Finding Him, Finding Me

Chapter 3: The First of Many Kisses

Just when I’d started to believe I’d hallucinated the entire thing — the flirting, the smile, the Scottish accent that felt like it had been sent straight from some divine source — the phone rang. It was a random Tuesday night, almost a week later, and I was mentally drafting a eulogy for my love life, complete with dramatic lighting and a mournful cello playing in the background. I nearly tore the receiver from the wall.

  For days, William had become less a real person and more a persistent, beautiful ghost I’d conjured up in a pub, a symptom of too much sleep deprivation and not enough actual human contact. My life, suddenly back in the familiar but stifling confines of my parents’ house, had shrunk to the length of the telephone cord. With every passing hour of silence, every minute that stretched into a small eternity, I’d grown more convinced it had all been a flirtatious bit of fun — a nice story about the barman he’d teased for an hour, then promptly forgotten. Of course he had. Why wouldn’t he? I was probably just a novelty after his last relationship. Too much, not enough, not attractive enough, not confident enough. My self-deprecating inner voice was practically humming an entire operatic score at this point. I was fully spiralling.

  I’d started rehearsing conversations we’d never have, crafting witty one-liners in my head that would never see the light of day. Imagining how I’d bump into him again, casually, like in a film. Maybe I’d be holding a puppy or rescuing a child from a runaway pram, looking effortlessly heroic and windswept. And he’d be like, “Wow, Leo, I’ve been a fool. Your heroics and impressive puppy-handling skills have truly opened my eyes.” And then we’d kiss on a zebra crossing like the cover of a Beatles album, probably with a rogue pigeon flying overhead for dramatic effect.

  Anyway. The phone rang.

  I snatched the receiver, my heart pounding like it was trying to punch through my ribs and escape the impending doom of an unanswered call. “Hello?” I said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near ‘recently electrocuted’ or ‘man who just heard a ghost whisper his name.’ “Hi,” came the voice, deep and calm and unmistakably his. “It’s William.” Relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out. I dropped to sit on the stairs like I’d been shot, leaning my head against the banister.

  “Y-yeah, I’m good, how are you?” I said, my voice betraying none of the fireworks going off in my chest, none of the desperate, unholy joy that was currently making my vision swim. Good job, Leo. Sound completely uninterested. That’ll reel him in.

  We danced through a few minutes of light conversation — the baffling London weather, the joys of shift work, the perpetually rising price of a pint — like two people tiptoeing toward something bigger, afraid to make the first definitive move. My brain was screaming: Ask him out! Tell him you missed him! Don’t just talk about the b****y weather!

  Then he said it. “I’ve been thinking about you.” Just like that, the cool crumbled. The carefully constructed façade of nonchalance shattered into a million tiny, sparkly pieces. My heart did a full-body flip, landing somewhere near my throat. “I was wondering,” he continued, his voice gentle, “how you’d feel about coming over for dinner.”

  My brain short-circuited. Dinner? At his place? The infamous first-date dilemma. Did that mean dinner and a bit of polite conversation, a chaste peck on the cheek and a firm handshake at the door? Or dinner and then s*x, immediately, irrevocably? It was a crucial distinction. Possibly life-altering.

  My mind raced, trying to calculate the implications, the potential for disaster. Was I ready for s*x? Was my underwear even acceptable? Did he expect me to be some kind of s*x god after one flirty chat in a pub? When I came back from Australia — fresh from a breakup with a man who’d treated my heart like carry-on luggage, discarding it carelessly when it no longer served his purpose — I’d made a solemn vow to myself: the Three-Date Rule. No s*x until at least the third date. By then, I’d know if it was real or just another pretty smile, another temporary distraction. I needed to protect myself, to slow down, to prove that I was more than just a convenient rebound. And I wanted real. God, I wanted William to be real. I wanted him more than I’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

  But then I pictured him — his laugh, the warmth of his voice, the way he’d looked at me over the rim of that beer bottle, that knowing gleam in his eyes — and every logical thought started unravelling like a cheap wool jumper. The Three-Date Rule felt flimsy, impractical, utterly ridiculous in the face of him.

