Page 32 of Someone Like You

“That’s a good girl,” Phil grinned as Kibble rubbed her nose into his hand.

The TV was on, the game about to start. Kibble moved back to Phil’s lap when Ian picked up his sandwich, offended that she couldn’t have his full attention. After a couple of adjustments, she curled on herself and laid down her chin on Phil’s forearm, much to Phil’s amazement.

Ian didn’t follow much of the match, mostly because he was more entertained by Phil getting acquainted with his cat. As the minutes ticked by, Phil got accustomed to Kibble’s presence and grew bolder with her, petting and scratching as instructed by Kibble’s perfectly communicative body language. The hesitant smile that had formed on his lips gradually took over his whole face. When the game stopped for the halftime break Ian realised he couldn’t remember anything that had happened on the pitch and half of his sandwich was still on the plate. The heaviness in his chest had gotten so crushing it physically hurt.

He was an idiot.

A foolish, masochistic idiot.

“Goin’ to have a shower,” he announced, standing up so abruptly Kibble got startled and peevishly ran away.

Phil glanced up at him, a little bewildered, and it took Ian every fibre of his willpower not to bend down and do the most reckless and stupid thing in human history.

“There’s more Pepsi in the fridge,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be right back.”

He had ten to fifteen minutes to get his shit together. Ten minutes to wrench the burning desire to kiss Phil Hanson out of his system and find a way to keep it out, if not for good, at least for the remainder of the night.

Phil was taken. Engaged to be married and deeply in love with his extraordinary fiancée. Ian had no business catching feelings for him. He had no business rejoicing every time he caught that splinter of silent longing in Phil’s eyes when they looked at each other. None of this should be happening.

Standing under the cold water, he struggled to calm the frantic pounding of his heart, sick with shame and guilt because of the reaction his body was having to the mereideaof kissing Phil.

The water needed to be colder — cold enough to make it hard to breathe. He tried to redirect his thoughts to trivialities: going over the week’s schedule, the materials that needed restocking and the outdated ones he should get rid of. The store he still hadn’t called back regarding pricing for a job. Lunch with his father in two days. His granny’s birthday next month.

It worked.

Shivering, he turned the water to lukewarm and finally grabbed the shower gel, but no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin, he couldn’t wash away howuncleanhe felt.

He was pulling up a pair of fresh joggers when he heard a noise of shattering glass. He dropped the t-shirt and rushed out of the bathroom to check the living room, which he found empty, save for Kibble, who was loafed on top of the armchair backrest, slumbering. A distressed sound came from the kitchen.

Ian poked his head in: Phil was leaning against the counter with both hands, panting hard. A glass was shattered at his feet.

“Handsome?”

“Sorry about... the glass,” Phil heaved without turning. His head was bent, knuckles white from how hard he was holding on to the counter. Getting closer, mindful of the sharp fragments scattered on the floor, Ian saw Phil was shaking.

“Fuck the glass. What’s wrong?”

“Panic attack,” Phil gasped out after a couple of failed attempts.

Ian was at a loss: he had no familiarity with panic attacks, didn’t want to accidentally make the situation worse by doing or saying the wrong thing, but at the same time he was desperate to help.

“What can I do?” he asked as softly as he could.

“I just need—”

“What? What do you need?”

“P-pressure.”

Pressure. What didpressuremean?

Watching Phil’s trembling body, Ian instinctively did the only thing that seemed to make sense and providedpressureby wrapping his arms around him.

“Like this?”

Phil gasped, then stuttered: “Tighter.”

“Don’t want to hurt ye.”

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