Phil has died like seven times in a row in the game.
Bumping him, I muttered, “Focus.” He went rigid where he was seated on the floor, swallowing hard. He was distracted all through breakfast, too. Hardly spoke. Pressing my arm to his, I just looked at him, waiting. Sweat. There’s sweat beading at his brow, rolling down his throat. “Take off your hoodie if you’re hot.” He won’t look at me and he’s definitely gripping his controller too hard. “You’re going to break it,” I mutter, pulling it from his hand before he can crush it. He turns away from me, slouched in on himself. Is he scared? “I’m not going to jump you.”
He snorts at that, the sound thick with sarcasm.
Alright, that’s fair. Admittedly I did kind of jump him this morning, right?
I guess I figured
