10. Nate
TEN
NATE
I drop my keys onto the side unit as I ease off my shoes and leave them by the door. Bry has his phone set up on a tripod as he focuses on taking photos of some plated food on the kitchen island.
“Hey,” I offer in greeting, moving over to the kettle and filling it up with water before flicking it on. “You want one?” I ask as I drop a tea bag in.
“Sure, give me a second, and I can make them,” he responds. His attention is fixed on moving the plate slightly to a different angle, then taking another photo.
“It’s fine, I got it.” I grab another mug, add the tea bag, then open the fridge and pull out the milk.
The kettle boils, and I make our tea, adding milk into his. Leaning back on the kitchen counter, I take a sip, savouring the feel of the burning liquid slipping down my throat, as I watch Bry finish up.
He moves with ease; his confidence quiet but steady when in the kitchen.
He’s like that in our lives too. He’s slightly shorter than me with a slimmer build, and his blonde hair, tinged with orange, flops down over his forehead as he concentrates.
What does he call it again? Raspberry—no, strawberry blonde.
Not ginger. He’s funny about that. His matching brows are dipped low on his forehead as he carefully packs away all the lighting and shit he had propped around the area to make the photos look good.
“You’re home early today. All good at work?” he enquires as he zips up the final bag. He pulls out two spoons from the drawer and hands me one.
Taking a seat at the island, I scoop up a spoonful from the plate and take a bite before answering. “Yeah, all good. Had a cancellation, so I got back home quicker. This tastes good; what is it?”
A smile flashes across his face, and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Spiced carrots with sultanas and a little apple for sweetness, then a walnut-and-cinnamon crumble on top. Think apple crumble combined with carrot cake. I might save some for Rosy.”
The mouthful I’d just taken turns tasteless and dry, clogging up my throat as I try to swallow around the bitter lump rising from my gut. I want to snap out, laying claim to my girl. But I don’t.
I can’t.
Seeing Bry’s face lit up as he thinks of her has me forcing both the mouthful of food and possessive words back down, where they sit uncomfortably in my stomach. I can’t seem to provide the supportive response he wants either, and that has self-loathing twisting inside.
He deserves happiness just as much as Rosy does.
“I’m going to get ready for the gym.” I grab my mug, push off the stool, and ignore the guilt following me as I head towards my room.
Striding through the door, the sound of it closing behind me echoes in the silence. As I drop onto my bed, the plain navy sheets wrinkle beneath me. My arms settle on each knee as I lean forward, my head tipping down as I stare into the dark liquid cupped in my hands.
I need to get it to-fucking-gether.
As a kid, I learned quickly not to show too much attachment or interest in things, as they would be taken away from me.
It didn’t teach me to be detached; instead, I just got better at hiding things, coveting them.
Showing I cared usually got me mocked or scorned.
It’s taken years to get out of the habit of hiding things in my room.
This is my space now, and I’m able to have things that mean something out on display rather than locked in a box under a floorboard.
I glance up at the framed photos hanging on the wall.
But still, the need to reassure myself is riding me hard, so I place the hot mug down on the bedside table and open the bottom of the chest of drawers.
I finger the worn sweatshirt material, and some of the tension eases, knowing it's still there, still safe.
Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers through the short strands of my hair.
As far as I’ve progressed since leaving home all those years ago, meeting Rosy has old feelings and habits creeping back.
I know it’s because I desperately want her, but she’s not mine. Fuck, I know I can’t own a person, but she’s mine.
Anticipation churns low in my abdomen, knowing I’ll get to see her soon.
I pull open another drawer and grab a black pair of shorts and a matching T-shirt. Shucking off my work clothes, I tug them on, then grab a hoodie. Picking up the mug, I tip my head back and down the remaining tea, grimacing as the cooling liquid glides down my throat.
Nothing worse than cold tea.
I close my door behind me, the action creating some sort of safety barrier that eases the worry.
Guilt resurfaces at the sight of Bry sitting on a stool at the island, laptop out as he works.
I clap a hand to his shoulder and squeeze as I make my way over to the sink.
Washing the mug out, I keep my back to him.
“Want me to invite Rosy for dinner?” I offer in an attempt to soften any hurt I caused by storming out earlier.
I’m not good at all the flowery bullshit.
His typing pauses at my words. “Yeah, of course. If you see her, let her know she’s welcome. I’ve got pizza dough already proofing, and we have veggie toppings, so I can make one for her too,” he responds eagerly, oblivious to my inner tantrum earlier.
Placing the washed cup on the drainer, I turn around and nod. “Okay. See you later.”
Rosy in our space the other night, having dinner and being around each other, felt perfect.
But I’m more looking forward to seeing her tonight at the gym for her usual session.
