My Sunday unfolds as planned. Even on days meant for rest, I never break my pattern. After lacing up my running shoes, I scroll through my smartwatch to start the training session—a long-distance run that takes me outside town, deep into the woods surrounding Eldermoor.

By midday, I join my parents for lunch. Their marriage is quiet comfort—a steady love that doesn’t demand attention. Watching them, I understand that love often lives in small, everyday moments.

Dad and I settle onto the couch for game reruns while Mom slips out to the garden. We all know what that means—ninety minutes of escape: a cigarette, a glass of sparkling wine, and gossip with her sisters.

At halftime, Dad lowers the volume, resting the remote on his knee. His brows knit as he exhales, then pins me with that familiar look. “There comes a point when scouts stop reaching out. I’d hate to see you regret turning them down out of loyalty.” It’s a conversation we’ve had a dozen times.

“There are so many like me,” I say automatically. “Talented, ambitious. I don’t want to be another name signed and benched.”

But even as I say it, a flicker of doubt slides in. Is it loyalty—or fear? Fear that I’ll vanish if I leave Eldermoor? Here, I’m respected. Out there, I could fade into the noise. The thought claws at me, tightening in my chest.

For three years, I’ve worked to climb higher, leading the club closer to national competition. Every goal feels like a promise—to my team, my town, myself. But when I imagine the stadium lights fading, the crowd gone quiet, I see something else: a bigger field, louder cheers, my name echoing in places I’ve never been.

Dad’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Promise me, if you get picked up this year, you won’t settle for less than your worth.”

His words land heavy. Anxiety stirs in my stomach. What if staying small becomes my biggest mistake?

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I can do that.” But my voice sounds uncertain, even to me.

When the game ends, I stand. “See you next week.”

His voice follows me, dry amusement threading through. “Your mom switched to menthol. Thinks it hides the smell.”

I grin over my shoulder. “Does it work?”

“Not a bit,” he says, chuckling. “But don’t tell her. Let her think she’s fooling us.”

Laughing softly, I head to the garden. Mom’s still on the phone, laughter spilling through her cigarette smoke. When she spots me, she hides the cigarette behind her back and waves like she’s caught stealing time.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, blowing a playful kiss.

“You’re impossible,” I tease.

She winks. “And you love me for it.”

Later that evening, nerves steady but heart thrumming, I get ready to meet Freya. I choose my outfit with care—casual, but sharp enough to matter. I unbutton my shirt just enough to show my collarbone; she’s always liked that. One last sweep through my hair, brushed left. The reflection in the mirror looks confident. Maybe a little vain. But I’m done pretending I don’t want her back.

The route to her place is muscle memory. The smell of fresh bread drifts from the bakery below as I climb the side stairs to her apartment. My pulse quickens when I hear laughter from inside.

I push open the door—and freeze. Gemma, Ashley, and the guys are all there, gathered around the TV, their laughter spilling across the small living room.

“Hey, Nate!” Gemma calls, eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re finally here, all dressed up. Trying to impress someone?” Her grin is wicked, tongue flashing the titanium barbell I know too well.

Ashley chimes in, smirking. “Looking sharp, superstar. You sure you’ve got the right address?”

I smirk back, masking my disappointment. I’d come hoping for quiet—for a chance to talk to Freya, not a roomful of witnesses.

Gemma elbows me. “Relax, Nate. It’s just fun.”

Then Freya appears from the kitchen, a tray of snacks in hand, eyes widening when she sees me.

“Oh, crap,” she mutters, scanning the crowded room. “I don’t think this is enough.”

She hurries back to the kitchen, opening cabinets in a flustered search for more. I follow, closing the door behind us to the laughter outside.

“You could’ve warned me,” I say, running a hand through my hair.

She sighs, cheeks flushing. “Gemma got into my phone last night and forwarded my invite. By the time I woke up, everyone had already said yes. What was I supposed to do—uninvite them?”

Her voice carries that soft defensiveness I’ve missed. I smile, stepping closer. “Need a hand?”

She glances up, and for a heartbeat, we fall into an easy rhythm—preparing snacks, brushing shoulders, the silence between us saying more than words.

Back in the living room, the group sprawls comfortably, teasing and loud. Freya sets a bowl of popcorn down beside the couch, standing next to me when no seats remain. Her shoulder nearly brushes mine. The faint scent of jasmine and wild orange curls in the air—her scent.

I want to tell her she still smells like home, but my throat closes. When I look at her, her eyes catch mine, that ocean-blue pull I’ve never escaped.

Gemma notices, of course. “So,” she says loudly, “are you two getting back together, or should we brace for another soap opera season?”

Ashley raises her glass. “Twenty bucks says they hook up again by next week.”

The room explodes with laughter and mock cheers. Leo smirks from the corner. “They’ve got that slow burn thing going—it’s bound to blow up.”

Jay adds, “Yeah, Nate, give us the inside scoop. We’ll split the winnings.”

Even Markus joins in, flashing his trademark grin. “Man, if you two don’t make it official soon, I’m betting against you. No way you can fight that tension forever.”

The teasing bounces between us, good-natured and relentless. Freya rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “Someone’s got to keep things interesting,” she says lightly.

I grin. “Guess that’s our job.”

For a moment, it feels easy—like the old days before everything cracked.

The evening winds down, the crowd thinning. Laughter fades to murmurs as people grab their jackets. I linger near the doorway, hoping to help clean up—or maybe find a few quiet seconds alone with her.

But before I can move, Gemma catches my eye and shakes her head. “Not tonight, Nate. We’re not letting you ruin our bet.”

Marcus claps me on the shoulder. “C’mon, man—Old Mill. You owe us a round.”

Leo chuckles. “Freya’s got to bake at dawn anyway. Don’t distract the town’s sweetheart.”

Across the room, Freya looks up. Our eyes meet—a flicker of warmth, of something unfinished.

I smile softly, the ache settling back into place. “See you soon,” I say, more promise than farewell.

As the door closes behind me, laughter trails off down the street. But her scent, her voice, her nearness—they stay.

And for the first time in a long while, hope doesn’t feel like a mistake.