Chapter 4
Phil
Bella Italia is only a few minutes from the Cricketers, but the walk feels longer. The air is cool, the alcohol lingering heavily in my bloodstream, creating the illusion of calm without the reality of it. My thoughts move slower now. Softer around the edges. Less sharp. Less dangerous.
It’s like someone has taken the panic that usually lives inside my chest and wrapped it in cotton wool. It’s still there. Still present. But muted. Manageable.
I reach the restaurant and pause outside the door, staring at my reflection in the glass.
The man looking back at me appears normal.
A little flushed, maybe. His eyes slightly brighter than usual.
But nothing alarming. Nothing obvious. He doesn’t look like someone standing on the edge of making a complete fool of himself.
Nobody would know.
That thought reassures me more than it should.
I step inside.
The restaurant is warm, alive with quiet conversation and clinking glasses.
The sound of cutlery against ceramic, low laughter, fragments of lives intersecting briefly over food and wine.
Couples lean toward each other across tables, sharing food, sharing space, sharing ease.
Nobody here looks afraid. Nobody here looks like they’re seconds away from saying something they can’t take back.
I pick our table and sit down, placing my hands carefully on either side of my beer when it arrives, as though anchoring myself physically will prevent me from drifting somewhere I can’t return from.
The cold glass grounds me. Gives me something external to focus on instead of the increasingly unreliable machinery of my own mind.
I rehearse possible conversations in my head.
Ask her about the shop.
Ask her about London.
Ask her about literally anything.
Don’t panic.
Do not PANIC.
The door opens.
She walks in.
And every prepared thought leaves me instantly.
She looks… soft.
Not fragile. Not delicate. Just real in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate.
Her hair falls over her shoulders, the lilac streak catching the light.
She’s not dressed up in a way that feels performative.
She hasn’t tried to become someone else for this evening.
She’s just herself. Entirely herself in a pale orange dress.
Her eyes find mine quickly, like she knew exactly where I would be.
And when she smiles, it isn’t teasing.
It’s hopeful.
That expression hits harder than any flirtation ever has. Because teasing is safe. Teasing is distance. Teasing gives me somewhere to hide.
Hope doesn’t.
She walks toward me.
Each step feels like a test I am already failing.
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice is gentle. Careful, like she’s approaching something easily startled.
“Hi,” I reply, and the word comes out heavier than I intended, slower than it should.
She sits down, her knee brushing mine briefly, and for a moment she doesn’t speak. She just looks at me. Not interrogating. Not evaluating. Just looking. Like she’s trying to memorise this version of me.
“You look fantastic,” I tell her.
The words come from somewhere honest, somewhere untouched by the alcohol. Because she does. She always does. But tonight there’s something else layered over it. Something quieter.
She tilts her head slightly.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes linger on my face a second longer than necessary, and I realise she’s studying me.
“Have you been drinking?”
The question lands gently, but there’s no avoiding it.
“A little,” I admit.
Not a lie. Not entirely the truth either.
The waiter appears, and she orders Prosecco. Her voice is warm and easy with him, her smile natural, not forced. She belongs here in a way I never quite manage to. She belongs everywhere she stands.
I order the same, because water would be an admission of weakness and I am not ready for that yet. Not tonight. Not when she’s looking at me like this.
For a few minutes, everything is fine.
Better than fine.
She talks about the shop. About a customer who tried to return flowers because they “didn’t match her aura.” She imitates the woman’s voice with just enough exaggeration to make me laugh, and the sound escapes me naturally.
She relaxes slowly, almost imperceptibly, like she’d come prepared for rejection and is cautiously allowing herself to believe she might not get it.
She tells me about Fellside. About how different it feels from London. Slower. Kinder. She admits she didn’t think she’d stay this long, but now she can’t imagine leaving.
As she talks, I watch her hands. The way she gestures when she gets excited. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear without thinking. The way she looks directly at me when she speaks, like she isn’t afraid of what she might see there.
On the outside, I am doing it.
