Page 15 of Worth the Wait
A pause.
“You can stay the night.”
Freddie tightened his grip around the steering wheel, knuckles pale. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The words hung there, suspended in static.
“I’m…”
Why was he hesitating?
Twenty-four hours ago, he would’ve said yes without thinking. Would’ve driven straight over, stripped off in Jude’s tiny bathroom with its novelty soap and cold tile floor, and let the evening go wherever it wanted. No questions. No hesitation. They’d been seeing each other a few weeks now. Ever since Freddie had been roped intogiving one of those “community policing” talks at the local secondary school—stay away from gangs, don’t carry knives, the police are your friends, not your enemies. Jude had been at the back of the hall, arms folded, watching with a look that said he didn’t fully buy it, but was too polite to say so.
They’d exchanged numbers after. Grabbed a pint the following week. A kiss had followed, mellow and unassuming, outside the pub. That was it. Nothing more. Freddie had figured it was a slow burn. Polite smiles. Lingering touches. Flirting staying safely within the lines. He’d been waiting for the moment they’d push it further. Turn up the heat. Let it slip into something more. But now, all he could think about was Nathan.
Suddenly, waiting wasn’t a problem anymore.
Usually, for Freddie, sex came first. That was the easy part. Like with Reece. A bit of mess, some sweat, then the soft stuff, if it came at all, would follow. With Reece it hadn’t. Not really. And after the third time of trying, even the sex fizzled out.
But this careful dance of getting to know someone, of taking it slow, was unusual. And now, instead of being excited, he felt… off. Disoriented. As if he was about to walk into something wearing the wrong skin.
As if he was lying.
To whom, though? Jude? Or himself?
“If you’d rather go home, I understand—”
“I’ll be there in five,” Freddie cut in, his subconscious pushing him towards where he should be.
A beat. Then:“Great.”
He ended the call, letting the silence rush in to fill its place. His skin prickled, that low hum of unease spreading beneath his collar, crawling up the back of his neck. Hecouldn’t name the feeling exactly. Restlessness? Guilt? Something colder? But it clung to him like damp air.
He told himself it was nothing. That as soon as he walked into Jude’s house, the shadow of Nathan Carter would lift clean off his back. That a hot shower, a warm meal, and a night tangled in fresh sheets would reset whatever had got stuck in his head.
He’d done it before. More times than he could count.
His libido had a talent for wiping memories clean.
Freddie pulled up alongside the semi-detached cottage, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cool evening air. The house was tucked off the main road, a squat little thing with cared-for greenery creeping up the brickwork and a pale blue door with a porch light glowing like a welcome sign. A far cry from the dilapidated Faraday Road. And there was Jude, already pulling the door open.
He looked as impossibly charming as ever, standing barefoot in the doorway as if he belonged in some lifestyle magazine spread. A mop of brown curls flopped over his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose, his face clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed. He wore a threadbare T-shirt with some indie band logo faded across the chest and that easy, open smile that usually made Freddie forget whatever crap he was carrying.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he felt hollow.
“Hope you like fajitas.” Jude stepped aside. “It was all I had in.”
Freddie nodded, forcing a smile. “Sounds great.”
Jude leant in, and Freddie instinctively tilted his head for a kiss, but Jude’s nose brushed his neck instead.
“You smell alright to me.”
Freddie snorted. “Then you’ve got a fetish for copper grit.”
“Maybe I do.” Jude grinned, playful as ever, and gestured him inside with a tilt of his head.
Freddie stepped over the threshold, into a house that didn’t quite feel lived in yet. The front room smelt faintly of furniture polish and supermarket flowers, the walls a dove grey, the furniture neat but impersonal. Recently purchased and come as part of a set. A single framed print hung above the mantel, abstract and forgettable. No clutter. No books stacked by the sofa. No photos.
