Page 29 of Someone Like You

“What are you doing here?”

Ian removed a brand new backpack fromhisarmchair and sat down, upset that there was no helmet in sight. “Sandy tipped me off.” He collapsed against the backrest, stretching his legs out under the tiny table. “I think she’s in love with you.”

Phil’s eyebrows arched. “Can you blame her?”

The sarcasm lacked the usual bite of Phil’s humour, rather sounding bitter and self-deprecating.

“Not one bit.”

A brief hesitation delayed Phil’s half-hearted smile long enough for Ian to catch a glint of dismay in his eyes. Ian loved everything about that expression: the parted lips, the subtle knit in the eyebrows, the fleeting stillness… There was confusion, but it was mingled with something else, something raw and hungry that made Ian’s knees weak and his heart achingly heavy.

Don’t, Phil. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not fair.

After raking a hand through his hair, Phil took his glasses off to rub his eyes with a faint groan. “What time is it?”

“Not even five.” Ian downed half of his spritz, relishing the bitterness of it. “Had a productive day?”

“Not really.” The glasses got tossed on the table as Phil shut the laptop. “I just sat here rewriting the same ten lines over and over again. Oh, and ate like three slices of pie.”

Ian gave him a proud pat on the shoulder. Philstuffing himself with piewhen he normally just ate because hehadto? What a day.

“How long have you been here?”

“All afternoon.”

Phil was tired, Ian could tell just by how dim his spirits were. It must have been a mild shock to his system to spend a whole afternoon in such a chaotic place.

“So, let me get this straight: you — who don’t leave the house — have spent the whole afternoon in a public place,working, and you have the nerve to actdejected?”

Slouched low in his armchair, Phil cast him a bellicose glare, which left Ian no choice but to kick him under the table.

“Don’t give me that attitude, you prick.” He detached a finger from his glass to point it threateningly at Phil. “Itwasa productive day: you got out, spent some time around humans,ate, did your shit… Give yourself your flowers.”

“Thought you were my flower guy.”

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 thespritz, set the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “But you gotta learn when you owe flowers to yourself.”

Phil pinnedthoseeyes 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 Motörhead 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 forwhat ifs. Hearts were such breakable things.

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