It had been a week since I last held Freya in my arms—since I felt the warmth of her against me, the way she relaxed into my chest like she belonged there. A week since I tasted the familiar softness of her lips, the kind of moment that shouldn’t give a man hope but somehow still did.

I wanted to see her again. To feel that grounding warmth again. But every time I reached for a free moment, something else dragged me away.

The Health Clinic consumed most of my days. When I wasn’t on the field, I was there—shadowing the lead physiotherapist, soaking in every lesson I could, stacking each new skill onto the foundation I hoped would become my future in sports therapy. Staying connected to the game, even if I wasn’t playing it the way I used to.

My dad had played at the same level I do now. His passion had been a wildfire—bright enough that even as a kid, I could feel the heat of it. But one injury, ignored for too long, cost him the career he lived for. I remember the night he pulled me aside, late enough that the house was quiet.

“Son,” he said, voice low but firm, “in a place like this, talent is a good start… but discipline builds legends. The best don’t leave life to chance. They stay on top of every detail. If you want to reach your potential, work at it, day in and day out.”

His words dug deep.
They forced me to rethink who I was, who I wanted to be.
Forced me to leave behind distractions that only led me off course.

My mother had been relieved. She said chasing goals suited me better than chasing trouble.

When the clinic finally emptied and the last patients had gone home, I settled into my small office. I opened my laptop, using those last quiet pockets of the day to study and review upcoming exams. Staying ahead gave me structure—kept me sane.

My watch beeped, signaling the end of my shift. As I closed the laptop, my eyes lingered on the screensaver.

A photo of Freya and me on her couch.

She’d forced me to take a selfie with her—pressing her lips into an exaggerated duck face and nudging me until I copied her. I’d pretended to be annoyed. Truth was, that night she looked so impossibly happy, her eyes lit with mischief and something tender underneath, that the memory hit me square in the chest.

I leaned back in my chair, hands gripping the plastic handles as I stared at the ceiling. Whatever Freya and I were tangled in, it pulled me so far out of my comfort zone I barely recognized myself. It agitated me, destabilized me… but letting go wasn’t an option. She was the only one who made me question the path I’d built so cleanly. The only one I would ever consider changing course for.

By the time I left the clinic, I wasn’t even pretending anymore. I needed to see her.

Her shift would be ending soon, and she’d be heading into her usual Monday evening studying. I locked up, got into my car, and drove.

At the crossroads, I should’ve gone straight.
Instead, I turned right.

The steering wheel creaked under my grip as I passed her place once… twice… three times. Trying to calm the nerves clawing inside my chest. When the bakery lights finally switched off, I pulled over.

Behind the building, near the back door, I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I belonged here anymore. This was her world. Her rhythm. And we were… complicated.

Then the door opened.

Freya stepped out—hair pulled back, sleeves dusted with flour. Tired. Real. Beautiful in a way that made something inside me drop straight through me.

“Nathaniel?”

Her surprise softened into the smallest smile as she scraped dried dough from the counters, letting pieces fall.

I forced my voice to sound casual. “Hey. I was just passing by.”

She wrung out a cloth, water pooling across the metal surface. Without looking up she said, “You don’t just pass by here. You have a route—the fastest way from the clinic to your place. And you never stray from it.”

Her accuracy stung more than it should have.

“I wanted to see you,” I admitted, nerves flaring. Breaking my routine had been the easiest part. Her pointing it out was the hard one.

Silence hovered for a breath.

Then she nodded toward the door. “Then come in. I’m almost finished.”

Inside, the scent of warm bread lingered in the air. The ovens had been turned off, their residual heat rising toward her apartment above. I leaned against the wall, watching her wipe the floors—focused, efficient, familiar.

“If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” she teased, nudging me out of her way.

So I helped her, even though I knew I was doing a better job. I bit my tongue and kept working. No way I was going to ruin this moment by correcting her. Not tonight.

When we finished, she locked the entrance and we headed up the narrow stairs. My eyes drifted—of course they did—to the familiar outline of her ahead of me. Not out of hunger or impulse, but because being this close again after so much distance made something inside me ache.

She hung her white chef’s coat at the door. A flash of pink lace peeked under her shirt—the color tugging memories loose. Ones I tried not to drown in.

“So… you wanted to see me?”

She met my gaze, tone steady but eyes searching.

I straightened, suddenly unsure of every thought I’d rehearsed on the drive over. “I always want to see you,” I said quietly. “Even if it’s just for a minute. My days are better with you in them.”

A charged silence stretched between us. My nerves spiked hard, tightening every muscle in my body. Freya’s face gave away nothing—no hint of what she was thinking, no clue if I sounded desperate or stupid or something in between. Doubt clawed up my spine. I shouldn’t have come here. I never broke routine. I never let emotion steer me.

But before I could spiral further, her fingers slipped into my open palms.

She traced the lifeline on each hand, slow enough to send a shiver straight through me. She knows what this does to me.

“Nate,” she whispered, voice clear as glass, “I missed you too.”

Then she rose to her toes, lifted her chin, and pressed her lips to mine in a kiss so soft it set every nerve in my body on fire.

My control—already cracking—shattered.

I kissed her back, tasting burnt toffee on her tongue, the familiar sweetness I’d been starving for. My arms wrapped around her waist automatically, lifting her off the ground until our faces aligned perfectly. It still wasn’t close enough. I needed more—needed her against me, all of her.

Her legs wrapped around my waist as if she had the same thought, and we moved toward the bedroom in a single, unspoken pull. I didn’t stop kissing her—not even when I misjudged the distance and slammed my shoulder into the doorframe.

Her hands pushed between the buttons of my shirt, popping them open clumsily until her palms met my skin—hot, burning, desperate. The feeling jolted something violent and tender in me, and I pressed her harder against me to keep from losing balance entirely.

“Fre…” I breathed into her neck, kissing along the warm line of her skin. Each touch, each gasp, each slight tremble from her made the world blur around us.

My hands slid beneath her shirt, pulling her closer, needing to feel every inch of her. Her quiet gasp, the brush of her lips at my ear—the rawness of it all—said everything we never managed to say in words.