  As my mind spun into glorious, chaotic overdrive, trying to weigh the desire against the fear of self-sabotage, his voice cut back in, gently, breaking through my internal panic. “I’ll cook,” he said. “And then maybe we can go out for a drink. It’ll be our first date.”

  Our first date. He’d said it. He wasn’t just asking me over for a casual meal, implying something perhaps more physical. He was asking me out. Explicitly. A proper date. A beginning.

  “That sounds great,” I said, managing to keep the tremor out of my voice, managing to sound like a perfectly normal, chill human being and not a screaming banshee of suppressed emotion.

  We settled the details. I hung up the phone, slowly, reverently, like it was a sacred relic. The moment the receiver clicked into place, all the cool I’d been clinging to disintegrated. I turned and sprinted down the hall toward my bedroom, a wild, triumphant whoop building in my chest, a primal scream of joy that had been pent up for far too long. I leapt into the air, fuelled by sheer, unadulterated happiness — and smashed my head straight into the doorframe.

The world detonated in white light. Then: carpet. Then: pain. Excruciating, throbbing pain that made stars dance behind my eyes. My mum came running, her footsteps heavy and urgent.

  “Leo? What happened?” she shouted, skidding into the hall, her dressing gown flapping like a distressed flag. She looked down at me, crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, a slowly expanding crimson stain on my temple. Her face morphed from concern to alarm, then outright panic.

  “Oh my God,” she said, hand flying to her mouth. “You’re bleeding.”

  I tried to sit up, my head throbbing, a metallic taste in my mouth. “I’m fine. I just —”

  “No, you’re not. We need to get you to A&E.” She was already rummaging in the airing cupboard for a tea towel.

  “I don’t need A&E,” I insisted, pushing myself upright, feeling a wave of nausea. But when I touched my head, my fingers came away warm and slick. Blood. A lot of it.

  The sinking feeling in my gut was worse than the pain. God, this is just typical Leo. I was going to have to cancel. My perfect first date, ruined before it even began, by my own idiocy. He’d think I was a total disaster.

  Still clutching the tea towel Mum had pressed to my scalp, which was already turning an alarming shade of red, I dialled his number. My fingers felt numb, the rotary dial strangely difficult to operate.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I said when he answered, my voice a strained whisper. And then I told him everything, omitting only the internal screaming. The ecstatic leap, the door frame, the sudden, violent impact. My mum’s horrified face.

  He didn’t laugh. He just listened.

  “Okay, Leo,” he said calmly, his voice a balm over the chaotic static in my brain. “Head wounds bleed a lot — that’s normal. Keep pressure on it.”

  Then he offered me a choice, laid out with such quiet kindness it nearly undid me. “If you want to go to hospital, I completely understand. We can reschedule. Or, if you still want to come over, I’ll take a look and let you know if you need stitches.”

  The decision took about two seconds. “I’ll come to yours,” I blurted, clutching the tea towel tighter. Of course I would. Even with a head wound, I was not missing this date.

  I waited a couple of hours for the bleeding to slow down, taking the time to clean myself up. After a quick shower, I dressed in smart clothes — something that would show I’d made an effort but still felt comfortable. I wanted to look good for him, to feel good about myself.

  The taxi ride across London was a weird mix of dull ache and wild anticipation. I kept glancing at the driver’s mirror, wondering if he could sense I was en route to either romance or a concussion check-up. The city lights blurred outside the window, a confusing backdrop to the internal drama of my life.

  William was waiting at the door when I arrived, a soft smile wide on his face, his eyes kind. He didn’t comment on the tea towel turban or the slightly dazed expression I was probably sporting.

  “Right,” he said, leading me inside. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  He tilted my head gently, his fingers surprisingly soft against my scalp as he inspected the cut. His face was just inches from mine, his dark eyes serious as he peered at the wound. I could feel his breath warm against my forehead.

  “It’s not too bad,” he said eventually, pulling back slightly, his expression relaxing into a reassuring smile. “No stitches, I reckon. Just needs cleaning up.”

