Page 18 of Someone Like You

Phil’s defiant expression ignited a forbidden desire in Ian that it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

“Always,” he replied, as serious as Phil had been playful. He drained the last of the spritz , set the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “But you gotta learn when you owe flowers to yourself.”

Phil pinned those eyes on him — eyes that were old and scarred and tired but slowly learning to smile again.

He said nothing, didn’t move. The playfulness in his expression faded, replaced by gratitude and something else that Ian wasn’t arrogant enough to label as fondness.

Something so intense that it forced Ian to look away to escape the impression that his ribcage was closing in on his lungs.

“Shall we call it a successful trial day?” Phil proposed.

“Good enough.”

They fell quiet. Ian still wasn’t looking at Phil, but he could tell Phil was looking at him. It was like he could feel it — on his face, on his neck, down his arms…

“I like your outfit.”

Ian glanced up to catch Phil’s stare lift from his chest to his eyes. All he was wearing was a tattered blue shirt on top of an old Motorhead t-shirt and jeans.

“Tartan looks good on you. ”

Ian smirked. “You should see me in a kilt.”

Phil’s gaze drifted south, then slowly up again. “I should.”

Ian wasn’t an idiot: he knew flirting when he saw it, knew what the tip of Phil’s tongue swiping to the side between his teeth signified.

He just wasn’t ready to confront any of it, not when his own share of problematic feelings was already hard enough to live with.

There was no room for what ifs . Hearts were such breakable things.

“Any plans tonight?” he asked, just to change the subject.

“Abby’s going out with some friends, so I’ll probably just beach myself on the couch and watch rugby.”

“Sounds like a dream night.”

“Wanna come over?”

The fact that Ian wanted so badly to say yes right away was already a red flag.

He’d rushed all the way to the café just because Phil might be here…

The prospect of a whole night together, undisturbed, even just watching sports, was a temptation.

He wanted nothing more than a bit more time with Phil: joke with him, laugh with him, call him a cunt just to remind him to love himself more…

Little things. But being alone with him was a dangerous territory to wander into, no matter how innocent their intentions were.

“My wee princess’s been home alone all day,” Ian said, thinking that it’d settle it, until he saw the disappointment melting Phil’s hopeful expression. He cursed inwardly. His principles weren’t sturdy enough to withstand that kicked puppy face. “You could come to mine?”

Phil’s lips parted, but no sound came out. That thin gap between them called to Ian, insinuating treacherous thoughts into his head — his thumb on Phil’s chin, ghosting along the lower lip, warming up in his breath as his arm folded around…

“How far is it?” Phil asked. “I biked here.”

The shattered reverie left a bittersweet taste behind, an emptiness in Ian’s hands he still couldn’t shrug off after flexing his fingers multiple times .

“Not far. But we can put your bike in the pick-up,” said Ian, trying to blink the remnants of the pipe dream away. “Can’t let you cycle around at night without a helmet. Or at any other time of day, for that matter.”

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose with a weak groan. “It’s on my shopping list, I swear.”

“Mh.”

Ian left him to gather his stuff and went to the counter to hand Sandra an extra tenner for the unforeseen extra pie. Sandra gave him a fiver back.

“One slice was on the house. He’s a delight.”

Ian pocketed the note, biting back on the sarcastic rebuttals piling up in his mouth. As if he needed a reminder of how lovely Phil was. How charming, how brilliant, despite his many burdens.

Phil arrived seconds later, phone in hand, asking Sandra for his bill.

“Already taken care of, love.” Sandra poked a thumb towards Ian, who got a scolding side-eye from Phil.

“No need to thank me. Get your fancy bike and let’s get out of here.”

Phil turned his bogus irritation to Sandra. “How do you stand him?”

“I don’t. He’s just really easy on the eye.”

* * *

Compared to Phil’s, Ian’s flat was a humble shack, but he was proud of it. It was his , the roof he’d put over his own head after years of hard work and sacrifice, and no mansion in the world could compare to it.

When he opened the door, he had no time to warn Phil about the real owner of the place: Kibble came sauntering from the kitchen with her trademark fluctuating meowing that always seemed too long for her little lungs. As soon as she saw Phil, she halted and cowered, ears flattened backwards .

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ian laughed. He kneeled to the ground and extended a hand out, but Kibble refused to move.

A low growl rattled in her throat before she spit out two hisses in a row at Phil, who wasn’t moving, either, looking as worried as Kibble was angry.

