Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

road’s too long—keeps stretching—

yellow line flickers—won’t stay still

red… sign? 

dripping.

bluebird. broken. wings… gone.

yellow ex… ex…

stop? me?

sky—folding in. like paper.

ground's eatin’ me. soft teeth.

nothing in my hands. forgot 'em.

ditch looks soft. maybe sleep there.

buzz… buzzzzzz… in my headbones.

tight chest. heavy.

heart’s loud.

trees got eyes. no face.

mouth zipped. stitched? dunno.

won't move.

hurts in colors. green maybe.

green hurts.

shouldn’t be walking. shouldn’t be here.

can’t walk. floating? no. falling.

wrong air. sharp air.

no names here.

too quiet.

too loud.

road’s watching me. watching.

lighhhhts… ow.

freckles… brown… eyes… pretty.

black

—

The road was dark and endless, a black ribbon stretched tight through the woods. Nick tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs, slow and rhythmic, trying to stay sharp. The vents hummed low with heat, and the seat warmers—blessed miracles—were doing their job. Best investment he’d made all season. He’d tried not to go too wild with the money, tried to be practical, humble, grounded. But the car? The car was worth every damn penny. Especially in January, in the middle of upstate New York, where the cold didn’t just nip at you—it gnawed.

He glanced out the window. Frost etched thin patterns across the edges of the glass, delicate and mean. The trees were bare, black shapes clawing upward in the dark. No snow on the ground, just brittle grass and frozen earth. He hated when it was cold and ugly. If it was going to be this freezing, the least the world could do was give him something pretty to look at. A little snowfall. A soft white coat on everything. Sparkling in the trees. Some reason for the cold to feel worth it.

His phone buzzed again in the cupholder. Miley, probably. He didn’t check. She’d wanted him to stay out with the team, get drunk, dance, celebrate. He’d made some excuse about an early morning appointment. Truth was, he was still recovering from New Year’s Eve. He didn’t have it in him to do back-to-back hangovers anymore. This wasn't college. Twenty-five wasn’t old, but it wasn’t invincible either.

The highway curved gently, and that’s when he saw it—something ahead, barely visible in the high beams. Movement. A shape near the shoulder. Twitchy. It's common for deer to dart out of nowhere in this area, you always need to keep an eye out. He lifted his foot from the pedal just slightly.

Nick squinted. But was it an animal? No… it's upright.

He eased off the gas even more.

The figure came into view, just barely within the edge of his lights.

A man. Walking. Sort of. Thin as a scarecrow. Wearing a torn shirt, no coat, arms wrapped around himself. Stumbling a little like his legs weren’t quite getting the proper signals from his brain.

“What the hell…”

Nick slowed to almost a crawl, scanning the area. Nothing else around. No cars pulled over. No houses nearby. Not even a gas station for miles.

Where the hell had he come from?

The man took another step and then suddenly dropped. Straight down, face-first into the gravel.

“Shit.”

Nick pulled hard onto the shoulder, hazards flicking on, and was out of the car before it fully stopped. The cold punched him square in the jaw as he jogged toward the body—person, man, whoever the hell this was.

“Hey! Hey, you alright?”

No answer.

He crouched beside him and turned him over, careful but fast.

Dark curls. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Blood trickled from a cut at his temple. Bruises. His lips were turning blue and there was a small trail of blood trickling from them. And yet—he was smiling. Laughing, actually. Soft, dazed giggles slipped from his mouth like bubbles.

Nick froze, hands still pressed against the man’s shoulders.

And then he went limp. The laughter died. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Hey—hey. No, stay with me, come on—”

Nick pressed his fingers to his neck. Pulse. Weak. Breathing. But barely.

“Okay. Okay. Shit, alright.”

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Picked the man up—so light it made his chest ache—and carried him back to the car, flung open the back seat, and laid him down as gently as he could.

He slammed the door shut and climbed behind the wheel, fingers already dialing up the seat heat for the back out of pure instinct. The car was warm and safe.

He turned off the hazards, threw the car into drive, and sped off into the dark.

Fifteen minutes to the ER.

He just hoped he was fast enough.

Chapter Text

The waiting room was too quiet and somehow too loud at the same time. The wall-mounted TV in the corner played a muted weather report—snow on the way, finally—but Nick wasn’t looking at it. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched forward like he could make himself as small as he felt. Tensed, like that would stop his knee from bouncing restlessly.

They’d told him he couldn’t go in. Not family. He didn't even know the man's name.

“We’ll keep you updated,” the nurse had said gently. “If he stabilizes… if he wakes up… we’ll let you know if he’s willing to see anyone.”

If.

That word had been echoing in his head for hours now. Every time he thought he’d finally pushed it aside, it came back louder.

If.

Nick ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He’d given them all the information he could—where he found the guy, what he looked like, what he was doing. Which wasn’t much. Wandering the side of the road in the dead of night, seemingly out of his right mind, bleeding, freezing, and… giggling.

God, that laugh. Still in his ears.

They'd said that he was malnourished. Hypothermic. They didn’t say “overdosing”, not outright, but they didn’t have to. The look in his eyes before they fell closed. The way everyone moved around him, urgent and focused, said enough.

And now… now nothing. Just white walls and fluorescent lights and the rhythmic squeak of a cart in the hallway.

Nick had no idea who this guy was. No name. No story. Just a face.

Pretty. Even with the bruises. Even with blood dried on his temple and lips, that were chapped from cold air and neglect, he was—God, beautiful. And young. Probably his age. Maybe younger. Early twenties, at most. And he was out there alone.

What the hell had happened to him?

Why did it feel like Nick needed to know?

He had done his part. He'd gotten him to safety. He could leave. But... He needed to stay.

Needed to know the other man was okay. 

His leg bounced faster. He clenched his jaw and forced it still. He didn’t know this guy. For all he knew, the moment he woke up, he’d tell Nick to screw off. That none of this mattered. That he didn’t need saving. That Nick had no right. He could be a complete asshole.

But that didn’t matter.

Nick just wanted to hear that he was going to be okay. That he was warm now, and safe, and that the laughter he’d heard wasn’t the last thing left in him. That he wasn’t going to—

He shut his eyes. Breathed in deep.

He just needed him to be okay. It felt stupidly important. Like somehow, for reasons he couldn’t name, the weight of it had locked itself into his chest and wasn’t going anywhere until he heard.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, eyes burning.

If he wakes up.

He waited.

Buzzing.

White.

Too white. Not real-white. Cold manufactured white. Wrong white.

His eyes fluttered open, then slammed shut again against the brightness. His skin felt wet but dry, hot but shaking.

Ow.

OW.

Where—?

Where am I?

The ceiling buzzed. Machines beeped. Steady, then too fast, like they were trying to match the wild rhythm in his chest.

He opened his eyes again.

It felt like sand behind his eyelids. Like someone had scraped glass across them.

He couldn't move. Not really. Just a twitch of his fingers. A blink. His mouth was open, dry, a tube in his nose. His lips didn’t work.

Everything ached.

There was a voice.

A woman. Soft. Blonde. Ponytail. Blue scrubs.

She was talking to him. Gentle, like she didn’t want to scare him. Her voice sounded far away.

“You’re in the hospital, sweetheart. Can you hear me?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

Can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t breathe right. 

How did I get here?

“You’re safe now. We got you warmed up. Gave you fluids, medications. You were very cold. You’ve been out for a pretty long time.”

Cold. Yes.

He remembered that. Cold in his bones.

“You had a lot of heroin and ketamine in your system,” she said. “We gave you naloxone, warmed IVs. You are severely underweight, Charlie.”

Charlie.

She said his name.

“We found your ID,” she explained. “Charlie Spring. Is that right?”

He gave a tiny nod. Or he thought he did.

Charlie. That’s me.

Still me. 

Still here?

Barely.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Her voice was soft. Slow. But his mind wasn’t.

His thoughts were racing. Tangled. Loud.

Back seat. Man’s legs.

Face pressed to the door.

Can't. Breathe. 

Hands shaking.

No jacket.

Too thin.

Just skin and cold.

The man laughed. 

Angry?

Kick. Sharp pain. Nose?

Push. Cold air. Ground.

Road.

Red taillights driving away.

Too fast.

Couldn’t run.

Then—

Nothing.

He blinked back into the room. Her face still there, waiting.

He shook his head. That’s all he could give her.

“No?” she asked gently.

He closed his eyes again.

“I understand. I know this is scary. There’s a social worker coming in to talk with you, and also—”

She paused.

“—a police officer, just to get some basic—”

No.

No.

No.

His whole body jerked. A dry noise came out of his throat—cracked, hoarse.

He shook his head hard, panic crawling up the back of his neck like fire ants.

No cops. No cops. 

No no no no no.

He tried to sit up. Couldn’t. Everything spun. Hands pulling at him. IV caught.

Beeping louder. Faster.

“Charlie—Charlie—stay still, sweetheart, you’re safe—”

No.

Not safe. Not safe.

Another nurse rushed in. Footsteps. A voice calling for help.

He tried to scream but it came out as a gasp.

Hands grabbed his wrists.

Trapped—again—no no no—

Cold rushed through his veins.

Sinking.

Buzzing.

White.

Gone.

Chapter Text

Nick stared down at his phone, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

Miley (12:04am): Seriously? You're ditching your own team?

Miley (12:15am): This was important. I don’t get why you don’t care.

Miley (12:51am): Whatever. Congrats, I guess.

He sighed. She still hadn’t texted again. Part of him wanted to respond. To say, "I found a man half-dead on the side of the road. I carried him into an ER and watched him disappear behind curtains and machines. I’ve been sitting here for hours wondering if he's even alive."

But he didn’t text any of that.

She was probably still out, probably drinking, and it felt… wrong to mess up her night.

He read them again, then locked his phone and let it rest in his palm.

He leaned forward in the uncomfortable waiting room chair and ran a hand over his face.

The lights buzzed overhead. The walls were pale yellow, or maybe just an old, tired white. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Just that it was late. So late it didn’t feel real anymore.

He opened his contacts and hit Mom❤️.

She picked up after a few rings, her voice light, teasing:

“Well, I expected a drunk celebration call hours ago. Before I even escaped the absolute nightmare that was stadium traffic.”

“Mom,” he said, and his voice cracked.

There was a pause on the line, like a clock had stopped ticking.

“Nicky, What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I'm okay I just—I found someone,” he said, low. “On the road. On my way home. I think he was—he was out of it. Drugs, I think. Cold. No jacket. He just… he collapsed. I brought him here. I’m still at the hospital.”

“Oh, baby…”

“He looked like he was around my age,” Nick added, eyes stinging suddenly. “He was so thin, mom. And he laughed, and then he passed out, and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Just ‘if.’ If he wakes up. I don't know what to do.”

When he finished his rapid fire explanation, his mom was quiet.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly. “You already did the right thing. You did exactly what someone should have done. You got him somewhere safe, where they can give him what he needs.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

“You'll learn it, I'm sure. You likely saved his life. I’m proud of you.”

Nick blinked hard and looked at the clock. Almost 4am.

“Sorry, mom. I didn’t want to ruin your night off,” he mumbled.

“You could never ruin my night. And besides,” she added gently, “I wasn’t doing anything interesting anyway. You know these are just my ice cream and trash television nights.”

Nick smiled faintly.

“Let me know when you learn more, okay? Call me no matter the time.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He had just hung up when a nurse appeared in the doorway. Young. Calm. Clipboard in hand. She looked tired.

She gave him a polite smile. 

“Hi. Just wanted to update you—he woke up briefly a little while ago. Disoriented. We had to sedate him when he tried to get up.”

Nick stood, alarmed. 

“Is he okay?”

“He’s stable,” she said. “We’re monitoring him closely. But he’s sleeping now.”

Nick let out a breath and nodded, feeling more relief than was probably warranted for a complete stranger. 

