Chapter Twenty Point of No Return
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 sign Carter Cars still 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 it right .
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 to my door in uniform to arrest my son.”
“It was his job, Dad.”
Ron scoffed, tossing the rag onto the workbench with a slap. “Round here, we look after our own. He should’ve known that. That bloody kooky mother of his raised him soft. Turned him into the fairy he is and forgot to teach him basic fucking manners—”
Nathan hit the wooden worktop behind him with his fist, the bang loud enough to rattle a socket tray.
“ That’s enough. ” His voice was steel. Controlled, but brimming with fury. He stepped forward, jabbing a finger in Ron’s direction. “Don’t ever speak about Freddie like that again. Not to me. Not to anyone. You hear me?”
Ron stared at him for a long beat. Testing. Weighing. Then, to Nathan’s surprise, he let out a low, barking laugh.
“Well. Finally.” He shook his head with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Looks like the army made a man out of you, after all. Was worried for a bit there.”
Nathan clenched his jaw. Looked away.
Because, of course, Ron would twist his defiance into a compliment. Turn standing up for the man he loved into some long-overdue rite of passage, instead of what it truly was—the line Nathan had needed to draw for most of his life.
“I am a man, Dad.” Nathan punched his chest. “I’ve always been a man. You made sure of that when I was twelve fucking years old. When you wouldn’t even let me grieve my own mother. ”
His voice cracked then, the pressure of it all rising to the surface in one burning, uncontainable lump in his throat. His vision blurred. But he refused to look away. He wanted Ron to see it. The tears. The fury. The truth.
Big, tough military man, crying for the boy who hadn’t been allowed to cry back then.
“And I won’t let you do it to Alfie,” he said, breathing hard. “I won’t let you turn him into me. You back off. You accept us— me and him—for who we are, whatever we are. Or you lose us. For good.”
He gestured to the garage. The place his father loved more than people.
“You’ll lose this too. Cause you won’t get another mechanic who’ll work here for you. Not with your shitty wages and worse attitude.”
Ron blinked, caught in place. Silent for once.
Nathan scrubbed a hand roughly across his face, clearing the tears as they fell, not ashamed of them anymore.
“Alfie’s been through hell. And yeah, a lot of that’s on me.
I ran when I should’ve stayed. But that wasn’t all mine to carry either.
I ran because you told me to. Because you looked me in the eye and told me the only way out was the Army.
You knew about Freddie. You saw us. I know you did.
And you didn’t give a shit that I was eighteen and scared and in love.
You just wanted me gone.” His voice dropped, raw and exposed.
“And I was so fucking scared of you… I went.”
Nathan took a breath and stepped back, trying to steady the shaking in his limbs. But the truth was a dam finally bursting, and it had no intention of stopping.
“I walked into hellfire. Got blown up. Fucked my leg. Almost died. Twice ! Had a knife at my throat, saw things I’ll never get out of my head.” He looked his father straight in the eye. “Yet all of that was easier than standing here now and telling you about Freddie. About me and Freddie.”
Ron didn’t say a word. He focused on wiping down the spanner. And that heavy silence instead of a punchline or a sneer was a fucking win.
Nathan let himself breathe for the first time in minutes. Maybe ever in his old man’s presence. And he swallowed down the rage still simmering under his skin and stepped back. Enough to shift the moment. To pivot.
“Alfie’s in trouble,” he said. “With the police.”
Ron looked up, eyes narrowing, but before he could speak, Nathan raised a hand to stop him.
“Let me finish.”
Ron hesitated, then nodded once.
“He found himself in the wrong place. A house he shouldn’t have been in. He saw things. I saw things. I got him out, but not without a price. Freddie had to bring me in last night. Procedure. It backfired on me.”
He watched his father’s mouth press into a hard line, but pushed forward, anyway.
“We’ve been given an out. A deal. They won’t take me or Alfie to court.
Won’t drag us through it, if we cooperate.
Alfie knows things. Maybe not much, maybe more than he realises.
The police want what he knows to help build a case.
Against some serious people. Not local thugs. Real bastards. Organised. Dangerous.”
Ron’s hands stilled on the cloth.
“I’m telling you because this might not just touch me and Alfie. It could come down on all of us. If this goes deep, and I think it does, we need to be ready. And we need to be together.”
Nathan stepped closer, his voice softening, but no less firm .
“This could be a turning point. For Alfie. For me. For us . If we do this right, if we back each other for once instead of tearing each other down, we get to help him build something better. We get to protect him. Not the way you protected me. Not with fear. But by showing up.” He paused, heart in his throat.
“You said the Army made me a man. Maybe. But now I want to be a father . And I can’t do that if I’m always trying to survive you . ”
Ron fixed his gaze somewhere far beyond the garage walls, staring down a memory only he could see. Nathan didn’t press. He knew that look. Had worn it himself. It was the burden of past trauma. Of things never said. Unprocessed. Inherited .
The spiral never stopped on its own.
Someone had to break it.