“She’s not used to strangers, are ye, girl? ”

“Yeah, I’m not used to cats, either,” said Phil uneasily. “I’m more of a dog person.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “He’s a pain in the arse, but he’s a good guy, Kibbs, I promise.” He scooped her up and settled her belly-up in the curve of his arm. Slowly, the growling turned into purring. Ian peered at Phil. “She doesn’t bite, ye know?”

Phil eyed the cat with his lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll take your word for it.”

As soon as Ian set her down, Kibble took off to the bedroom, probably to hide under the bed or the chest of drawers. Not a people person, just like her dad.

“Make yourself at home.” Ian pointed out the four rooms of the house. “Bathroom. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. I’m confident you won’t get lost.”

Phil ventured into the small living room. “It’s all so… tidy and clean.”

“Not what you expected from an old bachelor?”

“No, I just…” Phil’s fingertips dragged along the top of the TV, then rubbed against one another, immaculate. “It wasn’t very long ago that I couldn’t even brush my teeth, let alone keep my living space in order.”

Ian crossed his arms, leaning against the door frame as one foot crossed over the other. “My ma died when I was fifteen and my da worked his arse off for ten hours a day… Had to learn to take care of myself.”

He’d had to pull through his most difficult years on his own, with a little help from Uncle Rory and his hands-on attitude. It’d been lonely, sometimes crushingly so, but, as Rory always said, ‘what doesnae kill ye makes ye a pain in the arse’ , and Ian was proudly living up to that philosophy .

Phil cracked him a smile. “But you can’t cook.”

“Imagine if I’d been that perfect.”

“I’d rather not.”

It lacked the customary humour of Phil’s quips. There was no mischievous spark in his eyes either.

Those eyes… Those damn hazel eyes packed with grief and fatigue and a haunting beauty that Ian had never found in anyone else.

Every time he was with Phil, a strange euphoria and a heart-wrenching sadness took over him, waging a war that left Ian breathless and bleeding.

But there was a sweetness to it, an awareness that, however painful, that sentiment wasn’t misplaced.

“Want to order something for dinner?” He asked, trying to breathe through the heaviness in his chest. “Best my fridge can offer is a piece and turkey.”

“A what and turkey?”

“It’s a sandwich.”

“I’m not really hungry. Too much of Sandra’s pie.”

“Drink?”

“Whatever you have is fine.”

Ian left with a grunt of affirmation. He’d never really noticed how plain and tiny his kitchen was.

The whole flat, actually. All his drinking buddies down at the pub were working-class like him: no one had fancy cars, fancy clothes, or fancy homes.

Phil was one of those folk Ian would’ve frowned upon in the street, with the high-end vibes he oozed.

It would’ve been unthinkable that two people as socially different as they were could get along, let alone grow as close as they had, and yet here they were.

A smile tugged at Ian’s lips while he put together a sandwich for himself. He’d only had a protein shake after his workout to rush straight back to work and his stomach had been growling for hours, but he’d forgotten about it the very moment he’d set foot into the café.

Back to the living room with his plate and a couple of cans of Pepsi, he stopped dead in his tracks before the most puzzling sight: Phil was sitting on the couch, immobile, with Kibble making biscuits in his lap. The look he cast Ian was pleading for help.

“ How ?” Ian chortled.

“I just sat down,” said Phil, “and she… she came out of nowhere and started sniffing me like a drug dog, and then…” He helplessly glanced down at his legs. “She doesn’t sound happy.”

“She’s purring ,” Ian informed him, setting the plates and the Pepsis down on the coffee table. “Trust me, she’s happy.”

“Oh?” Phil didn’t seem convinced.

Ian crouched down in front of Kibble to scratch her little head.

“You were hissing at him just minutes ago, you wee slag.” Kibble let out a trill, jutting her chin out so that Ian knew she wanted him to move his scratches there.

The purring intensified. Ian melted. He had never loved a human being the way he’d loved any of his animals.

“Watch this,” he told Phil. He sat down and the very moment his arse touched the couch Kibble perked up in Phil’s lap, stretched back and forward, then hopped over to Ian to settle down across his thighs.

Despite his former reservations, Phil looked outraged. “Is that so? Did I ever mean anything to you?” He even dared to run a knuckle between Kibble’s ears.

“Don’t take it personally. She’s Daddy’s girl through and through.”

“I’ll admit she’s cute now that I know she wasn’t plotting to maul me.”

“She’s a sweetheart,” said Ian, stroking Kibble’s back. “Unless she smells evil. I trust her judgement, she’s never been wrong about anyone.”

“Did she like Jamie?”