I am here. I am present. I am participating.
On the inside, I am losing the battle.
The alcohol shifts, moving from warmth to pressure. My thoughts don’t disappear, but they stop lining up properly. Each one arrives slightly too late or leaves slightly too early, like a conversation with a delay.
She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table.
“I’m glad you asked me out,” she says.
The words land directly in my chest, bypassing whatever protective barriers I usually keep in place.
“You are?”
She smiles softly.
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No irony. No teasing.
Just truth.
Something in me loosens.
Dangerously.
I pick up my glass and finish it without thinking, chasing the feeling, trying to preserve it.
She notices.
“Phil.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.
For now.
She gives me the benefit of the doubt again, and the kindness in that gesture makes something twist uncomfortably inside me. Because I know I don’t deserve that trust. Not tonight.
The waiter returns to take our food order.
I stare at the menu, the words moving slightly on the page. Not dramatically. Just enough to remind me that my control over this situation is more fragile than I’d like.
“What are you having?” she asks.
I look up at her.
“You,” I say.
The word leaves my mouth before my brain can stop it.
Her eyes widen.
My stomach drops.
“I mean— not eat you. Obviously. That would be inappropriate… to eat you… out… at a restaurant. And weird. Not that you’re weird. You’re not weird. You’re…”
I stop.
Abort.
“I don’t quite know what to say to this.” She squints at me like this will allow her to look behind the facade I’ve built so carefully.
The waiter stands there, professionally pretending none of this is happening.
“I’ll have the carbonara,” she says.
“Same,” I reply immediately, because making independent decisions suddenly feels impossible.
The waiter leaves.
She watches me carefully now.
Concerned.
“You’re nervous,” she says again.
“Yes.”
“That’s okay.”
I nod, grateful for her kindness.
I decide to repay it by saying something honest.
“You smell nice,” I tell her.
She smiles.
“Thank you.”
“And your hair.”
She tilts her head.
“My hair?”
“The purple.”
“Lilac.”
“Lilac,” I repeat carefully. “It’s… hypnotic.”
She laughs again.
This time, there’s affection in it.
For a brief, fragile moment, everything feels possible.
I see the future unfold in small, impossible glimpses. Walking beside her through Fellside. Sitting across from her like this without fear. Existing in her orbit without feeling like an intruder.
Then the alcohol shifts again.
Confidence arrives.
False. Loud. Unwelcome.
“You know,” I say, leaning forward, “I’ve thought about kissing you.”
The silence that follows is enormous.
Her eyes widen again and I should take this as a sign to stop. But I can’t.
“I mean, not constantly. That would be obsessive. But occasionally. Frequently. Sometimes daily.”
Stop talking.
Stop talking.
She studies me carefully now, her expression changing.
Concern.
“Phil,” she says quietly, “how much have you had to drink?”
“Not much.”
Lie.
My stomach rolls slightly.
The room tilts.
I lean back too quickly, nearly knocking my chair.
“I’m okay,” I say.
She reaches across the table, placing her hand lightly over mine.
The contact is grounding.
Real.
Warm.
“Hey,” she says softly.
Her thumb moves slightly against my skin, a small unconscious gesture meant to soothe.
The kindness in her voice makes everything worse.
Because I don’t deserve it.
Because she came here expecting someone brave.
And she got me instead.
My stomach twists violently.
A warning.
“I don’t feel so good,” I admit.
Her hand tightens around mine.
Worry replaces irritation instantly.
Her entire focus shifts from the date to me, from possibility to damage control.
“Okay,” she says calmly. “Okay. We’ll get you home.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
She stands.
I try to follow.
The floor disagrees.
She catches me immediately.
“I’ve got you,” she says firmly.
Her voice has changed.
Less hopeful.
More protective.
And beneath it, something else.
Disappointment.
She pays the bill before I can protest.
She carries more of my weight than she should have to, her arm steady around me, her body braced against mine with quiet determination.
Outside, the cool air hits my face.
I breathe deeply.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t let go either.