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you want to head home and get some rest, and come back tomorrow, we’ll let you know if anything changes. He’ll likely sleep through the morning.”

Nick nodded again. His shoulders eased just slightly.

He took one last look at the hallway that led deeper into the hospital.

Then he turned and left, telling himself he’d be back the moment the sun came up.

They told Charlie he was stable.

The nurse said it like it was good news. Like that word—stable—meant something he should be proud of. He wanted to laugh, but nothing came out. Just the dry drag of air and the taste of plastic and blood.

Stable.

What a joke.

I've never been called stable in my life.

He noticed the heat of the blankets first. Too much. He’d been cold for so long that it felt like fire. They put things in his arm, stuck monitors to his chest. A tube in his nose. They kept saying “you're okay” but what is okay? How would he ever be okay? Their voices sounded far away, like through water, like static. 

The first couple of days were… hell.

Shaking. Cold and hot all at once. Stomach cramping like something inside him was collapsing, screaming, dying, begging and trying to claw its way out. Muscles twitching in places he didn't even know he had muscles. He remembers vomiting into a tiny cardboard basin until there was nothing left and then dry heaving until his ribs ached. The pain was bone-deep, like every inch of him was screaming to be given what it had been denied.

Time was strange. Days didn’t feel like days. He drifted in and out, sweating through sheets, flinching when nurses touched him—even gently. 

Gentle. 

Gentle?

Everything was loud and bright and too much. He’d cried without meaning to, without sound. Just tears falling out of him, like his body was mourning something but his brain hadn't caught up.

They gave him meds to help—small, careful doses—but nothing completely stopped the ache. It was like grief and sickness and rage all fighting for space under his skin. He couldn’t eat. They fed him through a tube and his mouth tasted like cardboard. Sometimes it tastes like metal. His whole body hated him.

I hate it right back though, so what else is new?

Sometimes he thought he’d die. Sometimes he wanted to.

Again. Not new.

But now… he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was the meds or the fear.

Then they asked him to talk, again.

He couldn’t.

He tried.

Nothing came out. Not even a whisper. The words stopped somewhere between his lungs and throat. He opened his mouth and nothing. Just that same dragging silence. A nurse nodded softly, like she'd seen this before.

She explained it carefully like the words might cause him pain. Psychogenic mutism, they called it. Trauma-based. Not permanent, maybe. Probably.

He wanted to scream. Or cry.

Instead, he nodded.

So they gave him paper and a pen, and the writing was shaky at first. Ugly. Almost unreadable. But he could communicate.

“Were you using drugs?”

– Yes. I didn’t want to.

“You were forced?”

– Yes.

“Has this happened before?”

– A lot.

“How did you end up on the side of the road?”

– Pushed. From car.

“Do you know the name of the person who posted you into the road?”

– No.

They didn’t say much in between. Just looked at each other and wrote things down on a clipboard.

Then came the rest. Some more questions. The blood tests. The whispers outside the curtain.

The diagnoses.

Broken nose. Could be from impact or assault.

Severely underweight.

Malnourished.

Dehydrated.

STD panel came back. Chlamydia, but nothing else.

A whisper: “He's lucky, in his state… that could’ve killed him.”

Lucky.

He hated that word, too.

They said "could've".

Charlie's brain said “should've”.

They asked about a family member. Or a spouse. Or someone to call.

He just shook his head. Over and over and over. 

No. No. No.

Ben wasn’t going to come for him again. He wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

But he kept waking up from dreams where Ben was there anyway. Standing at the foot of his bed. Not speaking. Just staring. Cold eyes, fists clenched.

Last night, he tried to scream in his sleep. Nothing came out. Woke up to his arms being held, hospital staff pinning his shoulders down and a nurse giving him a sedative. 

I hate being held down. 

Hate it. 

Even if they’re gentle. Even if they’re kind. It’s all the same when your body won’t listen to reason. When it just reacts. He tried to say don’t but words still wouldn't come. It was too late anyway.

So he stayed quiet. Just nodded. Just wrote.

And he listened.

To the man who kept coming back.

Nick.

At first they just said “the man who found you wants to visit.” He said yes, not thinking much about it. But he hadn’t expected… Nick.

Hadn’t expected the kindness in his eyes. The way he looked at Charlie like he wasn’t just some ruined thing on a hospital bed. Like he was interested in the person behind the shell he found lying in the road. 

It was… strange.

Nick talked to him even though Charlie couldn’t talk back. Asked him how he was feeling. If he needed anything. Said it was fine if he didn’t answer.

He brought books. Jane Austen, mostly, that he said belonged to his mom. Charlie wasn’t sure he could focus long enough to read, but Nick offered to read to him. Charlie had only shrugged.

Nick's voice was warm. Soft around the edges. Careful.

He read Emma with a smile in his voice, pausing to say things like “I always forget how funny she is” or “this part’s good, you’ll see.”

Charlie would close his eyes and just listen. Let the cadence of Nick’s voice anchor him to the bed. The sound of pages turning. The hum of machines.

Peaceful.

Sometimes Nick would talk about nothing. The weather. His football team. The deer in his backyard. His mom’s little dog who chased snowflakes and barked at shoes.

Charlie couldn’t explain why it mattered that Nick was there. This absolute stranger. But it did.

He was still scared. All the time. Scared Ben would find him. Scared this would all vanish and he’d wake up somewhere worse. But Nick kept coming back. Sitting beside him. Chatting like he was an old friend.

And in those moments, he felt a little bit like a real person.

Chapter Text

Nick stood at the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, fingers curled loosely around the warm ceramic like he needed something to anchor him. The mid-January light filtered in through the frost-fogged window, painting the countertop in pale streaks of gray. His house was quiet, the heat low and humming.

Six days.

Six days since he'd found Charlie facedown on the roadside, crumpled and bloodied and out of his mind with whatever cocktail had been shoved into his system. Six days since Nick had pulled over on that highway, hoisted that too-light body into his arms, and driven white-knuckled through pitch-black roads to the nearest emergency room. He hadn't really thought it through, he just knew he couldn’t leave him.

And now?

Now it was all he thought about.

He’d visited every day since. Stayed for hours. Even when sometimes Charlie slept the whole time. Or sometimes he seemed to be in pain, and Nick wasn't allowed in the room for a while. That happened a lot the first few days. Other times he’d be awake—silent, still—but watching. Listening. Once, he’d written thank you on a little piece of notebook paper. Nick had folded it up and slipped it into his wallet to keep.

Miley didn’t get it.

When he finally texted her back on his way into the hospital the day after the incident, she really just didn’t get it. Her texts had started off concerned, even sweet: I’m glad you’re okay. That must have been scary.

But it had quickly turned. 

Are you seriously going back to check on some drugged-up homeless dude?

You don’t even know him, Nick. What if he’s dangerous? 

You’re too rich and too famous for this kind of thing. It’s not safe. What if it's a set up?

He knew she was trying to protect him. But the way she said it—some drugged-up homeless dude—made something twist in his gut.

Charlie didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed... fragile. Like the slightest wrong movement would crack him open further. Like he'd been broken for a long time and barely stitched together again. Full of loose seams. Nick had seen the chart left on the wall once.

• Malnourishment.
• Chlamydia.
• Mutism. (Likely trauma.)
• Chemical dependency.
• Broken nose
• Severe bruising on ribcage

It made his stomach turn.

But his eyes.

God, his eyes.

They were the first thing Nick had noticed that night on the road, when he’d rolled him over and seen them, glassy and fever-bright, blinking up at him. He’d thought they were gray at first, or maybe dark brown, but the more time he spent by his bedside, the more he realized they were blue. Not light blue, not ice or sky. Storm blue. Deep, haunting, full of things Nick didn’t have the vocabulary to name. But still soft. Kind.

Sometimes, when he was reading or chatting—especially when he talked about his mom’s dumb little pug Henry—Charlie’s eyes would change. Not much. Not enough to call it a smile. But something would soften in them. Something warm and tentative would peek out through all the fear and exhaustion, and Nick would feel something tug hard in his chest.

He didn’t tell Miley that part.

Didn’t tell her about the books either—how Charlie had written down his favorite genres, and how Nick had brought in a stack of Jane Austen and a few battered copies of Dickens and Brontë he’d swiped from his mom’s bookshelves. He didn’t tell her how sometimes Charlie would read along silently, eyes flicking across the page as Nick read aloud, voice low and slow to match the quiet of the hospital room. He didn’t tell her that he liked being there, that it felt right somehow to be helping Charlie. Especially since, in the entire time he's been there, no one else seems to have visited him. It sometimes feels like no one but Nick knows he exists.

He definitely didn’t tell her he was going again before their date.

She was already irritated enough—kept accusing him of canceling on her emotionally all week, of being obsessed. But he’d promised that tonight was her favorite restaurant. A play. He’d gotten the reservations and tickets, even dug out the blue button-down shirt she loved on him. He was trying. He was really trying.

But first, Charlie.

Always first. Just for a little while.

Nick finished his coffee, rinsed the mug, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door. The car roared to life in the driveway, seat warmers already buzzing to life beneath the leather. For a second, he let himself imagine Charlie in the passenger seat, wrapped up in a thick coat, watching snow fall softly on the highway trees.

There wasn’t any snow yet, despite the predictions early in the week. Just cold.

He backed out of the driveway, the roads slick and quiet, and headed toward the hospital.

Nick leaned forward in the chair beside Charlie’s bed, smiling a little when he noticed the swelling in Charlie’s nose had gone down. The yellow bruising along his cheekbones was softer now, fading into the natural pale olive of his skin. Still fragile, still far too thin—but healing. Thank God.

"Hey, I think your face is starting to remember what it’s supposed to look like." Nick gave a small smile. "Good job, face.”

Charlie didn’t smile, but his eyes crinkled faintly. That almost-smile he’d gotten good at, the kind that didn’t use lips but said I’m listening just the same.

Nick relaxed a little more in the chair and folded his arms across his knees. 

“So, the deer came back again today. The baby—the one with the weird little lopsided antlers? They’re finally starting to grow in. It’s honestly kind of adorable. He’s gonna be all lopsided forever, I think, but it’s part of his charm.”

He glanced over to Charlie. Still listening. Those storm-colored eyes always locked onto him, like he was soaking up everything he said.

Nick rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I think he tried to eat my mailbox, though.”

Charlie blinked slowly. Nick grinned.

But then, the door opened. A woman in plain clothes—not a nurse—stepped in with a clipboard in hand and a practiced softness in her voice. A second figure followed: a quiet man with a kind expression and a police badge on his belt.

“Hi, Charlie,” the woman said gently, offering a small smile. “I’m Mallory. This is Officer Grant. We were hoping we could talk with you a little bit. About what happened before.”

Immediately, Charlie’s entire body stiffened. His wide, bruised eyes shot to them, then to Nick, then back again. His breathing hitched. His fingers gripped the blanket tighter.

Nick stood instinctively.

“I’ll—”

But Charlie grabbed his hand.

Startled, Nick looked down to where Charlie’s thin, cold fingers clutched his. Desperate. Shaking his head, eyes frantic.

“Charlie,” Mallory said gently, “we do need to speak to you privately… but if you’d like someone to stay with you, we can make that happen. You’d just need to give us written consent, okay?”

Charlie was already reaching for the little whiteboard and marker they kept clipped to the side of the bed. His handwriting was shaky, but the words were clear:

Please let him stay.

Mallory gave a soft nod, pulling out a consent form and handing it to Charlie. With Nick still sitting beside him, Charlie scribbled his signature with trembling fingers.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re doing great.”

Nick sat back in the chair, not letting go of Charlie’s hand.

Charlie didn’t let go either.

Charlie didn’t know why he’d grabbed Nick’s hand.

It was instinct—impulse—something raw and buried and desperate that needed grounding and apparently Nick was that grounding presence. He hadn’t planned it. He just needed him to stay. He barely remembered reaching out, but now Nick’s palm was warm against his own, steady. Solid. Real.

