Page 43 of Someone Like You

Ian ran a fingertip along the deepest scratch, where the paint was grazed so deeply it peeled off in minuscule curls. His jaw tightened. “This could’ve been your head.”

“Yeah,” Phil admitted sombrely. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Ian couldn’t have cared less about the helmet. “I told you it’s yours. Give me those books and we’re even.”

“Oh, right.” Phil wrangled the duffel bag off his torso and rummaged into it until he extracted the flowery bag, which he handed to Ian, more full than when he’d borrowed it. Inside it were the empty tupperware and two brand new books.

“Something’s missing,” said Ian, and looking up he realised that Phil had the something in question pulled down on his head.

“You didn’t say I had to return the beanie.” The innocent lilt didn’t match the mischief in Phil’s look. The only reason Ian let it slide was that he didn’t hate the idea of Phil wearing somethinghis.

“Fancy a drink?” he asked instead, but a loud growl from Phil’s stomach made him rephrase: “Or something to eat?”

Phil blushed. “Didn’t think about bringing a post-workout snack and the vending machine only had processed crap.”

“Will crackers and cream cheese do?”

“I’d eat your cat right now.”

Ian cast him a murderous look before inviting him to the kitchen with a nod.

Phil was indeed ravenous. As soon as Ian set down the food in front of him, Phil tore the crackers box open, popped the cream cheese lid, and eagerly started working his way through them like a starved lion. His relentless crunching and the way he’d occasionally lick some dip off his fingers, with a side of quite obscene throatymoans, were so mesmerising that Ian forgot about the books and all the questions that had been bugging him since the night before.

Phil munching with gusto was a delight to behold, especially knowing how much he struggled with appetite. But the list of delightful things went on and on.

Phil going to the gym.

Phil getting a bike so he could explore the city.

Phil writing again.

Phil smiling more and more every day.

Ian’s breath hitched.

Phil smiling.

His ultimate weakness.

One didn’t get crow’s feet by being a gloomy sourpuss all his life. Phil’s wrinkles said helikedsmiling and being a part of his journey in reclaiming that part of himself was an honour Ian didn’t take for granted. And Philwassmiling now, rambling about how good the cream cheese was and how sore his muscles and joints were after just a couple of hours of embarrassingly basic weight lifting.

“It’ll get better,” Ian promised. “Consistency’s the key.”

“I know,” said Phil, popping a whole cracker into his mouth. “I’m trying,” he added, chomping all on one side. He suddenly stopped mid-chew, glancing down at the food, then up at Ian. “Sorry, did you want some?”

Ian shook his head reassuringly. He felt like all of him was melting into warm, gooey mush, and was all too aware of the besotted grin pulling at his cheeks. Thankfully, Phil was too preoccupied with filling his belly to notice.

Cracker. Dip. Mouth.

Cracker. Dip. Mouth.

Cracker. Dip. Mouth.

“You’re staring,” Phil grumbled in between chomps.

“You’re puttin’ on a show.” Cracker. Dip. Mouth. “Leave some room for dinner. What’s Abigail goin’ to say?”

Cracker. “Oh, she’s in Edinburgh, so…” Dip. Mouth. “Didn’t you have questions?”

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