bone dry. This is where and when the clean break happens, it’s either fucking fairy tales and happiness, or an awkward pause, and last glances. Dan’s betting on the latter.
Phil putters into the kitchen area and stops short once he sees Dan. He pauses, looking at the kitchen tiles, before going over to the counter, clicking the kettle lever up.
It’s all too casual.