Safe?

Maybe it was just because Nick was the one who’d found him. The one who stopped his car. The one who picked him up off the road like he mattered enough to not let die in ditch. That had to be the only reason Charlie’s heart slowed, even just a little, when Nick sat next to him. Why his hands didn’t shake quite as badly when Nick was around. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. Nick seemed just... kind.

And he kept coming back.

Charlie didn’t understand that part.

He hadn’t asked him for any of it.

Still, he didn’t want him to stop.

The hospital workers sat in the chairs across from his bed, notepads and tablets and serious voices wrapped in soft tones. Nick stayed beside him, not speaking, not letting go. Helping Charlie feel a little steadier, somehow. It wasn't rational. That's okay. Most things weren't 

They asked how he was feeling physically. Charlie picked up the pen slowly, fingers stiff but steadier than before. 

Better.

They nodded. Asked more questions. Did he feel like using again?

No. Never wanted to.

The next question made him freeze.

Who gave him the drugs?

Charlie’s grip on the pen tightened. He looked down, jaw clenching, then shook his head. No. He wouldn’t say.

"Why protect them?" one of them asked gently. "After everything you've told us?"

He wrote slower this time. 

Not protecting them. Protecting myself.

It was half-true. Maybe less than that.

Because the truth was... he didn’t want Ben to go to jail. Even now. Even after everything. He wasn’t sure what that said about him. Ben was cruel and selfish and mean, but Charlie loved him anyway. Enough to make him stupid. Enough to make him want to just disappear rather than get Ben in trouble. He just wanted to be left alone.

They asked if he felt safe.

He shook his head.

No.

They asked if he had any family they could contact.

He shook it harder. 

Absolutely not. NO.

He realized he was crying when a tissue appeared in front of him, and Nick’s voice said quietly, “Here.”

He blinked at him, surprised again by the gentleness. The care.

This, holding Nick's hand, was the first time they’d touched.

Charlie hadn’t noticed how tightly they were still holding hands until he let go—slowly, carefully—so he could take the tissue with the hand that didn’t have an IV in it. The moment their palms separated, all of the cold flooded back in. Still, he kept it cool. Wiped his face, nodded his thanks, tried not to shiver too hard.

They kept going.

They said something about a nutritionist. About setting him up with therapy. He nodded vaguely, too tired to process it all.

Then came the question of insurance.

He shook his head. He had none.

They told him someone would come in and help apply for state coverage. But it might not cover much. The hospital stay, the tests, the therapy. Most of it would be billed to him unless he had money. Charlie almost laughed. He didn’t have a coin to his name. Not a pair of shoes that belonged to him that weren't full of holes. Not even the clothes he’d come in with. They’d been thrown away.

Then they asked where he’d go when he was discharged.

He blinked at them.

Go?

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

He had nowhere.

Nothing.

Why didn't Nick just leave me to die there?

I should have just died there.

They explained what would happen—something about a temporary placement, something about shelters, something about state-funded care, but it was all noise in Charlie’s ears now. Buzzing. Static. The pressure started in his chest, hot and thick, and crept up his throat.

Shelters meant exposure.

Exposure meant Ben could find him.

And if Ben found him... he’d take him back. Back to the motel. Back to the pills and the needles. Back to the fists. Back to silence. Back to the men who took and took and took….

Charlie couldn’t breathe.

His pulse was thudding loud in his ears, a panicked strobe behind his eyes. His lungs felt full of cotton. His fingers trembled around the pen. He pressed them to his chest like it might do something—like he could physically push the panic down—but it didn’t work.

He was spiraling.

And he couldn’t say a word.

Nick sat frozen in the corner chair, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His heart ached watching Charlie spiral—chest heaving, face pale and tight, eyes wide with that silent kind of terror that made everything in Nick scream 'do something, help him, make it stop.'

But there was nothing he could do.

One of the nurses had stepped in quickly, her voice low and steady, grounded. Her hand on Charlie’s shoulder was firm but gentle, guiding him through some breathing exercises. It was clinical, sure, but it wasn’t cold. She was clearly good at this—grounding patients in panic. Slowly, slowly, Charlie's breathing started to even out, the panic softening into exhausted, dazed quiet.

Nick swallowed hard. He hated this—hated the helplessness of just sitting there, watching Charlie suffer, hurting without being able to speak.

Once the worst of it passed, Charlie reached for the dry erase marker with shaking fingers, barely able to grip it.

Can’t go out there.

The nurse leaned in.

“What do you mean, Charlie?”

He didn’t lift his head. Just wrote again, slower this time.

Not safe.

Something dropped in Nick’s stomach.

The nurse frowned. 

“If you don’t have any friends or family to go to, there aren’t many options for discharge. We don't want to put you on the street, Charlie, especially not at this time if year. A state facility maybe, or transitional housing, but there’s—”

“I have a place,” Nick said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at him, including Charlie. Wide, confused eyes.

Nick blinked, startled by the words that had come out of his own mouth, but he didn’t take them back.

“I mean... if Charlie’s okay with it. I have a guest room. And I’m on my off season right now—I’m not traveling, I’ve got time. He can stay with me. I can help take care of him. He wouldn't have to be alone." He turned his head to speak more directly to Charlie. "It’s safe. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick and hesitant. One of the workers glanced at the others, clearly unsure.

The nurse looked gently to Charlie. 

“How would you feel about that?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He didn’t move. His expression wasn’t fearful, but it was closed off in that unreadable way Nick had come to recognize as his default. He was staring at his own knees, hands folded together tightly in his lap.

The social worker cleared her throat. 

“We’ll give you both a minute. We’ll come back.”

The room slowly cleared, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

And for a long moment, Nick didn’t say a word.

He just sat there, wondering what the hell he’d just offered, and why it felt like the most natural thing in the world to offer it.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Nick’s voice still echoed in his mind—“He can stay with me.”

Why?

Why would he say that?

What does he want from me?

Probably what they all want.

Charlie stared at his knees, trying not to look at Nick. Trying not to breathe too loudly or cry too hard or fall apart entirely. His mind spun. Dizzy. Sharp. Crashing.

You don’t know him.

Just because he looks kind. Just because he talks to you like you’re a person. Just because he reads to you and brings you books and makes you feel a little less like you're already dead. That doesn’t mean he’s safe. You’ve been wrong before.

He could want the same thing. They always want the same thing.

Sweet voices turn sour behind closed doors.

Maybe he’s like Ben. Maybe worse.

Maybe he’ll lock the door. Maybe he’ll say he wants to “take care of you” and then expect you to take your shirt off. Be good. Be quiet. Be useful.

Repressed men. Gentle touches until the lights go out. Never gentle. Never kind.

They always want something.

You don’t get good things for free.

Why would someone like him want you around?

You’re weak. Pathetic. Dirty. You’re used up and disgusting. You don’t belong in some nice boy’s fancy house. You’ll just be a burden. You’ll take and take and offer nothing. There's one thing you could offer. Maybe that's why he's doing this. Maybe you should just let Ben find you again. At least then you served a purpose. At least you made him money.

Maybe he just feels obligated.

Nick’s voice cut gently through the noise.

“I just wanted you to know it’s an option,” he said quietly, as if afraid to speak too loud. “You don’t have to. I totally understand if you don’t want to come stay with some stranger, especially after... Whatever you've been through. You don't really have a reason to trust me. I just—”

Charlie finally looked up.

Nick’s eyes were soft. His hands rested calmly on his lap.

“I just thought maybe you were feeling stuck,” Nick said. “And I didn’t want that to be your only option, going back out there. I live in a pretty quiet area. My house has a guest room, and you’d have your own space. I wouldn’t bother you. I’d just... be there. If you wanted.”

He smiled, small and nervous. 

“Honestly, I get kind of lonely in that big house. My girlfriend’s lovely, but she lives a ways away and she’s always pretty busy—events, influencer stuff. I like being home more. It might be nice to have someone else around.”

Charlie swallowed. His throat felt raw, like the thoughts he couldn’t speak had scraped it clean as he was forced to swallow them back down.

Nick cleared his throat, adding, “But seriously. I won’t be offended. As long as you’re somewhere safe, I’ll be happy.”

Charlie stared at him for a long second.

Then nodded, once, toward the door.

Nick blinked, and then understanding lit up his face. 

“Yeah. I’ll go get them.”

He stood and crossed to the door, stepping out into the hallway.

Charlie reached slowly for his signboard, hands still trembling, and wrote out

one sentence with care:

Okay. I’ll go with Nick.

When the nurse came in and read it, she smiled gently. And when Nick saw the board over her shoulder, something quiet and bright flickered across his face. 

Charlie just hoped he could trust it.

Chapter Text

Nick adjusted his collar in the mirror, frowning at his reflection. The shirt was too crisp. The color washed him out. His hair wasn't sitting quite right. Or maybe he was just overthinking everything tonight. He ran a hand through his hair, checked his phone—no new messages from Miley—and sighed.

Charlie was still at the hospital. He had a few more days left, just enough time for them to finalize his state insurance application and walk him through a basic nutrition plan. The dietitian had explained everything in a way Nick didn’t quite understand—something about “refeeding syndrome” and how dangerous it could be to eat too much too fast after being malnourished. They were giving Charlie a printed guideline. And they’d promised Nick a copy too, since he'd be the one making sure Charlie actually followed it once he was discharged.

Small meals, easy to digest. High in nutrients but low in risk. Tiny steps, measured calories, everything monitored. A return to nourishment that felt like walking a tightrope.

And the therapist. They’d actually found one—someone who agreed to meet with Charlie over Zoom pro bono, at least for now. The social worker had seemed surprised, but hopeful. Said it was rare for someone in Charlie’s situation to get such quick support. Nick would move his desktop for Charlie to use in the guest room. He didn’t use it much anyway—just for gaming, but that was rare these days.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back.

Why was he so tense?

Maybe because he still couldn’t believe he was doing this. Taking in a total stranger. A malnourished, traumatized, recently detoxed stranger. A stranger with an addiction history and no clothes and nowhere to go, who was surrounded by fear and mystery.

He should be panicking. He should be Googling his name to see what he could find out about him. Should be worried about all the things that could go wrong—what if Charlie relapsed? What if he stole something? What if he had violent outbursts? He could be a serial killer…

But somehow… he just wasn’t scared.

Charlie didn’t make him feel afraid. Not once. Not even with the silence. Not with the way he flinched at sudden touches or the panic in his eyes during the worst of it. Nick had seen the damage, but also the softness underneath. The quiet dignity. The fight still in him, even if it was buried under all that fear.

And Nick trusted him. He didn’t know why. But he did.

Maybe that was stupid. Maybe it would be his downfall.

He slipped his watch on and checked the time. He was supposed to pick Miley up soon.

Miley.

He hadn’t told her. Not yet. He wasn’t lying. He just… wasn’t bringing it up. That wasn’t the same thing, right? 

That's called lying by omission, Nick.

Ugh, shut up.

He just knew how she’d react—”It’s dangerous, Nick. You don’t know him. You’re famous. You’re vulnerable." She’d mean well. She always did. But she wouldn’t understand. Not yet. Not until she met him too.

So he’d wait. Just a few days. Until Charlie was settled. Until he could say, "Look, he’s okay. He’s just trying to heal. He’s not a threat."

Then he’d tell her.

Nick took one last glance at the guest room as he passed it—clean sheets, a lamp, a stack of books already on the nightstand.

Charlie’s space now. At least for a little while.

He pocketed his keys and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.

“Date night,” he muttered under his breath, pushing open the door. “Be cool. Be normal.”

And he stepped outside.

Nick turned onto the winding, tree-lined street and eased his car to a stop in front of Miley’s building—a sleek modern apartment complex nestled in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Syracuse. Brick facades, perfectly trimmed hedges, glass balconies that caught the evening light like mirrors. The kind of place where the lobby had infused water and a concierge who knew everyone’s name. It made his own place feel like a glorified farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. 

