Page 29 of Worth the Wait
“Hey.” Freddie spoke first, voice low, uneven, as if it tripped over itself on the way out.
It wasn’t the confident, sharp-tongued Freddie Nathan remembered. Wasn’t even the version that used to laugh loudest at his own jokes. Nor the professional policeman of yesterday who’d arrested his kid. No. He was… cautious. Stripped back. So different from the way they used to speak. Talking over each other, racing to fill the air, as if silence between them was some kind of sin.
Nathan inhaled, letting the icy sting of the garage hit his lungs before he tossed the greasy rag over his shoulder and managed a, “Hi.”
Not nearly enough.
Freddie gave an awkward laugh, running a hand through his already-dishevelled hair. His mouth twisted as if he was fighting with himself. Then he glanced back at the Peugeot and gestured vaguely. “It’s, uh… making a noise. Rattling or knocking or something. I was passing and thought I’d bring it in for Ron to take a look at. Didn’t know you’d be here.”
Nathan arched a brow, but didn’t call it. He didn’t need to.
Lie.Clear as day. They both knew it.
“Right.” Nathan scratched through the stubble on his buzzed scalp. An old nervous tic. One Freddie probably remembered, and he stepped forward, instinctively closing the distance, but immediately regretting it.
Freddie smelt the same. Not exactly. Less Lynx Africa, more grown-up aftershave with a woody finish clinging to his clothes as if he’d just left his house. Nathan had to shift past him, brushing his shoulder to get around to the car, and the contact sent a jolt down his spine as if his body hadn’t got the memo that they were no longerthat.
“I’ll, uh… take a look.”
He crouched beside the Peugeot, listening to the engine idle. The knock Freddie mentioned was faint, but there. He popped the bonnet and braced it open. The engine block was already warm from the drive, ticking quietly to itself. Nathan reached for a small torch on the tool trolley and angled it inside.
He’d start by checking the obvious: loose spark plug leads, coil pack issues, maybe a cracked ignition coil. The knock could be detonation. Maybe timing off, or a worn engine mount letting the block shift slightly under strain. If it wasn’t mechanical, it could be as simple as low-grade fuel or a dodgy sensor.
But none of that was the issue Nathan was dealing with right then.
Not really.
The real problem stood behind him, hands in his pockets, pretending not to look at him while Nathan was trying to remember how to breathe.
So yeah.
He could check the car.
But he already knewhewas the one who was about to fall apart.
“So… you’re back?” Freddie hovered beside the car, as if he wanted to be closer but didn’t trust himself with the distance.
Nathan kept his eyes fixed on the engine bay. “Yeah.”
“How come?”
This time, Nathan looked up.
And fuck, that hit him harder than it should’ve. Freddie’s eyes, familiar and tired in a way that made Nathan ache. He wanted to tell him everything. Every damn thing. From the moment he boarded that bus at eighteen with his whole life packed into a green duffel, to every broken promise, every compromise, every time he stared at a photo of Alfie and wondered who he was becoming while Nathan was halfway across the world and pretending he wasn’t a father.
He wanted to say it all. To spill the truth into the quiet space between them and watch Freddie catch it with the same gentle steadiness he always used to. He wanted that look—that smile—the one that had made him feel as if he were King of the World and could take on anything.
But fifteen years was a long fucking time.
A roar cut through the still air. Tyres on gravel. The unmistakable growl of a powerful bike tearing into the courtyard.
“Fuck.” Freddie stepped back as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.
The bike pulled to a stop inside the garage threshold. A Triumph Bonneville. Matte black, sleek and aggressive. Nice fucking bike. The rider straightened, tugged off his helmet in one smooth motion, and grinned.
“Freddie?” he called out, voice rich with easy confidence, eyebrows quirking as if amused… and mildly suspicious.
Nathan stood, wiping his hands on the cloth again, instinctively squaring his shoulders. The bloke was tall. Stupid tall. Had to be six-eight at least. Built like someone who spent more time at the gym than doing anything useful with his life. Hair styled messy enough to look deliberate, and a neatly trimmed beard that screamedI know exactly how good I look.
