Nathaniel stayed until after midnight.
He left while I pretended to be asleep—cowardly, yes, but I couldn’t face him. Not then. Not with my mind in knots and my heart doing things I refused to admit to.

I heard him moving around my room, dressing quietly, every shift of fabric slow and careful as if he didn’t want to disturb me. That gentleness made my chest ache. I could feel his gaze on me, searching my face for signs I was awake, maybe replaying his own rambling thoughts from the night.

I stayed still, muscles burning with the effort to keep my breathing even.
My heartbeat thundered.
I wondered if he heard it.

When the soft click of my apartment door finally echoed through the silence, the tension inside me snapped. I let out a silent scream into my pillow—anger, relief, confusion, longing all tangled until I didn’t know which one was mine anymore. I pulled the sheet over my head, curling into myself as if that could squeeze the ache out of my chest. Eventually exhaustion took over and I fell asleep.

When morning came—late, too late—the memory of his touch clung to me.
Warmth. Familiarity. A sense of us I thought I had buried.

Last night didn’t give clarity.
It only made everything messier.

We never needed words to unravel each other. Our connection always lived between breaths, between glances, between the stupid, impulsive moments we fell into again. And after weeks apart, the closeness we shared didn’t answer anything. It only tangled my thoughts further.

So now I clung to structure.
To routine.
To the bakery and my studies and the parts of my life I could actually control.

My future had a blueprint:
Pass my exams.
Get certified.
Take over the bakery someday.
Keep pushing toward pastry work.
Take those economics classes, no matter how much they drained me.

I couldn’t afford to drift.
Not again.
Not when feelings were already threatening to reroute everything I’d planned.

I settled at my desk with a mug of coffee and a yogurt bowl topped with homemade granola. The quiet hummed around me as I opened my laptop and forced my mind to focus on my upcoming practical test. Hours passed in stillness, my breathing evening out as the anxiety slowly ebbed.

When I finally shut off my computer, I reached for my phone—untouched all morning.

Team chat notifications.
And three messages from Nathaniel.

My stomach tightened as I opened his name.

“Hope you slept well.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to assume you wanted me to stay.”
“Can we talk later?”

My pulse throbbed. I sat there, suspended in indecision.

Eventually I typed a short, simple reply—enough to acknowledge him without diving into everything I didn’t know how to say yet.

The sun was lowering when I hopped on my bike, pedaling toward the club. Supporters waved as I passed, their smiles warm in a way that made the world feel simpler than it was.

Inside the locker room, I peeled off my shirt halfway before Ashley’s gasp and Gemma’s laugh made me freeze.

“What?” I demanded, tugging the fabric free.

Gemma stepped close, squinting. “Your back is basically a constellation.” She tapped one of the marks lightly.

Ashley grabbed a small mirror from her bag. “You should see this.”

When she held it behind me, my breath caught.
Heat drained from my face.
A cluster of marks—obvious now under the light—stared back at me.

Embarrassment hit first.
Then grief.
Then a wave of confusion so strong it nearly knocked me off balance.

I hadn’t noticed last night.
Everything had been too much—too overwhelming, too fast, too emotional.

Gemma crossed her arms. “Explain.”

So I did. Not all of it. Not the intimate parts. Just enough for them to fit last night into the mess of the last few weeks.

Ashley burst out laughing. “We lost the bet. We thought you two would cave earlier.”

Gemma nudged me, smirking. “At least the tension broke. About time.”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks burning as we finished dressing.

When we walked out, the girls spotted Nathaniel waiting near the entrance. Their grins widened until I shot them a look sharp enough to slice toast.

“See you on the field, Captain!” they sing-songed, darting away.

The sun broke free of the clouds as I stepped outside. Shadows stretched long across the ground, and cheers from the stands drifted through the air. Normally the energy of game day steadied me.

Not today.

Nathaniel and I locked eyes, and everything inside me tightened. The guilt. The hurt. The longing. The fear. It all swirled into a storm lodged beneath my ribs.

A charged silence stretched between us. My chest tightened as the world buzzed around us, cheers and chants melting into a dull hum. Nathaniel’s eyes found mine, anxiety flickering beneath the calm he tried to show.

A memory surged up—unwanted, sharp, weeks old but still burning.

The night everything broke.

We were sitting in his dim apartment, shadows long across the floor. The pain between us was so thick it felt like breathing smoke.

“I need to know why,” I whispered, my voice trembling but held together by force. Nathaniel stared at his hands until his knuckles turned white. When he finally met my eyes, something inside him cracked.

“Because I was jealous,” he said, raw and bare. “You were doing so well, Freya. Everyone saw you. Everyone celebrated you. And I felt like I was disappearing.”

His voice splintered on the last word. Silence pressed down on us like a weight. I stared at the chipped mug in my hands because looking at him hurt too much.

“You broke something I can’t fix overnight,” I said. The words shook as they left me.

When he reached for me, I flinched. “I need time, Nate, figuring out what I want. Please give me that.”

In the present, Nathaniel stepped closer—yet not close enough. His warmth felt like gravity, pulling at every frayed edge inside me.

“How are you?” he murmured.

“I’m f—” The word snapped in my throat. Shame surged hot under my skin. The world squeezed in around me, my breath turning shallow. “It still hurts, Nate.”

His face shattered, every emotion he’d tried to hold back spilling into the open.

“I believe we’re bigger than this,” I whispered. “But I need time.”

He stepped in, thumb brushing beneath my jaw, lifting my face just enough that I couldn’t look away. His eyes searched mine—terrified, tender, pleading.

“I can’t let you go, Fré…” he breathed. “But if time is what you want… then we’ll do it your way.”

His hand cupped my cheek, warm, familiar, too easy to melt into. My lips parted on instinct—dangerous, reckless instinct—and I forced them shut again.

Not now.
Not before a match.
Not when I’m barely holding myself together.

“I… I have to focus on the game,” I whispered.

His hand fell away. The loss of warmth cut deeper than it should have.

And right there, I made myself a promise:

I won’t let old wounds decide who I am.
Not anymore.
Not today.