Watching her interact with my family is special, but it’s hard to feel noticed when they command so much attention and I’m better at melting into the background.
But here? In a space that feels like mine, even if it’s a room full of strangers, is what I crave with her.
Trying to dampen the building impatience inside me, I let myself shake it off, trying to flick out the tension from my hands so I can focus on getting a workout in before she arrives.
I put headphones in my ears, wanting to block out the sounds around me and give off the universal signal of “leave me the fuck alone.”
I go through a series of warm-up exercises on one of the gym mats, focusing on the lower body as today’s target, letting the familiar stretches preoccupy my mind and thoughts.
Walking over to the weights, I load up a barbell and head over to one of the mats that allows me to have a visual through the mirror of the rest of the gym behind me, including the large clock on the back wall.
I rest the barbell across the front of my shoulders and slide my hands across the bar into position, then place my feet shoulder-width apart.
Then I inhale deeply. On the exhale, I push my hips back and drop down slowly into a squat until my thighs are parallel to the floor.
The familiar burn eases something inside me.
Keeping my core tight, I push back up through my heels into a standing position and repeat for a few sets.
By the time Rosy enters the room, I’ve made my way through most of the workout I’d planned, and I’m finishing up my last set on the hack squat machine.
Just as I push up from the squat, feeling the burn in my quads as I extend through my legs, she looks over at me.
The burn in my legs is nothing compared to the feeling her gaze roving across me ignites.
As her eyes continue upward, catching on mine, heat flushes across her cheeks.
With a cute, awkward wave, she ducks her head down and walks quickly to the treadmills.
A tight smile stretches tightly across my lips, the act tugging at the disused muscles in my face. Pride hits me, knowing she liked what she saw. A part of me wants to puff up and flex in front of her, if that’s what will keep her eyes on me.
Stepping off the machine, I follow through on a few stretches to loosen up my muscles before I give in to the magnetic pull tugging me towards her.
“Is this treadmill taken?” I ask, wanting to be in her vicinity but trying to respect her possible need for privacy whilst she works out.
“Oh, no, it’s free if you want to use it.
Also, thank you again for having me over for dinner last night.
It was really appreciated, compared to the bowl of noodles I had ready to microwave at home.
” Rosy laughs. Her cheeks blush a soft pink, and she nibbles nervously on that full bottom lip of hers.
It’s hard not to let my gaze fixate on it.
Accepting her offer without hesitation, I step onto the machine beside her and start at a slow walk before building up to match her pace.
“You’re always welcome. I liked having you with us for dinner. You should come again,” I say, hoping she takes me up on the invitation and joins us every night, because I need this woman. I need her in a way that should terrify me, but it doesn’t.
It might terrify her, though. I need to edge my way into her life in a way that doesn’t startle her but also cements me so deeply that she can’t imagine me not in it.
Obsessive? Maybe.
I feel a jolt as she quickly glances at me, before turning her head back to focus on her steps. “That’s a really nice offer, thank you,” she mutters, her awkwardness shining through.
I wish I could be inside her mind and see all the thoughts racing around in there. Does she think I don’t mean it? I can do direct, if that’s what she needs to help make the decisions for her, so she doesn’t doubt my intentions. But I don’t want to push too far too quickly, so I leave it for now.
Needing to ease her nerves, I re-insert my headphones, taking my phone out to select a new playlist to walk to and letting the silence settle between us.
An hour later, Rosy’s arm comes up and slows her treadmill down until it stops. Copying the movements, I step off the machine and face her. My brows draw tight as her clasped hands twist in front of her, that bottom lip back between her teeth as she softly chews it.
“I, ah…I’ve finished my walk for the day. So I’m going to head home. I didn’t want to be rude and not say I’m leaving, then just leave and be impolite,” she rushes out.
The need to reassure her pulses through me. I want to lean in towards hers and tug that bruised lip from the punishing grip her teeth have on it.
“Sounds good to me. I’m done here, so we can walk back together,” I reply, not wanting to give her the chance to spin around and walk off without me. Even if she did, I’d be able to catch up to her quickly. But I want her to know that I want to walk back with her.
“Oh, sure, okay. If you’re sure you’re done?” She tips her head up, meeting my gaze and offering me a soft smile.
The need to praise her for feeling confident enough to maintain eye contact surges through me, and I clamp my teeth down to stop the words “Good girl” from slipping out.
“I’m sure,” is my only response as I step up beside her, and we start to walk out together.
My hand grazes against hers, and I feel her fingertips brush back against mine. The lingering touch creates a static in my brain, and I suck in a harsh breath as I battle the impulse to grasp her hand in mine.
I just need to control myself, not crowd her space too much…yet.