He’d mentioned her moving in with him a few times, especially now that the season was over and the off-season had more breathing room. But every time, she shut it down with a laugh and a teasing “Nick, you’ve got to get out of the woods first.”

She wanted to move to New York City. Said her influencer career would explode there. And maybe it would. She was already at over half a million followers—brands sent her PR packages like clockwork. But Nick had told her before, gently but firmly, that he couldn’t leave his mom behind. She didn’t understand it. How could she, when her own mother barely even texted her back? Nick didn’t blame her for that, but it was still a wedge between them.

He stepped out of the car, smoothing down the button-up shirt she liked and grabbing the flowers he’d picked up on the way—white daisies and orange calendula, small and cheerful, the same kind she had gushed about once back in October while they walked through the farmer's market.

He was halfway to her door when it opened.

“Wait, wait—” she called out, phone already in her hand, front-facing camera rolling. “Okay, go.”

Nick blinked, then walked forward, offering a small smile as he approached. She filmed him walking up like it was a scene in a movie, soft music probably already picked out in her head. He rolled his eyes internally. He was used to it. She turned all their dates into little TikTok compilations—dinner, the outfits, the drinks, the moments between—but sometimes he wished she’d just be there, really be there, instead of performing it all.

Still. She was patient with his schedule, his brutal practices, the long stretches of travel. The least he could do was be supportive of her world, too.

“Hey,” he said, holding out the bouquet with a smile. “Daisies and calendula. The ones you loved at the market.”

She took them with one hand and held them up to the camera with the other, pouting slightly. Then she ended the video with a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Nick asked.

She looked at him like she was trying not to be annoyed but wasn’t quite succeeding. 

“These are fall flowers, Nick.”

He blinked. 

“Aren’t they the ones you said you liked?”

“That was in October,” she said, voice soft but tinged with that condescending tone she used when explaining something she thought was obvious. “These colors are so... fall. My whole aesthetic right now is icy blues and silvers for winter. These won’t match anything.”

“Oh,” Nick said. “Sorry. I just thought...”

“It’s fine,” she said with a tight smile, already turning toward the car. “I’ll get over it.”

Nick followed her, letting the moment pass, though something heavy settled low in his chest. He opened the passenger door for her, then got in on his side and started the car.

She tossed the flowers in the back seat without another word.

Miley tilted her phone slightly, squinting at the screen. 

“No, babe, angle your wrist more. Yeah—no, wait—closer to the camera. Hold it higher... okay, now smile. Three, two—”

Clink.

She beamed, immediately checking the video playback while Nick lowered his arm and picked his fork back up. She gave a satisfied little hum and started editing the clip before even taking another bite. Nick quietly went back to his food.

She launched into a recap of the after party he’d missed—brand event, tons of people, some pop-up club space in the city. 

“Christian spilled an entire espresso martini down the front of his shirt, and instead of leaving to change, he just owned it. Kept telling everyone it was cologne, and the stain was a design choice.”

Nick chuckled, shaking his head. 

“That sounds about right for Chris.”

“Honestly, it was a highlight—well, second to Harry getting hit on by some random guy. It was so creepy and gross.”

Nick’s stomach twisted. The laughter stuck in his throat, bitter and sharp. He reached for his water and took a slow sip to mask his silence.

She kept talking, oblivious, scrolling through her photos as she did.

Miley didn’t know.

Nick had never told her.

He’d only ever told a few people—his mom, a couple of friends from home, and Elliot. Beautiful, soft-spoken Elliot, with his messy hair and his quick wit. The first person Nick had ever really looked at and thought, Oh. At first, he’d thought it was just admiration, that pull you feel toward someone who’s everything you’re not. But admiration didn’t explain the way his heart had thudded when Elliot brushed against him in the locker room, or how good it had felt—scary good—the first time they kissed at a party, drunk and laughing.

It hadn’t been serious, not really. They both knew what it was. But it had been good. Safe. Honest.

Elliot had graduated. Nick had gotten signed by the Stags. And just like that, he’d packed that part of himself away. Locked it down. Because no one in pro sports really said it, and even if the league was slowly changing, it still wasn’t something people led with. Safer to stay silent. Easier. His teammates knew, but only after a drunken night and lots of tears. He still wouldn't come out publicly.

And then came Miley.

Beautiful, confident, determined Miley, who’d chosen him with all of the confidence of someone knowing they were about to get what they want. Who’d taken his quietness as mystery, his kindness as devotion. She’d decided that he was her Valentine’s Day date three years ago and by the next morning they were official.

He liked her. Maybe even loved her. She was funny and smart and she put up with his long hours, his unpredictable moods, his need for quiet. But she also said things like that came off as a little insensitive, without meaning to be cruel, and had no idea the way those words sank into Nick’s skin like ice.

“I’m done,” she said suddenly, sliding her plate forward. “I don’t want dessert tonight, let’s just head out.”

Nick glanced down at his barely finished pasta, then nodded and flagged down the waiter. Miley didn’t like to linger in restaurants—it was inefficient, she always said. Wasted time. And he didn’t feel like explaining why he’d suddenly lost his appetite anyway.

He pulled out his card. Paid.

Then followed her out into the night.

And just like always, she slid her hand into his and held it up for the next video.

As they stepped out into the crisp night air, Nick checked the time on his phone. 

“Okay, next stop is the theater. Show starts in an hour so we have some time to kill and I was thinking we could—”

Miley groaned, dramatically tipping her head back.

“Ugh, Nick. We’re twenty-five, not forty-five. The theater? Really?”

He blinked at her, surprised. 

“You said you always wanted to see this one. You mentioned it in that magazine interview a few months ago—something about the music and costumes?”

She scrunched her nose again and waved a dismissive hand. 

“I said that because it sounded cultured. People eat that stuff up. You know how interviews are.” She laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t actually care about the theater.”

Nick tried not to show how much that deflated him. He’d waited in the online queue for tickets the day they released, even paid extra for the aisle seats. He’d thought it might be something different, something for her, but something they’d both remember and enjoy.

Before he could respond, she turned to him, resting her palm against his chest and slipping her fingers beneath the collar of his coat.

“You don't need to be sitting watching some silly old play anyway. You don't sit still well. Better with your body than with things that take” she tapped the side of his head with two fingers, “this,” she said, in that light, airy tone she used when she was trying to be cute but it landed closer to condescending.

Nick’s jaw tensed just slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a joke or not.

He opened his mouth to respond, but she was already closing the distance, pulling him into a kiss. It was deep, practiced, something more for show than connection, but his body, like always, responded automatically. She knew exactly how to reel him in.

When she pulled back, her lips were still brushing his, her breath warm against his mouth. 

“Let’s go dance,” she whispered. “I want to be close to you tonight. I want to feel connected.”

Nick hesitated, staring at her.

But she looked up at him with that polished smile, and even though something inside him resisted, he found himself exhaling a slow sigh and smiling anyway.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

Theater tickets wasted.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, except for the soft murmur of voices passing in the hallway and the steady beep beep beep of the monitor beside him. Charlie lay still, blinking up at the slightly yellowed ceiling tiles, letting the rhythm of it all wash over him.

Nick would be coming soon.

He always did. Every day. Warm eyes, soft voice. Something steady. Something good.

Charlie didn’t know why he cared—why it helped just to know Nick would walk through that door. It was stupid. He didn’t know Nick. Not really. And yet...

He had felt the shift in his body the past few days. The weight of his limbs wasn’t as unbearable as it had been. His muscles didn’t ache quite so sharply. Just enough strength to move.

He rose slowly, dragging his IV stand with him as he padded to the bathroom. The toothbrush they’d given him sat in a paper cup on the sink. He brushed in silence, carefully, then spit and rinsed. His reflection still didn’t look like him. Or maybe it looked too much like him.

He hit the call button.

A nurse arrived within a minute, smiling kindly, and he simply gestured toward the shower. She understood without a word and gently unclipped his IV.

It was only his second time showering since he’d been admitted.

The water was tepid and thin, barely a drizzle, but it was clean. No weird smell. No busted faucet. No stained walls. No men waiting in the other room.

He stepped under it, skin flinching at first, then adjusting. His fingers drifted down his ribs. Still sharp. Still visible. But... less so. The nutrient-rich fluids they’d been feeding him had started to work. Slowly, gently. He wasn’t so brittle now. Not so breakable.

The bruises were fading too. Once black and purple, now yellowing and pale. No new ones. For the first time in—God. How long had it been?

He tilted his chin down, looking over himself. His hips still jutted out, but he could feel the difference.

Barely. Just enough.

It felt wrong.

He wondered what he’d even look like without the bruises. The cuts. The swelling. Normal? The idea felt foreign. Unsafe, even. 

There was a time they weren't there. 

It felt like a different life ago.

His mind wandered.

Nick.

Nick probably had bruises, too. He played football professionally—he probably took a beating all the time. But Nick’s body could handle it. Tall. Solid. Muscles that didn’t come from desperation or survival, but effort. Training.

And he had so, so many muscles. Charlie could see them, even through his winter clothes. The way the sleeves stretched tightly around his biceps...

Charlie felt a flush creep into his chest. His dick twitched slightly.

He shut his eyes tight.

No. No, no. You absolute piece of shit.

Nick was kind. Gentle. He hadn't asked for anything. Not even a thank you.

And here Charlie was, already thinking about him like that. Already fantasizing. Already ruining it.

Selfish. Dirty.

If Nick wanted something from him, he would take it. Charlie would give it. That’s what he did.

Because Ben had saved him.

Ben was the one who took him in, back when Charlie was only twenty and desperate. A few months into his second year of college, failing every class, not eating, suicidal, no money, nowhere to go, no one who wanted him. Ben had offered him a job—sex work, sure, but at least it was something—and a room in the shitty roadside motel his dad owned. Shelter. No rent. No questions.

And Charlie had been with him ever since.

Three years.

He owed Ben everything.

Ben had fed him, clothed him, protected him. Loved him, in his own way. Charlie owed him his loyalty. His obedience. His body. Even if Ben hit him. He should know better than to break the rules. They were simple, Charlie was just stupid sometimes. Even if he loaned him out. Ben is who wanted to keep him. Even if the bruises never healed all the way before the next ones bloomed.

Ben said he loved him.

And Charlie... Charlie believed it.

So what the hell was he doing now? Sitting here, thinking about Nick—Nick—like that.

God, he was disloyal.

Disgusting.

A useless, broken thing. Nothing but a drain.

At least with Ben, he’d had a purpose. At least with Ben, he was good for something. He was good at his job.

He slid down the shower wall, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tight. The water beat down on him weakly, rinsing nothing away.

Tears began to fall, silently at first, then harder.

He sobbed into his knees, the sound barely audible beneath the spray.

Ben had saved him.

And now Charlie had betrayed him. Thinking about someone who was too good for him anyway.

He stayed there, hunched on the cold tile, too ashamed to move, until the water began to cool and the steam began to fade.

The water had gone cold, but Charlie didn’t move. He sat curled in on himself, knees pressed to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, forehead resting against his knees as the spray needled his back. The warmth had washed away, and all that was left was the sting of cold and the heaviness in his chest.

He didn’t know how long he cried for.

A soft knock broke through the stream of water and the soft sobs. A nurse’s voice followed, kind and careful.

“Charlie? I’ve got some clothes for you, sweetheart. Left them on the bench here if you want them. Just a pair of sweats, a tee shirt, and some socks.”

He heard the small rustle of plastic. 

“They’re from the donation bin. Nothing fancy, but they’re clean and warm.”

He didn’t respond. Of course. Couldn’t. But after a moment, the nurse added gently, “Take your time.”