  Then he looked me in the eye, his gaze soft and direct. “How are you feeling?”

  And honestly? I wasn’t sure. My head still throbbed, a dull pulse of pain. But as I looked back at him — at those kind, steady eyes, that gentle reassurance — the pain in my head just melted away, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming warmth. All the anxiety, all the self-consciousness, all the fear of being judged, just… dissipated.

  “I suddenly feel no pain,” I said, without even thinking, the words spilling out before my brain could censor them. Good job, Leo. Sound like a lovesick i***t. That’ll really impress him.

  He smiled, a soft, knowing curve of his lips, lifted a hand, and softly stroked my cheek. The contact was gentle, brief, but it sent a fresh shiver down my spine, a pleasant counterpoint to the earlier one of dread.

  He poured me a generous glass of white wine and ushered me into his kitchen, which was warm and smelled faintly of herbs. As we ate what he called ‘spag bol’ — which, to be fair, looked suspiciously like tinned tomatoes and mince, but tasted like a feast after a day of adrenaline — I told him about the ex in Australia. I kept it brief, the highlights of the breakup, the bits that made me sound less like a heartbroken i***t and more like a wise traveller.

  He grinned. “Brad! That is such an Australian name.” The simple, easy amusement in his voice somehow made the whole painful saga of Brad feel less heavy, less loaded with failure.

  I laughed, then told him the slightly abridged version of how it ended. He didn’t hesitate. “Well,” he said plainly, “Brad was an i***t. But at least you got to see Australia. That’s something.” And just like that, the heaviness of that memory lifted. He wasn’t judging me, not for Brad, not for the failed adventure. He just saw the silver lining, the experience.

  The spaghetti was, objectively, overcooked and under-seasoned, but I ate every bite with exaggerated enthusiasm, making appreciative noises like I was a food critic and had just tasted heaven, not a slightly bland approximation of Italian cuisine. I was trying to be charming, trying to be the sort of person who enjoyed slightly mediocre food with good company.

  Conversation drifted to his passion for classical music — particularly Shostakovich. He spoke about it with a quiet intensity that was utterly captivating. I admitted I didn’t know anything about it but wanted to understand. So, he put on Symphony No. 5. I listened intently, trying my best, trying to look suitably appreciative. I wanted to love it. I really did. But my honest first thought was: This sounds like the soundtrack to a panic attack. All those dramatic swells and sudden bursts of noise. It felt like my internal monologue, but orchestral.

  “What do you think?” he asked, hopeful, a slight nervousness in his eyes as he looked at me. I paused, searching for something, anything, that sounded intelligent and not entirely dismissive.

  “Hmm. I can see why you like it so much.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. A full, warm, easy sound that made my own tension dissolve. He saw right through me, and for once, I didn’t feel exposed. I felt seen.

We both dissolved into giggles, the classical music still thundering dramatically in the background like the score to our absurd first date.

  “Right,” he said, pushing back from the table, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “My career as a chef and musical educator is over. Shall we go get a proper drink?”

  He chose The Pennyfarthing — back to where it all began. The place was bustling, warm, noisy. After a few hours, nursing pints and easy conversation, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear over the thumping music.

  “Fancy going to the Royal Oak? It’s a gay club — not far.”

  I said yes before he’d even finished the sentence, a rush of excitement washing over me. The moment we walked in, the air hit me — a thick, sweet cloud of cigarette smoke, spilled lager, and something that smelled like Calvin Klein Eternity. The bass from “Finally ” wasn’t just a sound; it was a physical force, pounding up through the soles of my shoes and into my chest, vibrating through my very bones.

  I was instantly mobbed by friends I hadn’t seen in over a year. Hugs. Shouts. Questions. It was overwhelming — in the best way. My mates, my chosen family, a chaotic, glitter-covered mess of love and acceptance.

  I turned, worried I’d left William stranded, alone in the sudden crush of bodies, fearing he’d regret this entire enterprise. But I hadn’t.

  He was standing with my friend Mark, not looking overwhelmed at all, but leaning in slightly, listening with that focused calm that made Mark — normally a motor-mouthed gossip — actually slow down, actually listen to himself. He caught my eye over Mark’s shoulder and gave a small, reassuring smile, as if to say, I’m fine. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.

