Nathaniel - Soft Enough To Ruin Me

What was I thinking, walking into Kaiden’s office with two coffees like that was normal?

Maybe it was the bakery. Freya, smiling at me while tying up pastry boxes, inviting me to dinner in that soft voice of hers that always sounds quieter around things she actually means.

Or maybe it was the ice-cream shop. The way she looked at him. The way he looked back.

Something twisted unpleasantly in my chest the moment I saw it, and before I could think better of it, I was already walking into The Old Mill carrying coffee like I had some kind of reason to be there.

Against logic. Against judgment.

Maybe I just wanted proof that Freya still chose me.

Not the first time I’ve tried forcing a reaction out of Kaiden.

Seventeen.

Everyone had been hanging around at my place after training. Markus and Jay left first. Leo stayed longer than he should have, half asleep on our couch, before his brother finally picked him up.

Kaiden had too much to drink to face his dad like that, so he stayed.

I remember being in my room, pulling my shirt over my head while talking about something pointless, probably football, when the room suddenly went quiet behind me.

Not fully quiet.

Just… focused.

I turned slightly.

Kaiden stood in the doorway, staring at me.

Too long.

Long enough that my skin already knew something was wrong before he even moved.

“Don’t,” I said immediately, already turning away.

Too late.

He crossed the room before I could pull the shirt back down, his hand catching my arm and pushing the fabric higher.

Bruises.

Dark. Fresh. Still blooming underneath my skin.

His expression changed instantly.

Not shock.

Something sharper.

“What the hell is that?”

Not quiet. Not calm.

“It’s nothing,” I answered too fast. “Training.”

His jaw tightened hard enough to show.

“With who?”

“None of your business.”

“It is when you look like that.”

At the time, I was doing one-on-one sessions with Ronan Hale.

Hard sessions. Brutal ones. The kind that left your body shaking afterwards and made you feel invincible the next morning.

Addictive.

Kaiden still hadn’t let go of my arm.

“That’s not training.”

“It is if you want to get better.”

His grip tightened slightly.

For a second, I thought, I don’t even know what I thought.

That he’d yell. Push harder. Tell me to stop.

Tell me he hated it.

That he hated seeing me like that.

Kaiden always looked angriest when he was worried.

But then his grip loosened again.

“You don’t have to prove anything like that,” he said quietly.

I almost laughed.

Because that’s exactly what I was doing.

And somehow he still didn’t fully see it.

There it was again.

That hesitation. That step back.

He let go like it didn’t matter.

Like, I didn’t matter enough to fight for.

…

That pissed me off more than the bruises.

I grab my umbrella, take one breath at the door, and step into the storm.

Rain slides off the cheap plastic, blurring everything as I rush to the car. The wipers slash back and forth as I drive to Freya’s place, the world reduced to streaks and motion.

Parking across the street, the scent of yeast and wet earth hits me immediately. My jeans soak through in seconds, puddles impossible to avoid.

Inside, I drop the umbrella, wipe my footprints, and head upstairs.

Her door is unlocked, as always, but I knock anyway, heart hammering.

“There you are!” Freya beams.

I stop, just for a second.

And then I see it.

Her grey dress—stitched, fitted—bare shoulders exposing her collarbone. She didn’t throw this together. This was planned.

My favourite music plays softly in the background, and the smell drifting from the kitchen—spaghetti sauce, her mother’s recipe—wraps around me.

She did all of this. For me.

On short notice.

Warmth settles somewhere behind my ribs.

I walk to the small dinner table tucked against the wall.

She’s already set it.

Plates.

Cutlery.

Glasses.

But it’s off. Something’s wrong, I see it immediately.

This won’t do.

With her still in the kitchen, I adjust everything. Plates aligned. Cutlery straight. Glass to the right.

I step back.

Better.

Structured. Correct.

I leave it there and move into the kitchen, watching her finish cutting vegetables into small, precise pieces. She knows I only eat meals made from scratch.

“Smells amazing,” I say. “Reminds me of the first time I cooked for you.”

Freya turns, sets the knife aside, and stirs the sauce once more before stepping into my space.

She taps the spoon lightly against my lips. Too easy to stay there.

“You cooked?” she scoffs.

Temptation rises, I taste the sauce.

Freya doesn’t hesitate; she pushes the spoon fully into my mouth.

“Hm.”

“You made your mom cook and sprinkled parmesan on top at the last minute, then called it your ‘own creation,’ Nate. That’s cheating.”

I disagree. My mom’s food is the best. Why risk messing it up when you can outsource it to a specialist?

She leaves the spoon in my mouth. I lick it clean, watching her add basil—bright green against the deep red sauce.