When the footsteps faded, Charlie finally moved. His joints ached from the cold and from sitting too long, but he forced himself up. Turned off the water. Dried off with the scratchy towel they’d given him. The clothes were soft — Clean. The sweatpants hung off his hips but they had a drawstring. The cotton tee shirt was light grey with some old logo on it. It was his now. It wasn’t stained or ripped or anyone else’s. He even pulled on the hideous yellow hospital socks with the rubbery grip bottoms. For a moment they made him feel like someone, for the first time in a long time, had thought about him not slipping. 

How sad. They're just socks, Charlie. No one cares.

When he shuffled back into his room, the nurse was waiting. She smiled when she saw him dressed and said quietly, “Nick’s out in the hall. He asked if he could come in. Only if you’re up for it.”

Charlie’s stomach twisted. His hands curled into the hem of the tee shirt, guilt already rising thick and bitter in his throat. He shouldn't. Not after that. He nodded anyway. Just once.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

The nurse touched his arm gently and stepped out.

He made his way to the bed and climbed in carefully, still aching, still exhausted. He curled in on himself a little. It was too cold in here, and the water hadn’t helped much.

But Nick would.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He wanted Nick there.

Even after what he’d done — letting his thoughts drift toward Nick’s body, letting his eyes wander and his imagination fill in the rest. Disloyal. Disgusting. Ben would be furious. Ben would tell him exactly what he was for it — a dirty little whore with no self control.

He didn’t deserve kindness. Didn’t deserve warmth. He certainly didn’t deserve Nick.

But he wanted him anyway.

Wanted the calm that he brought, the quiet, the way Nick spoke to him like he wasn’t broken. Wanted the steadiness in Nick’s voice when he read aloud, the way he made the room feel a little less heavy. Wanted to hear it now. Wanted to see his eyes and know that he wasn’t alone.

He hated himself for it.

But when the door opened, he looked up.

And he still wanted.

Nick knocked gently before stepping in, and when Charlie looked up, something about him caught Nick off guard. The hospital gown was gone. He was wearing threadbare grey sweatpants, a thin T-shirt, and those awful banana-yellow grippy socks. But… he looked more like a person and less like a ghost.

His face still carried the shadows of everything he'd been through, but there was a little more color in his cheeks. A little less shaking in his hands. The bruises hadn't vanished, but they were faded.

"Hey," Nick said softly, closing the door behind him. "Look at you. Solid fashion upgrade."

Charlie gave him a faint look and a one-shouldered shrug, followed by a small thumbs-up that didn't match the flicker of tension behind his eyes. Nick noticed it — the stress. It wasn’t the same kind of hollow-eyed panic he’d seen before. It was more… subtle. Like Charlie was carrying something sharp just beneath his skin. Guilt, maybe?

Nick didn’t comment. Instead, he sank into the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees.

"I, uh— I wanna show you something," he said, reaching for his phone. "Promise it’s not a meme. Well, not this time."

He unlocked it, swiped a few times, then turned the screen toward Charlie.

“I finally got a picture of the deer.”

Charlie blinked, leaning in slightly. His eyes were still heavy with wariness, but they softened just a fraction.

“They’re usually so skittish. Like, I’ll think about picking up my phone and they’ll bolt.” Nick smiled a little. “But I was already taking a photo of the sunset to send my mum, and they just wandered right into the frame. It was dumb luck.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked up at that—at the mention of Nick's mum—and Nick swore he saw something little soften even more in his eyes.

“And you’re gonna love the view from the backyard,” Nick added, warming up. “It’s ridiculous. Like—there’s this big sloping hill and a bunch of pine trees at the bottom, and in the winter it looks like something out of a Christmas card. If you’re sitting on the back porch around sunset, it turns all golden and—”

He stopped himself with a little laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Sorry. Diagnosed ADHD. My brain likes to take little scenic detours.”

He finally tapped the screen and zoomed in.

“But yeah—here. Look.”

The photo was dreamlike, golden light spilling over a trio of deer, one of them small, with tiny, uneven antler nubs just beginning to bud. They were at the edge of a field, just before twilight.

Charlie stared at it for a moment longer, then slowly sat up, adjusting the blanket around himself. He looked at Nick again, and this time—it happened.

He smiled.

Charlie smiled.

Not a big one, not long-lasting. Just a small, fleeting curve of his lips. But it was real. Soft and quiet and alive.

Nick felt something loosen and flutter deep in his chest, like all the air had gone a little warmer. Like he’d just been handed something fragile and sacred.

And he couldn’t stop grinning in response.

Chapter Text

Nick merged onto the freeway, the hospital fading behind him, but Charlie’s small, real smile echoing in his chest like a quiet victory. It was the first time he’d seen even the shadow of one on Charlie’s face, and it did something to him. Something warm and fluttery and completely inconvenient.

They’d spent a few hours together that afternoon. The nurse had gone over Charlie’s nutrition plan with both of them again—slow and careful refeeding, no sudden spikes in calories. Lots of small, frequent meals with a focus on protein and fat to rebuild what had been lost. Smooth nut butters. Broths. Greek yogurt. Protein shakes. Bananas and oats. All of it written down neatly in the packet she handed Nick, as though Charlie had made him his default support system and they were just… doing this now. Together.

Before Nick left, he’d told Charlie he was planning to spend brunch with his mum the next day, but he’d come by right after. Charlie had nodded, eyes unreadable but open. Trusting.

Now, on the road home, Nick’s mind was already leaping ahead. Charlie would be discharged soon. He’d be coming to stay, at least for a while 

And he had nothing.

Nick flicked on his turn signal and pulled into the lot for Target, because of course he couldn’t just leave it until tomorrow. He couldn’t sleep tonight knowing Charlie might not have socks.

Inside, he started practical.

He grabbed a few pairs of joggers—soft cotton with adjustable waistbands—and some tees, plain but well-made. A zip-up hoodie. Slippers, and more socks, because those hospital socks were tragic. He paused over the blankets and picked out a forest green one that looked absurdly soft.

Then the necessities: shampoo, body wash, a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. Lip balm. A water bottle that said “Don’t Forget to Drink Me” in bold type.

That’s probably enough, he told himself.

But then his cart veered left and so did his intentions.

He added a soft-beige journal, the cover textured and covered in small embossed stars. He imagined Charlie’s fingers brushing over it, maybe filling it with lyrics or fragments of thought. Or nothing. It didn’t matter. It was there. It was an option. A choice. He assumed Charlie needed some of those.

Next to it, a whiteboard and markers. They’d used a notepad in the hospital, but Nick thought this might be easier. Less wasteful. Charlie could scribble and erase and draw sarcastic cartoons of him if he wanted.

Then came the extras.

He added a pack of multivitamins. A mug that said “Low Battery, Please Recharge” in bold letters with a little low battery signal. Another covered in cute little pastel leaves. A pair of socks with little books on them. A cactus in a pot that looked like a cat. 

By the time he made it to self-checkout, his cart looked less like supplies for a recovering houseguest and more like someone moving into their first college dorm.

Nick shook his head at himself and laughed under his breath.

Maybe it was completely insane to bring a stranger into his house. Especially one with a complicated past and a trauma-shaped silence.

But he couldn’t shake the image of Charlie in that bed, newly showered, in clean clothes, looking so small and fierce and real.

He deserved comfort. Dignity. Choice.

So Nick paid for everything, loaded the bags into the back of his car, and headed home to prepare the guest room.

Charlie would be there soon. And Nick wanted it to feel—if only a little—like safety. Like home.

The little brunch café near the park had always been one of their favorites—quiet, cozy, full of chipped teapots and the smell of warm pastries. Sarah sat across from Nick, stirring a sugar cube into her tea with absentminded precision, her eyes already crinkling in amusement.

“So I was trying to do yoga,” she said, shaking her head, “and Henry decided my face was the best place to sit. I had barely gotten into child’s pose and he launched himself like a loaf possessed. Full-body pug slam. Nearly broke my nose.”

Nick burst into laughter, nearly snorting into his coffee.

“He’s such a strange little potato.”

“He’s my strange little potato,” she said fondly. “You’ll have to tell Charlie. I bet he’ll appreciate the visual.”

Nick smiled, then looked out the window, his expression softening.

“Yeah. I think he would.”

Sarah tilted her head slightly, picking up on the shift.

“How is Charlie doing?”

Nick hesitated a second before answering.

“Better. He’s still really underweight, and the dietician gave him this intense nutrition plan. But he’s walking a bit now. Showered yesterday. He looked… a bit healthier” 

Her gaze stayed steady on him, warm but sharp.

Nick took a breath, mentally preparing to say the next part.

“I told him he could come stay with me. Just for a while. A safe place, somewhere quiet to recover.”

He braced himself for her reaction. But Sarah just reached for her tea, nodding.

“That’s very kind of you, love.”

“You think so?”

“Of course,” she said, gently. “It’s not something everyone would offer. But I'm not surprised at all that you did. If he needs help, and you’re in a place to give it—there’s nothing wrong with that. If either of you need anything, you’ll let me know?”

Nick blinked, swallowing a lump in his throat he hadn’t expected.

“Yeah. I will. Thanks, Mum.”

They sat in a comfortable pause, the clink of dishes and the gentle hum of conversation all around them. For a second, everything felt still.

Then Sarah asked, lightly, “And how are things with Miley?”

Nick took another sip of his coffee and smiled a little too quickly.

“Good.”

Sarah didn’t press, but her raised brow said she clocked the evasion.

“She’s got a big opportunity coming up,” he added. “A brand deal. Skincare, I think. She’s really excited.”

“That’s great,” Sarah said simply. “She works hard for it.”

Nick nodded, chewing absently on the edge of his toast. He couldn’t stop thinking about how easy this conversation had been. No judgment. No doubt. Just… care.

The way his mum always had been, ever since he was little.

Charlie hadn’t slept.

He'd laid still most of the night, curled beneath the rough hospital blanket, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. The idea of leaving made his stomach twist and his hands shake. The idea of staying did the same.

But this morning, the nurse had smiled and said, “Discharge day.” Like it was something to be proud of. What was there to be proud of? He hadn't done anything. He had been scooped off of the ground, force-fed through tubes, and dumped onto another man who would eventually see he was a burden, only good for one thing.

The clothes they gave him were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Grey sweatpants with an adjustable waist, a white cotton t-shirt so thin it was practically see-through, and a fresh pair of the hospital’s signature yellow grippy socks. He changed into them slowly, carefully, muscles still sore from underuse and strain. Everything felt too loose and too tight at the same time. Like his skin didn’t quite fit.

He hadn't looked in the mirror.

He didn't want to see himself.

A nurse came in to help pack the small plastic bag with his discharge forms. Inside were the printed instructions from the nutritionist: small, frequent meals every few hours; avoid high-fat or high-fiber foods at first; aim for protein-rich and calorie-dense options that wouldn’t overwhelm his body. Go slow. No caffeine yet. Drink water constantly. It was all printed out like it was simple. Like learning to eat properly again wouldn’t be terrifying.

The therapist’s information was clipped to the back: Zoom sessions twice a week when he felt ready, free of charge for now, and reassessed in a month. They’d underlined a sentence: “You are allowed to ask for help.”

He had read the sentence. Then he’d just stared at it.

Eventually, the nurse said it was time. He nodded once. No words.

It felt like every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ben’s face. It felt like every time he opened them, he saw Nick’s. The contrast was jarring and it made his chest hurt and his head spin.

They brought the wheelchair in without asking, which he was grateful for. Walking still took too much out of him. He settled into it, watching the way he barely filled up the space, bones still sharp under the sweatshirt. The nurse gave his shoulder a squeeze, and the chair began to move.

Down the halls. Past rooms. Past nurses’ stations, all giving him a small wave and warm but hesitant smile. Past people who looked worse than him and some who looked better.

Down to the lobby.

And then he saw Nick.

He was standing just inside the main doors, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, hair a bit wild like he’d been in the wind. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was scanning the entrance, gaze alert, and then—

Then he saw Charlie.