  That was it. That was what made my stomach flip, not with nerves, but with something new, something dangerously close to real affection. The quiet confidence. The ease. The fact that he was so effortlessly himself in a place that could be overwhelming to a newcomer.

  I slipped away from the crowd and found him near the dance floor. The music was pounding through the speakers, a physical pulse that matched the frantic beating of my heart. I started dancing, moving my body instinctively to the beat, letting the music fill the spaces between us. He moved in behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, then sliding them down to my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies were pressed together.

  Just then, I realised I needed a piss.

  “Uh, I need to go to the toilet,” I mumbled, taking a step back, trying to maintain some semblance of cool while my heart raced like it was trying to break free from my ribcage.

  William started to follow me, that charming smile still plastered on his face. “I’ll come with you.”

  I turned back, panic rising in my chest. “That wasn’t an invitation!” I blurted out, feeling like a total i***t.

  He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “I know, but I need a piss too.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Alright then, let’s go.”

  We made our way to the toilet, and as I stood at the urinal, I tried to push aside the thoughts swirling in my head. William leaned against the wall, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just shared a moment that felt like it could change everything.

  “So,” he said casually, “do you want to come back to mine after this?”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. Oh God, here we go. I wanted to say yes, wanted to jump at the chance to extend the night with him, but my mind raced with the implications. Would it lead to s*x? That was what I wanted, but I had my rules, didn’t I?

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I stammered, my voice sounding small and uncertain. “I have this… Three-Date Rule. No s*x until the third date.”

  William’s brow furrowed slightly, but then he chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that made my heart flutter. “I wasn’t inviting you back for s*x, Leo. I just didn’t want the night to end.”

  Relief washed over me, but it was quickly followed by a wave of embarrassment.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. I just thought…” I trailed off, feeling like a complete i***t.

  He smiled, that kind smile that made me feel like everything would be alright. “I get it. But really, I just want to hang out a bit longer. No pressure.”

  I took a breath, trying to steady my racing heart. “Okay, then. I’d like that,” I said, feeling a bit bolder now.

  “Great,” he replied, and I could see that familiar spark in his eyes again. “Let’s get back out there and enjoy the rest of the night.”

  As we left the bathroom, the energy of the club enveloped us again. We made our way back to the dance floor, where the music thumped in sync with my racing heart. We danced for a while, lost in the rhythm, the world around us fading into a blur of coloured lights and laughter.

  Then, leaning in close, William whispered, “I really want to kiss you now,” his voice a low rumble against the pounding bass.

  I turned to face him, the dazzling lights spinning across the room in a kaleidoscope of colours. All I could see were his eyes — dark and inviting. I leaned in — slowly, deliberately — like I was going to whisper something conspiratorial into his ear. As I got closer, he tilted his head, expecting words, a secret, a joke.

  That was my moment. I lifted my hands, gently cupped his face, my palms warm against his skin, and turned it back toward mine. His skin was warm under my palms, soft and inviting. My heart pounded like a drum, a frantic, joyful rhythm against my ribs.

  One part of my brain screamed: What are you doing? This is only the first date! This is too fast! You’ll mess it up! But a deeper, stronger voice, quiet but insistent, pushed back: Go for it. It doesn’t have to end in s*x. This is about the kiss. This is about you. This is about finally letting yourself want something good.

  So, I leaned in those final inches. And we kissed. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t cautious. It was sure. Certain. A kiss of recognition, of two people who already knew something important about each other, something unspoken — even if they didn’t have the words for it yet. It was a kiss that tasted of cheap white wine and something else, something hopeful.

  I’d kissed a fair few men in my time, stumbled through plenty of awkward first kisses, endured more than a few that tasted like obligation. But nothing like this. This one felt like gravity. Like a force pulling me in, anchoring me. Like coming home.

  After a moment, we pulled away, both breathless, the world around us fading into the background. William looked at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, a grin spreading across my face.

“But can we grab a kebab on the way?”