Page 102 of Worth the Wait
Freddie’s heart thumped.
It wasn’tI love you.Not yet. But he didn’t need that.
What he needed was Nathan. Here.Stayinghere. With him.
So he pressed his lips to Nathan’s ear, “And you were worth the wait.”
Chapter twenty
Point of No Return
Reluctantly, Nathan peeled himself out of Freddie’s grasp, careful not to wake him.
He was out cold. Arms flung wide, mouth parted. A sleep that came after hours of tangled sheets and no bullshit between them. Talking, kissing, yeah… all that. And then there’d been that last round—Freddie on his knees, mouth working him as if he needed it, as if he knew Nathan did, then finished with him sprawled across Nathan’s chest, panting, flushed, and filthy in the way Nathan hadn’t known he’d been starving for until now.
He’d licked it up. Every last drop. Greedy. Grateful.
And fuck, he loved it.
Loved him.
There it was. Bare and brutal. No dodging it now. He was in it. Full tilt. No parachute. No plan B. Falling hard for the one man he’d never stopped wanting.
But the day was in full swing, sun bright beyond Freddie’s blackout blinds, and with it, reality. And that, in all its unwelcome timing, started with his old man.
He dressed quietly, tugging on his clothes in the dusty light. Before leaving, he paused at the edge of the bed, leant in, and pressed a kiss to Freddie’s forehead. He didn’t stir. Not even a twitch. Nathan allowed himself a moment to look at him. Content. At peace.
Then he scanned the room, spotted Freddie’s jeans crumpled in a heap, and fished out his phone from the pocket. He had the same make as him and unconsciously, he typed his own password.
The screen unlocked.
Nathan stared at it for a second, heart twisting. He wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence or something more intentional. A tether Freddie hadn’t quite cut.
That passcode had been Nathan’s birthdate.
Blinking it away, he typed in his number, rang himself to log it, then added the contact properly. He then set it on the bedside table beside Freddie, fished out his own phone and sent him a text.
Then he slipped out of the maisonette.
It was gone eleven, the coastal air a little warmer now but still scattered with salt. He walked, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. No car meant taking the long way down the hill and Worthbridge at mid-morning was already grinding into motion. Shop fronts open, the smell of frying oil drifting from the chippy, and pensioners crowding the bakery queue as if it was a military operation. The tide was out, leaving the air thick with the scent of seaweed and brine, the exposed sand glinting.
He passed the old charity shop with its sagging window display, the newsagent where the same two men argued outside every day, and the café with its mismatched outdoor tables, already full of mums with pushchairs and steaming mugs foe their drink of choice. He continued down past the rusted railings and the peeling paint of seaside flats where the road dipped towards the roundabout and the garage sat like a relic. The signCarter Carsstill hung wonky, creaking faintly in the breeze, and someone had scrawled a fresh profanity across the utility box out front.
Nathan paused outside.
The walk hadn’t cleared his head. It never did.
But it had reminded him of where he was. Where he came back to. And whatever came next, it started here. With oil-stained concrete and a busted clutch. And trying, one more time, to get itright.
His dad was flat on his back beneath an ageing Kia Sportage, tools clinking onto concrete, only the tips of his boots visible. That kind of job usually meant a whining alternator or a timing belt ready to snap. Probably both, knowing his dad’s luck.
Nathan stepped inside, boots crunching over scattered gravel and dried brake dust, and he leant back against the worktop counter, folded his arms and waited, bracing himself for the words. The lecture. The rag tossed at his chest. Or, more likely, the wrench.
Eventually, his dad must have noticed his boots, cause he slid out from beneath the car on his creeper with a grunt, snatching the oily rag off his shoulder and wiped his hands with harsh, angry swipes and that old familiar death glare. The same one that used to freeze him in his boots as a teenager. Back then, Nathan would’ve looked away. Back then, he’d have stayed quiet.
Not now.
“S’not often I say a bad word about the police,” Ron said. “They do a decent job, even if the local rag wants to crucify ’em. But I never thought I’d live to see the day Freddie fucking Webb came tomydoor in uniform to arrestmyson.”