The smile he gave stretched the entire length of his face. He wondered what it felt like to be able to light up a room so easily. 

Charlie wanted to vanish into the floor.

He was filthy. Not in body — he’d been given showers, soap, a toothbrush. But in spirit. His skin still felt like it held memories. And he knew, deep down, he hadn’t earned any of this kindness. Not from a stranger. Not from someone like Nick.

But Nick came over anyway.

Said something soft to the nurse. Took the bag. Nodded.

And then they were outside.

The wind bit at Charlie’s skin, and he instinctively curled into himself, shivering as he scanned the car park.

Then he spotted Nick’s car.

It was nice. Sleek without being flashy — the kind of SUV that told you its owner had money but didn’t need you to know it. Clean. Comfortable-looking. Nothing like the rust-eaten cars Charlie had hitched rides in or crashed in the backseat of when someone needed something from him.

Nick opened the passenger door for him, and Charlie climbed in with effort, limbs protesting and trembling with the shift in motion.

And then he felt it.

The warmth in the seat. Gentle, steady heat rising into his back and legs.

Seat warmers.

Charlie’s eyes closed for a moment, his head tipping against the rest. It was the first thing that had felt good in so long he didn’t know what to do with it. The hospital bed had been stiff. The motel bed before that worse. This warmth was... Kind.

Nick climbed in on the driver’s side a moment later and adjusted the heat settings, fussing briefly before speaking. His tone was light, but a little shaky around the edges.

“So, um—my house is kind of in the middle of nowhere,” he started, hands on the wheel but eyes flicking to Charlie. “Like, really in the middle of nowhere. But it’s quiet, and the backyard’s nice, and I’ve got a little room set up for guests. I mean, it’s just got a double bed right now, but it’s comfortable. I think.”

Charlie didn’t look at him, but he listened.

Nick kept going.

“I just—uh—I hope you feel comfortable there. Or at least, like, safe. You don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to. You can just... rest. Or sleep. Or demand rights to the TV. I just want everything to be okay.”

Charlie didn’t respond, but he did reach to squeeze Nick's hand, just once before letting go and placing it back in his own lap.

And Nick glanced at him, then looked back at the road, and let the silence settle.

The seat warmers stayed on.

And Charlie sank into them like he didn’t care to hold himself up anymore.

Chapter Text

The driveway curled up to Nick’s house like a path in a storybook. Long, gravelly, edged with slumbering rose bushes and empty garden beds waiting for spring. The frost hadn’t lifted, and everything outside looked tired. Gray sky. Bare trees. Stillness.

But the house—

Charlie stared.

It was a two-story Victorian farmhouse, wide and welcoming, with pale cream siding and deep blue trim. The porch had white columns and a little wreath that simply said Hi. The steps were dusted with a very light snow, the light on. It looked expensive. It looked cozy. It looked like it shouldn’t belong to anyone Charlie associated with.

It looked like a home.

He didn’t deserve that.

Nick came around the car and crouched beside him.

“Hey. You want help getting out?”

Charlie hesitated.

Nick didn’t reach for him.

“Can I touch your arm?”

Charlie nodded, barely. Trying to compute the fact that Nick had... asked permission.

Nick’s touch was so light. Gentle. Like he was afraid Charlie might break. And he was right. He helped him up, slowly, carefully, asking if he was okay every time Charlie winced or shifted his weight. No one had ever done that before. Especially not Ben.

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and fabric softener. Clean floors. Unlit fireplace. Framed photos. Charlie floated through it all, silent, holding the bag of clothes Nick had carried from the hospital, still feeling like he shouldn't be allowed here.

Nick gave a short tour — downstairs bathroom, kitchen, laundry — his voice warm and casual. Charlie trying not to overwhelm.

“I figured you might wanna head upstairs,” Nick said finally. “Rest a bit, or shower. Whatever feels good.”

Charlie nodded once and followed Nick up the stairs.

The bedroom was at the end of the hall.

When Nick opened the door, Charlie stopped cold.

The room was beautiful. Not in the way hotel rooms or magazines were beautiful. Not showy. — but soft, real, intentional. The bed was made with navy and gray flannel sheets, the softest looking green blanket Charlie had ever seen, and pillows stacked gently. An antique lamp glowed golden on the nightstand. A desk sat beneath the window, a whiteboard and marker placed neatly beside a journal with stars on the cover. On the dresser, a fresh toothbrush, shampoo, body wash. Folded clothes. Pajama pants. A robe. Slippers. Socks. A couple of coffee mugs. A water bottle, already full.

It was so much.

Too much?

Nick’s voice was tentative.

“I just... wanted you to have stuff. I wasn’t sure what you'd like. But it’s yours. I mean, all of it is yours. You don’t have to use it. I just—yeah.”

Charlie blinked slowly. His brain was buzzing, numb, slow to catch up.

Ben had given him a room, too.

Ben had brought him things. Told him he’d earn them, in time.

Ben had taught him what that meant.

Charlie knew what this was.

He knew what he was supposed to do.

Before he could think too much about it, he dropped to his knees.

“Charlie?” Nick’s voice wobbled. “What are you—?”

Charlie reached for Nick's belt.

Nick backed up fast.

“Whoa—whoa—Charlie, no—”

Charlie’s hands shook. His head stayed down. His chest ached with shame but this was what was expected, wasn’t it?

“Charlie, stop. Please—hey, it’s okay. You don't have to—don’t do that.”

Charlie flinched hard at the tone shift. Even though it wasn’t angry, it still pierced through his fog and made him freeze.

And then the rejection hit him like a wave.

His throat closed.

His hands dropped.

He was such an idiot. He’d gotten it wrong. He should’ve known. He wasn’t good enough. He’d misread everything. Maybe Nick wanted to do be the one taking control. He was in this house, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He should have let Nick lead. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Tears blurred his vision. His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe. He curled in on himself, knees to the floor, fists clenching uselessly against the rug.

Panic set in.

He didn’t even know why he was panicking—just that his body told him everything was wrong.

Nick crouched again, not touching, voice softer now.

“It’s okay. Charlie. You’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe with me, yeah?”

Charlie couldn’t. Not properly. Not well.

But he tried.

In. Out. Shaky. Barely there.

Eventually it slowed.

The panic hadn't calmed. Not soothed. Just... dulled.

Nick exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.

“Charlie. It's okay, I promise.”

Charlie didn’t respond.

Nick stood awkwardly.

“I’ll be downstairs. You can shower if you want. Or just sleep. No pressure. Just... come find me when you’re ready, okay?”

Charlie gave the smallest nod.

Nick hesitated, then left.

The door shut with a soft click.

Charlie stared at the carpet.

His knees ached.

His chest ached worse.

He had no idea what he’d done wrong.

He felt stupid and ashamed and disgusting. He wanted to be good. He wanted to give something back. That’s what you did when someone took care of you. That’s what made it fair.

Ben had always made it fair. He taught him balance.

Now Nick was upset. Or uncomfortable. Or disappointed. Charlie didn’t know which. Maybe all of it.

He climbed onto the bed, stiffly. Curled under the covers, not even bothering to get change clothes.

He was so tired.

So cold.

So alone.

The house is too quiet.

What are you doing?

What the fuck are you doing?

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Nick didn’t ask for this. You offered.

You dropped like a dog trained to kneel. Like it’s all you’re good for.

Why would he want you? Look at you.

You’re disgusting.

You’re weak.

You're skin and bone and scars and shame.

You flinch when someone says your name.

You cry when you're alone.

You don’t speak.

You barely exist.

And now you've just—

God. You tried to—

He’s going to throw you out.

He’s going to tell you to leave.

He’s disgusted.

Because you are disgusting. You're not a person, you're a transaction. An obligation. A stray he took in.

And now you’ve made it weird.

Now you’ve ruined it. Just like always. Just like Ben said.

You're too much. Too broken. Too needy.

No one wants a mess like you unless they’re angry. Unless they want something in return. Unless they want to use you.

But Nick didn’t even take it. He stepped back. He looked horrified. He didn’t even want you.

You can't even do that right.

You can't even be wanted in the one way you understand.

What does Nick want from me? 

God...

You’re pathetic.

You’re nothing.

You’re going to lose this—whatever this was.

Because you offered something disgusting, because you are something disgusting, and now he's going to punish you.

It’s coming.

He buried his face in the pillow and cried soundlessly until his body shut down and sleep took him without asking.

Nick sat on the couch, legs stretched out toward the fire, his second mug of tea growing cold in his hands. The TV played the last few minutes of Thor: Ragnarok — bright lights, hammer crashes, some synth-heavy music — but he hadn’t absorbed a single frame.

His mind was miles away.

No, not miles. Just upstairs.

On Charlie.

He kept seeing it—over and over again in his head. Charlie on his knees. Eyes distant. Hands trembling. Moving with this practiced kind of emptiness that made Nick’s stomach twist.

It wasn’t just what Charlie had done. It was how automatic it had looked.

Like he thought that was what Nick wanted. Like it was expected.

Nick set the mug down a little too hard on the coffee table. His chest was tight with something he didn’t have a name for. A sick cocktail of rage, sadness, protectiveness, and guilt. Not guilt for anything he’d done—but guilt that someone, at some point, had done enough to Charlie to make him feel like kindness had to be repaid that way.

Nick rubbed his face, stared into the fire.

He couldn’t ask. Not now. Maybe not ever. Charlie hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the hospital. That silence didn’t feel temporary.

He didn’t want to scare him. Didn’t want to pry.

But fuck, he wanted to understand.

He just wanted Charlie to know he was safe. That he wasn’t in this house because he was desirable or some obligation. He was here because Nick had space. Because Charlie had nowhere else. Because Nick cared about his safety. And yeah, Nick was human. Charlie was beautiful. He’d be lying if he said he’d never noticed. But he didn’t want that from him. Certainly not now.

He stared blankly at the screen again, now a few minutes into Black Panther. He should turn it off. Or sleep. Or eat something. But none of it felt important.

The creak of footsteps on the stairs jolted him upright.

Charlie crept down the stairs like he thought each step might snap beneath him. His socks—now black, soft and fluffy—made no sound on the floorboards as he entered the living room. The fire flickered low now, mostly embers. The television droned on in the background, but Nick wasn’t watching it. He was sitting on the far end of the couch, his mug resting in his hands.

He turned his head and saw Charlie hovering near the couch.

Still pale and small in the oversized sweatshirt Nick had grabbed from Target—charcoal grey, with soft fleece lining—and a pair of new navy-blue joggers that hung off of his thin legs.

Nick offered a small smile, warm and soft.

“Hey.”

Charlie nodded once. His eyes didn’t meet Nick’s. Instead, he glanced toward the other end of the couch and sat down carefully, curling in on himself a little, like he was taking up too much space just by existing. He stayed near Nick’s feet, back rigid, hands clenched together in his lap.

He looked… embarrassed. Ashamed.

Nick slowly shifted upright, setting the mug down and leaning forward a bit, elbows on his knees, just enough to close the distance without crowding him.

“Charlie.”

The name was barely above a whisper.

Charlie flinched.

It was subtle but unmistakable. A shoulder jerk. A faint pull away. Like he was bracing.

Like he thought Nick might hit him.

Or maybe worse.

Nick’s breath caught. His heart cracked.

He stayed perfectly still.

“Can I…” His voice was gentle, careful. “Can I touch your shoulder?”

Charlie didn’t look at him. But after a moment, he nodded. Tiny. Hesitant.

Nick moved slowly, deliberately. He let his hand settle on Charlie’s shoulder—warm and grounding, not gripping, just there.

“I need you to know,” he said quietly, “I don’t expect anything from you. Not ever. Not for staying here, not for anything. You don’t owe me. You’re safe here. No expectations.”

