Freya - Out Side The Us We Know.

When Nathaniel tells me he’s taking me on a “real” date, I assume it involves a match and him arguing with the television.

His usual idea of romance is watching football at his place while he replaces the commentators — because apparently they’re all biased and tactically incompetent.

He pauses, rewinds, gestures at the screen like he’s conducting a symphony.

It is deeply irritating how good he is at it. He takes me outside of Eldermoor.

A thirty-minute drive to Tamworth — twice the size, half the charm. Nathaniel keeps his surprise locked behind that maddeningly controlled expression. I try guessing anyway.

“Are we doing an escape room?” His eyes stay on the road. “No.”

“Oh… karaoke?” My voice betrays my excitement. “No.”

I catch the corner of his mouth twitching. Which either means I’m getting warmer — or he’s making a mental note for later.

“Murder mystery dinner?”

He turns his head just enough to look at me, one eyebrow lifting. “No. But you would be terrifyingly good at it.”

I laugh. He’s right. I would be.

The smell of gasoline hits me as we step out of the underground parking garage and into the open air.

I stop.

Confusion replaces excitement as Nathaniel leads me toward the main building of the Open University of Fine Arts.

We go inside, walk down a long hallway, then up a narrow flight of stairs. My eyes land on a wooden blackboard sign:

Culinary Arts Beginner Course — 101: Japanese Sushi Techniques.

Little hand-drawn doodles of sushi frame the edges — rolls, nigiri, something that looks suspiciously like a smiling shrimp.

I grin despite myself.

Turning to Nathaniel, I lower my voice.

“You sign us up for a university sushi class?”

“Yes.”

“Will we be graded?”

He looks at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “I hope so.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he does. Grades are basically trophies — just flatter and laminated.

Nathaniel opens the door for me.

The classroom smells faintly of rice vinegar and disinfectant.

Stainless steel benches. Name tags are placed with precision. Printed recipe sheets. The opening slide of a PowerPoint is waiting on the screen.

Clean. Structured. Organized.

I don’t need to look at Nathaniel to know he’s quietly thrilled.

We take the bench with both our names neatly printed on a folded card.

I glance around. Other couples — different ages. One pair I can’t quite place. Dating? Or mother and son? Hard to tell.

My attention shifts as the instructor steps forward, dressed in a crisp black chef coat. “Welcome to our class. I am Kido Takahashi.”

He bows slightly. Then gestures toward the woman beside him.

She’s petite, with long silver-grey hair pulled into a low knot. A cherry blossom kimono wraps around her frame, perfectly paired with soft pink lipstick.

“This is my mother, Meiko Takahashi. She will assist.”

There’s something about that — mother and son teaching together — that makes my chest warm.

The class begins with a PowerPoint.

The origin of sushi. A timeline of the evening. Recipes. Knife techniques.

A breakdown of what each couple will prepare.

Nathaniel stands with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the screen, nodding as if he’s reviewing tactical footage.

He is taking this far too seriously.

“You know this isn’t the Champions League,” I whisper, accepting a small sample roll and a cup of sake from Meiko.

“Arigatou,” I say, with confidence I absolutely do not deserve. Nathaniel side-eyes me, faintly impressed.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m aware it’s Japanese.”

I don’t tell him I learn that from watching anime with the Ashley brothers. Each couple receives a large tray with neatly arranged ingredients and laminated recipe sheets.

Laminated.

Nathaniel reads every step with precision, inspects the knives, checks the rice labels, and lines everything up in perfect order.

In the meantime, I finish my sake.

Sip his. And steal his egg roll.

“I’ll cook the rice,” he says. “Can you start slicing the avocado and cucumber?”

“Sure.”

I grab a cutting board, a knife, and the mandoline. Nathaniel measures the rice with painful accuracy, using a teaspoon to level it down to what I’m fairly certain is a milligram.

Then he raises his hand.

“What is the exact ratio of vinegar to rice?” he asks. “It’s not specified in the recipe.”

Kido smiles patiently. “You add it with feeling.” Nathaniel freezes.

“That doesn’t sound precise.” He reaches for his phone. I take it from him.

“Don’t research it,” I say — and pour what I consider a healthy amount of vinegar over the rice.

His eyebrow lifts slowly. He looks at the other couples. Back at me.

“It will be fine,” I mutter, chewing on a slice of cucumber I definitely should have saved.

An hour in, my cheeks are pleasantly warm as Meiko keeps refilling our little cups. Nathaniel, meanwhile, prepares to assemble our assignment.

Bent over the bench, he unfolds the recipe sheets, then holds out his hand without looking at me.

“Fre, I need the grated carrots.”

“We don’t have carrots,” I say.

He straightens slowly. Looks at me. Then at the empty bowl.

“You ate the carrots.”

“I eat the carrots,” I confess. “And the salmon… and some of the avocado slices.” He exhales.

I expect frustration. Maybe irritation. Instead, he looks almost amused.

“Are you having fun?” he asks. The truth? I am. “Yes.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I still want to win, though.”

I smile. “I don’t think this is a competition. But I fix it.”

I wander over to the couple beside us — confirmed mother and son — and ask if they have carrots to spare.

They do. They also share three stories about their trip to Kyoto while I’m there. When I return, Nathaniel has everything aligned with near-military precision.

He rolls the sushi tightly, slicing it with measured accuracy. I’m fairly certain he’s using a centimetre app on his phone.

I wing mine.

Rice spills from the edges. The seaweed cracks. Structural integrity is questionable at best.

I try to salvage it with hot sauce and an aggressive sprinkle of spring onions. Nathaniel’s plate looks… professional.

Black plate. Five different varieties.

A careful streak of bright sauce with something written in Japanese. He looks very pleased with himself.

“I will make rounds,” Kido announces, moving from bench to bench.

My stomach tightens. I tap my fingers against my dress. Nathaniel steps closer, glances at my plate.

“That looks creative,” he says — then kisses my cheek.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I like to just feel it.” I hear footsteps approaching. I’m watching Kido.

I miss the exact moment Nathaniel switches our plates.

“Excellent presentation,” Kido says, turning my plate slightly for better viewing.

I glance down. And freeze. It’s Nathaniel’s plate. My eyes widen.

“Nice touch,” Kido adds. “Adding your own name.”

That makes me look at Nathaniel. Of course he does.

How does he do that? Surprise me with the smallest, quietest things. He’s looking straight at me now, smiling — not smug, just pleased.

His fingers brush mine. I lace my hand through his.

A laugh escapes me when Kido steps to the other plate — my actual creation — and tilts his head.

“It is the thought that counts.” I watch Nathaniel swallow. Hard.

We eat our creations — mine surprisingly balanced despite the vinegar incident — and chat with the other couples.

As a closing gesture, Kido presents his cookbook and offers a set of premium Japanese knives for purchase.

Nathaniel buys both. Of course he does. I hook my arm through his as we step outside into the cool evening air.

“We should go to Japan,” I say. “This is fun.”

“It’s a thirteen-hour flight,” Nathaniel replies immediately. “That is absurdly long.”

He pulls me closer as we walk toward the car. “We have to change planes. But if we schedule it correctly, we could have a layover in Dubai. Or Hong Kong.”

I stop walking.

“How do you know this?” “I google it while you’re talking to Meiko.” “I have mushroom tea,” I say. “It tastes funky.” Nathaniel laughs softly. “You’ve said that three times.”

He drives me home. Stays over. The next morning, he is still there. Sitting on my couch. Reading the cookbook. He looks settled. Like he belongs here. I smile.

And quietly wonder if this is a special occasion version of us. Or something we can actually sustain

❤️ Maliyka ❤️