A stupid image flashes.

Her, years from now. Cooking. A kid tugging at her dress, begging for a taste.

It doesn’t belong here, so I push it away.

It stays anyway.

“What are you smirking at?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

And I leave it there.

Dinner is easy. Familiar.

She even sets the parmesan beside my plate, laughing while she does it. She never forgets little things like that, and somehow that only makes everything harder.

We talk the same way we always have. Easy conversation. Comfortable silences. The kind that existed long before whatever this is between us became complicated.

It always extends itself eventually, though.

Unavoidable, almost.

Afterwards, I do the dishes while she sings the only song from my playlist she knows, loud, off-key, completely ruining half the lyrics.

Perfect anyway.

I catch myself smiling as I lift a plate toward the light, checking for lingering stains.

Freya drifts closer and leans against the sink beside me, the back of her dress brushing against the foam without her noticing.

“You forgot this,” she says, holding up a glass I already cleaned.

I set the plate down, playing along.

Her fingers linger when she hands me the glass, and neither of us pulls away afterwards.

I already know what comes next.

We always end up here eventually.

She steps closer, pressing lightly against me like her body already belongs there. Her hands slide upward slowly, familiar and certain. One settles at the back of my head, the other against my chest.

Then she pulls me down, and I go without resisting.

Not when she’s this close. Not when she’s looking at me like that.

Like, I’m the only thing in the world that still makes sense to her.

Her lips meet mine, and that’s enough to set everything off.

I pull her closer instinctively, my hands sliding down her body before lifting her until we’re level.

“Nate, ” she breathes as I place her on the counter, her dress brushing against the damp surface.

“That was coming off anyway,” I murmur, shifting her onto a dry spot without breaking the kiss.

She laughs softly against my mouth, fingers already working at my shirt, undoing me piece by piece.

Her hands linger against my chest once the fabric is gone.

Within seconds, there’s nothing between us. Skin on skin.

And we fall back into the same rhythm we always do.

Easy. Familiar.

Me leading. Her following.

It works.

At least in moments like this.

She never asks me to stop.

Later, she curls into my lap on the couch while I half-watch a match playing on television. Her head rests against my chest, her breathing slowly evening out until sleep finally takes her.

She falls asleep trusting me completely.

Close.

Warm.

At peace.

It touches me more than I want it to.

Terrifies me too.

Because I know we never stay like this for long.

Somewhere during the night, I carry her to bed and slide in beside her. Freya stirs immediately, turning toward me like instinct, fitting herself against my back while her arm drapes over my waist.

I stay still for a moment, just letting it happen.

In the morning, I wake first.

I slip out carefully, not wanting to wake her, and pull on my jeans. My shirt is still in the kitchen. When I pick it up, I notice three missing buttons. They must have come off while she was undressing me.

I find them scattered near the counter and slide them into my back pocket.

I’ll sew them back on when I get home.

To keep myself busy—and to make her morning easier—I start cleaning.

The kitchen first.

Counters wiped down. Fridge cleared out. Surfaces disinfected.

Order. Structure. Something that makes sense.

I’m sorting through the magazines spread across her living room when her phone lights up silently on the table beside me, a soft blue glow around the edges of the screen.

Dozens of notifications.

But one name catches me immediately.

Kaiden.

I pause. Why is he texting her?

It shouldn’t matter; it probably means nothing.

Still…

The preview sits right there.

And after yesterday, after the way things are now, I tap the screen just enough to expand the message.

Found your keys in the backseat.

I stare at it longer than I should.

What does that mean?

Freya steps into the room a moment later, still half asleep, rubbing at her eyes while heading straight for the coffee machine.

“Morning,” she mumbles.

I force a smile. “Just cleaning up.”

She glances around the apartment, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Thanks… I guess.”

Coffee in hand, she curls into the corner of the couch with a magazine in her lap like she’s settling into the morning properly.

Then she reaches for her phone.

Something tightens painfully in my chest.

“I should head out,” I say quickly. “Early gym session.”

A lie, but a safe one. She doesn’t question it.

I step closer and press a quick kiss against her cheek. She barely looks up, half smiling, still caught somewhere between sleep and whatever she’s reading.

Her phone lights up again.

She picks it up, thumb sliding across the screen.

My pulse stutters.

“See you Wednesday?” I ask, already moving toward the door.

“Yeah,” she murmurs softly, eyes fixed on her phone.

I step into the hallway before she finishes the word.

Before the message fully lands.

Before I have to watch her read it.

The door clicks shut behind me.

And I know she knows.

❤️ Maliyka ❤️