Charlie’s shoulders trembled under his hand. His head dropped lower, and then he slowly looked up, eyes glassy and wet. He didn’t speak. But he nodded again.

Nick swallowed the ache in his throat.

“I don’t know everything that’s happened to you,” he added, his voice thicker now, “but I promise, I would never hurt you.”

That made something shift in Charlie’s face. A kind of disbelief and hope tangled together. He wiped at his face quickly, almost angrily, like the tears embarrassed him more than anything else.

Nick pulled his hand back slowly, giving him that space again.

After a few breaths passed between them, Nick glanced toward the kitchen.

“I think it’s time for that small meal,” he said gently. “Like the plan says.”

Charlie visibly tensed, and the pain in his expression deepened. His stomach had to be tying itself in knots, Nick knew. Hunger and dread dancing like old enemies. But after a long pause, Charlie nodded and stood.

Nick rose beside him, not too close.

And together, without a word, they walked to the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Nick whisked eggs in a ceramic bowl. The pan was already heating, a ripe avocado waiting to be sliced beside it. Something light but rich in protein for Charlie, like always. A bigger, messier plate for himself—he’d earned it after a long morning workout and a cold shower.

The house was quiet, the only sound the occasional clink of utensils or the low hum of the fridge. He liked these mornings—unrushed and still. They’d fallen into a rhythm this week. Predictable. Gentle.

Charlie would usually come downstairs somewhere between 8 and 9, wrapped in that too-big sweater Nick had picked up at Target and soft joggers he rolled at the ankle. He didn’t say anything—still hadn’t found his voice again—but he’d nod at Nick, maybe offer a tiny, polite smile before sitting across from him and eating whatever they’d picked the night before from the binder of nutritionist-approved meals.

Then he’d shower. Get dressed. Retreat to the quiet of his bedroom or sometimes sit on the back porch in layered blankets, watching the wind sweep dead leaves across the yard.

He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t make noise. He moved carefully, like he was scared to take up too much space.

Nick had gently reminded him—more than once—that he didn’t have to ask to sit somewhere or go outside or use the kettle. That for now, this was his home too. But Charlie always just looked confused, like the concept didn’t quite land. He nodded anyway.

He'd started using the whiteboard more. A few short messages—Morning, Thank you, May I sit on the back porch?—each one a little landmark Nick quietly celebrated. A few days ago, Charlie had written good song during a mellow lo-fi playlist over dinner, and Nick had nearly cried. He even caught him lightly tapping his fingers to the beat of the drums, but he stopped the moment he caught Nick watching, looking almost apologetic.

He hadn’t seen Miley in a week. She was off at some influencer retreat, yoga and canyons and sunset photos with other TikTok-famous friends. They’d texted, but Nick still hadn’t told her about Charlie staying with him. He didn’t want to hear her commentary. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she was back in a few days, and the clock was ticking.

Just as he plated the food, soft footsteps padded across the stairs. Right on schedule.

Charlie entered the kitchen slowly, nodding once before sliding into the usual chair. His movements were less stiff today, Nick noticed. Less like his body was full of glass.

“Morning,” Nick said, keeping it casual. “I was going for ‘brunch at a very mediocre hipster café’ vibes today. Egg whites and a suspiciously green avocado. You’re welcome.”

Charlie’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. He started eating quietly, eyes focused on the plate.

Nick leaned against the counter, sipping his own coffee, watching him.

“Looks like it might snow,” he said. “I hope it does. I love when the whole world goes quiet. Do you like snow?”

Charlie nodded, still chewing.

Nick brightened a little.

“Okay, so one year—maybe I was seven?—it snowed right before Christmas. My mum and my brother David took me out to build a snowman. But David insisted on giving it Wolverine claws made of icicles. It collapsed when he tried to ‘pose’ it, and I sobbed for a full hour. Mum took a picture of me holding the carrot like it was a funeral.” He chuckled at the memory. "David really liked making me cry... Only to them tease me for crying."

Charlie looked softer hearing it, his body just barely relaxing.

After a moment, he held up one finger and got up from the table.

Nick blinked, then smiled as he heard Charlie's footsteps go upstairs. He was getting the whiteboard.

A minute later, Charlie returned with it and scrawled:

"Why is your brother such a prick?"

Nick barked a laugh, delighted by both the question and the fact that Charlie had asked it. His first unprompted conversation.

“God, where to start?” He sipped his coffee. “Our parents split when I was six and David was ten. Our dad moved back to France after the divorce and we barely heard from him again. David was really angry. At everything. He didn’t let anyone get close, not even Mum. I was more clingy, more emotional. Sensitive.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “David hated that.”

Charlie’s eyebrows went up. He wiped the board and wrote:

"France??"

Nick chuckled.

“Yeah. My parents met when Mom studied abroad. They moved here for her college, then he stayed after graduation. But after the divorce, he went right back. Pretty much disappeared. Aside from a little guilt money here and there and the occasional late birthday card.”

Charlie nodded slowly, absorbing this.

Nick went on.

“Anyway, David always thought I was weak. And when I came out as bi, he made all kinds of comments. Biphobic nonsense. Told me I was confused. That I was doing it for attention. It sucked. Especially since I actually hate attention." He chuckled. "Which I know is ridiculous, being a professional athlete and all..."

Charlie’s eyebrows drew together, visibly unsettled.

Nick noticed. His smile faded slightly.

“Hey… do you have any siblings?”

Charlie hesitated. Then nodded, grabbing the whiteboard.

"A sister."

Nick smiled gently.

“Are you two close?”

A beat passed. Then Charlie wrote:

"Used to be."

Something in his posture folded in on itself. He got up quickly, writing one last thing before hurrying off:

"Thanks for breakfast."

Nick watched the empty doorway where he’d disappeared, his chest aching faintly.

Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed, the journal Nick had given him resting open in his lap. His pen moved in short, uncertain bursts—fragmented thoughts, half-finished sentences, ink pressed harder in places where he wasn’t sure if he was writing or trying to tear through the page.

I miss him.

I fucking hate him.

Why do I still miss hi

I wish I didn’t.

The words stared back at him, jagged and raw. He flipped the page. Earlier entries were no better.

This house is too clean. Too soft. Too warm.

Something is wrong.

Why am I here?

I don’t deserve it.

I keep waiting for the slap. Or the lock on the door. Or the screaming. Or the cold. Or the silence. Or Ben. 

Nick's not Ben.

Nick's not Ben.

Nick's not Ben.

He flipped another page, heart thudding.

Scrawled in shaky, panicked writing from the night before. Something be considered leaving on Nick's pillow:

If Ben comes:

Tell him I’m not here. Or tell him I ran. Or tell him I’m dead.

But if he finds me, don’t fight. Just let him do it.

He’ll kill me. He said so. Don’t get involved. You’ve already done too much.

You should’ve left me on the road.

Charlie stared at the words for a long time. Then shut the journal.

He sat there in silence, hands clenched tight in his lap, then leaned over and grabbed a loose piece of notepaper from the desk. He hadn’t written this one before—not this letter. Not to her.

He stared at the blank sheet for a long time, then slowly began to write in small, careful handwriting:

Tori,

You were right.

I know that’s not even close to enough. But you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry I screamed at you. I’m sorry I told you to leave me alone. I thought I was grown. I thought Ben loved me.

He did not.

He does not.

I was so angry when you told Mum and Dad. I thought you were trying to control me, trying to make me feel small. I didn’t want to go back home and be watched and monitored and treated like I was broken. But I was. I am.

Ben said I didn’t need anyone. That if I went with him, we could start a life and I could be safe and free. But he didn’t mean that. He wanted to own me. And I let him.

Charlie stopped writing. His throat burned, and his eyes stung, and the words kept breaking apart in his head before he could form them. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept going.

I don’t know if you ever looked for me. I don’t know if you’re angry or if you just think I’m dead. I would understand. Maybe I am dead.

You tried to help me. I didn’t want it.

I hope you’re okay. I miss you.

I’m… trying. Someone is helping me. His name is Nick. I don’t understand why he’s being so kind, but he is. He gave me this room. He makes me breakfast. He doesn’t ask for anything.

I don’t trust it. I don’t trust myself. I think I might trust him...

I think maybe I want to live again. But I don’t know how.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Charlie

He folded the letter once, twice, then tucked it into the back of his notebook where it wouldn’t be seen. A letter never meant to be sent. Just a whisper into the void.

Charlie stared around the room—warm, softly lit, too nice for him. He still flinched every time he dropped something or bumped into furniture. Every time Nick raised his voice even slightly. Not at him, usually just in excitement over something. Or on the phone with some unknown person. But nothing bad ever followed. No punishment. No anger. Just Nick, looking confused or worried or calm. Always calm.

He thought about the PC in the corner of the room. Nick had said he could use it for therapy when he was ready. But… maybe, just maybe, Nick would let him use it for something else too.

He wondered if Instagram still existed. If people still used it.

He hadn’t been online in over three years.

He wanted to see if Tori still had her old account.

If Elle, Tao, or Isaac had posted about him.

If they’d worried.

If they’d moved on.

If they’d even care.

Charlie pressed his forehead to his knees, arms wrapped around them, heart pounding with a familiar mix of longing and dread.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to be remembered. But God, he wanted to know.

There was a soft knock at Charlie’s bedroom door. He tensed, eyes flicking up from the journal still open in his lap, heart stuttering.

“Charlie?” Nick’s voice was quiet through the wood. “Sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say…” A pause. “If I said something earlier that upset you, I’m really sorry.”

Charlie didn’t move. His fingers hovered over the pen still resting between the notebook’s crease.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Nick said, a breath softer now. “I just… If there’s anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable, or anything you don’t want to talk about, or ever—just tell me. You’re safe here. I’ll listen.”

Safe. 

Safe.

Safe.

Charlie’s chest ached. Not the sharp kind of ache he was used to—the bruised kind, the kind that made it hard to breathe—but something gentler. Stranger. Unfamiliar.

He reached for the whiteboard slowly and scrawled two small words in his tight, careful handwriting.

"Thank you."

Charlie stood and opened the door just a little. Not much—just enough to see him.

Nick saw the message. And then, his whole face shifted—like someone had taken a breath after holding it for far too long. He smiled.

“Anytime,” he said, quiet. “Seriously. Anytime.”

He closed the door with a soft click.

Charlie stared at it for a long time. His eyes were dry, but there was still that pressure behind them. He touched the edge of the whiteboard, then curled back against the blanket, the pen still in his hand.

He’d smiled. Only barely. Something in his chest had lifted, against all odds. Maybe it was getting his thoughts out in the letter. Maybe it was Nick's continued words of affirmation.

He should’ve felt proud. But instead, his mind twisted the warmth into something sour.

Nick is bisexual.

The word echoed like a bell. He hadn’t meant to care. But when Nick mentioned it so casually earlier, so openly—Charlie’s stomach had twisted. He'd coped with Nick not wanting him to touch him by assuming Nick had turned him down because he was straight. He had built a neat little wall around that rejection.

But Nick wasn’t straight. He was bisexual. And proud.

Which meant...

He just didn’t want you.

Not even for that.

Not even for the one thing you're good for. 

No one like him could ever want you. 

You're just a charity case.

Charlie stared down at his knees, blinking. He could still remember the way Nick stepped back—hands up, gentle but firm, his voice all shock and concern.

Disgust.

That’s what it had to be.

No man refuses free head unless he’s repulsed.

That’s what Ben would have said. That’s what a hundred others had shown him. If you’re not even good enough to be used, what the hell are you?

Charlie curled in tighter, whiteboard pressed to his chest like a shield. His pen fell to the floor unnoticed.

It’s okay. Nick was too good. Too kind. Charlie didn’t belong in a house like this, with someone like him.

Maybe he could keep helping. Maybe he could keep cooking him breakfast and letting him sleep in a warm bed and giving him gentle looks that never crossed a line. But Charlie knew what he was.

He was the broken thing you drag in from the side of the road.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself not to feel anything at all.

Nick sat curled up on the couch, a soft grey throw blanket over his lap, a steaming mug of tea within reach and a half-finished ball of green yarn tucked beside him. The living room was aglow with the flicker of the fire he’d built earlier and the opening credits of Notting Hill danced across the television screen. His fingers worked automatically, looping and pulling yarn into neat little stitches.

He wasn’t really thinking about the movie — or even the stitches — as much as letting the gentle background noise fill the quiet that had settled over the house since breakfast.

Then, soft footsteps on the stairs.

He glanced up just in time to see Charlie, sleepy-eyed and rumpled from a nap, pad into the kitchen and open the fridge for a bottle of water. His oversized hoodie and pajama pants made him look smaller than usual, and the sight of him — upright, moving, here — filled Nick with a quiet warmth he didn’t dare name.

“Hey,” Nick said gently, trying not to spook him. “I just started a movie. Wanna join?”

Charlie hesitated, unscrewing the cap on his water, gaze flicking toward the TV and then back to Nick. Then, with a little shrug and the softest nod, he crossed the room and lowered himself slowly onto the opposite end of the couch.

Nick smiled and restarted the movie.

They sat in silence for a while, the room only filled with the familiar charm of Hugh Grant bumbling through awkward lines and Julia Roberts appearing in doorways with that quiet grace of hers. Charlie pulled the blanket around his shoulders and tucked his feet under himself, and Nick returned to his crocheting.

After about ten minutes, Charlie shifted slightly and picked up the whiteboard he’d left on the coffee table. He clicked the marker to life and scribbled something, then held it up.

"What are you making?"

Nick glanced down at the clump of yarn between his hands and smiled, “A hat. For you, actually. I figured you might want something warm for when it snows.”

Charlie's brows lifted with visible surprise.

“I know I could just buy one,” Nick added, “but… I really like crocheting. My grand-mère taught me when I used to visit her in France as a kid. It stuck with me. Helps when I’m feeling antsy. ADHD stuff.”

Charlie stared at him for a moment. Then looked at the hat again. Then down at his water bottle.

When he wrote again, it was slow. Uncertain. Like he was afraid of the words even as he let them out.

"I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me."

Nick’s breath caught. His hands stilled in the yarn.

He looked over at Charlie, who was staring resolutely at the bottle in his lap, shoulders curled like he was bracing for something. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the plastic.

Nick set the yarn aside.

“I’m being nice,” he said softly, “because you deserve kindness, Charlie. That’s it. Not because you’ve earned it or owe me anything or because I expect something back. Just because… you’re a person. And I can tell you’ve been hurt. And I don’t want to add to that.”

Charlie didn’t move. But his jaw twitched slightly, and Nick saw the shine of unshed tears forming fast.

“I’m not perfect,” Nick added, a little awkwardly. “I don’t always know what the right thing to say is, but I meant it when I said you’re safe here. And you don’t have to do anything to earn staying safe.”

Charlie still didn’t look at him. But he gave the smallest nod. Like he was absorbing the words one atom at a time.

They sat that way a little longer, and Nick let the silence return, only now it felt a little softer. A little less like a wall and more like a blanket.

Then, it gets to the surreal dinner party where they all compete over who has the saddest life. Charlie picked up the whiteboard again.

He held it up without warning.

"Nothing bonds the upper middle class like public displays of emotional constipation."

Nick burst out laughing. The kind of laughter that made his shoulders shake and the crochet hook slip out of his hand.

Charlie blinked at him, startled at first — and then, just slightly, something shifted in his face. A flicker of wonder. Like maybe he hadn’t realized he could still make someone laugh.

Nick wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, grinning at him.

“Okay, so there's a sense of humor in there.”

Charlie shrugged one shoulder, that same wry half-smile twitching at his mouth again. The first real echo of personality Nick had seen under all the trauma.

They went back to watching the film.

And though neither of them said another word, Nick quietly kept crocheting — and Charlie, for the first time in a very long time, felt like maybe he wasn’t just surviving.

Maybe he was starting again. 

Chapter Text

I can’t move. My arms are pulled above my head, the rope biting into my skin, burning my wrists. My legs are tied too—my ankles raw where the knots dig in. The mattress beneath me is cold and damp. It smells like mildew, metal, and something worse I can’t place— something sour.

There’s a shape in the shadows, blurry, like a smear on glass. Footsteps—slow, heavy, and measured.

“You really fucked up this week,” the voice hisses, low and so close. It’s familiar, but wrong.

I flinch before the hit lands. I don’t know where it hits—my cheek? My ribs? The pain is hot and sharp and confusing. Too many places at once.

“You think you’re better than me now?” Spit sprays my face, sticky and acidic, burning my skin. “Think you’re safe? Think anyone cares what happens to you?”

Another blow. Laughter. I try to scream, but there’s something in my mouth—cloth, maybe. I choke on it. My jaw aches from being forced open too long.

The voice croons, almost sweet.

“You can eat again when you’ve earned it. But you’re not even trying, are you?”

Fingers press on my face, smearing something wet down my neck. Not gentle. Never gentle.

I twist, beg with my eyes, but everything blurs in static and heat. My skin feels too tight. The room spins.

Then there’s a crunch—a bone breaking?

“Look what you make me do,” the voice says, sad now. Sad and furious and endlessly cruel. “I told you. You don’t get love. You get rules. You get what you’re worth. He's going to figure out what you are and he's going to be disgusted. You'll be back on the ditch where you belong.”

Everything warps, collapses inward.

I try to scream but it won't come out. 

Choked gargling noises die in my throat. 

Why won't any of it come out?!

I just want to scream I just want to scream please just let me scream!

The nightmare clung to him like wet sheets, and by the time Charlie jolted awake, he was already gagging.

His stomach twisted violently as he scrambled upright in bed, head spinning, skin soaked with sweat. There was no time to think, no time to breathe — he barely managed to lean over the side of the mattress before he started vomiting, hands bracing against the floor as bile splashed the hardwood.

The smell hit him a second later, sharp and acidic, mixing with panic and heat and the choking shame curling tight in his throat.

The door flew open.

“Charlie?”

Nick’s voice. Not angry. Not cold. Just surprised — worried.

Charlie couldn’t look at him. He folded inward, chest heaving, breath broken and shallow. His hands were sticky and shaking and he was sure he’d gotten some of it on the sheets, on his clothes, on himself.

Disgusting. So fucking disgusting.

He was disgusting.

Nick was kneeling beside him before Charlie could even think to flinch away.

“I’ve got you,” he said, low and gentle. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Charlie didn’t mean to move. Didn’t plan it. But his body just… leaned. It was all too much. The smell, the dream, the mess, the noise in his head. He pressed his forehead to Nick’s shoulder, trembling, and Nick—Nick didn’t push him away.

Nick wrapped an arm around his back. Warm. Steady. Slow. Charlie felt the shape of the hug more than anything — the absence of aggression, of pain, of pressure. Just a calm presence holding him like he wasn’t something to be repulsed by.

It was so foreign it almost hurt.

No hands grabbing. No harsh whispers in his ear. No bones cracking into walls or leather belts snapping. Just arms. Strong and careful. Holding him.

Charlie’s breath hitched again — not from panic this time, but something else. Something closer to grief. Or relief? Why did they feel like the same thing?

Then his eyes opened, and he saw it.

Vomit. On Nick’s sleeve. On his shirt. He’d leaned right into it.

Charlie recoiled instantly, panic spiking again. He pulled back like he’d been burned and scrambled up, heart slamming, vision blurring with a new wave of shame. He reached for the drawer, for a towel, anything. His hands shook so badly he could barely get it open.

Nick stood too, moving toward him—but not fast, not threatening.

“Charlie,” he said softly, voice careful.

Charlie shook his head. He needed to clean it. He needed to fix it. He couldn’t let this be what got him thrown out. Not when he was finally warm. Not when the food in the fridge wasn’t locked. Not when the bed was soft and the silence wasn’t dangerous.

Nick stepped between him and the mess, gently prying the towel from Charlie’s trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. I promise. You don’t need to clean this.”

Charlie’s breath came in shallow gasps. He stared at Nick like the words didn’t make sense.

“I’ll take care of it,” Nick said. “Can you—would you mind getting in the shower? I'll leave some clean clothes by the door. Just… take your time, okay? Please don’t worry about this.”

Charlie couldn’t nod. He just stood there, frozen, skin crawling with humiliation. The vomit was still on his clothes. He smelled awful.

But Nick wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t disgusted. Wasn’t storming out or demanding Charlie leave.

That part didn’t make sense.

Eventually, Charlie moved. Picked up the clothes with numb fingers and stepped into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, trying to breathe.

Nick had held him like he was someone worth holding.

It didn’t make sense. None of this did.

Somehow, that made it even harder to stop shaking.

When Charlie came back into the bedroom, wrapped in warm, clean clothes and still towel scrunching the ends of his damp hair, much longer than he ever preferred, he hesitated in the doorway.

The sheets on the bed were fresh. The floor was clean. The room no longer smelled like sick.

Nick had changed too — different hoodie, loose around his broad frame, sleeves pushed up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, something small in his hands, fingers fidgeting with it absently. The overhead light was off, only the glow from a bedside lamp lit the room, casting warm gold into the corners.

It was too dim for Charlie to see exactly what he was holding.

A paddle? A belt? Something sharper?

His chest tightened.

This was it. The calm before the storm. The tension before the words.

Punishment always came after the cleaning.

He braced himself as he stepped forward.

Nick looked up. His face softened instantly.

“Hey,” he said, smiling gently. “You look like the shower helped a bit.”

Charlie gave a slight nod. He felt better physically — the shaking had ebbed, the cold sweat replaced with warmth — but his head was still loud with static. Still unsure.

“Do you mind sitting with me for a sec?” Nick asked.

Charlie hesitated, then sat — not too close. A few inches of space between them, just in case.

Nick looked over.

“Did something you ate make you sick?” he asked carefully. “If so, we can call the nutritionist, change the plan. No pressure, just want to make sure you're feeling okay.”

Charlie shook his head slowly. No.

Nick gave a small nod, waiting. Then, “Do you want to talk about what it was?”

Charlie reached for the whiteboard on the bedside table and uncapped the marker. His handwriting was slow, uncertain:

"bad dream."

Nick sighed softly and nodded again, accepting it.

“Okay. That makes sense.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. Nick’s presence was warm, patient.

“I know you’re not ready to talk about everything,” he said after a moment. “And I get that you literally can’t talk right now. But if there’s ever anything you want to say, or write, or just to scream into a pillow... I’m here. I mean that. You can tell me anything. I’d never judge you.”

Charlie bit the inside of his cheek, his throat prickling.

He wouldn’t say that if he knew.

If he knew what I’ve done. What I’ve let happen. What I am.

He’d be disgusted.

But Charlie nodded anyway. He couldn’t let the ugly ruin this moment.

He forced a small smile and scribbled on the board again:

"Thank you for helping."

Nick’s smile was soft, something like relief behind it.

“It’s what I’m here for.”

He started to stand, then paused and glanced down at the thing in his hands like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“Oh. Before I forget…”

He held it out, and Charlie flinched slightly on instinct. Nick frowned.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you I just—" he held it out again, slower.

It was a plush deer — but not store-bought. Crocheted. Tiny and perfect, with button eyes and soft brown yarn, little white stitches making up the spots on its back. Delicate, intentionally lopsided, antlers. Carefully made hooves. The kind of thing that could only be made with ridiculous patience and a whole lot of care.

Charlie blinked, not sure he was seeing it right.

“I, um…” Nick scratched the back of his neck. “I made it for you. After that deer picture made you smile. I know it’s kind of silly — you’re a grown man and all — but… sometimes having something to hold at night helps. You know? With feeling safe. Or maybe it’ll help with the nightmares.”

Charlie didn’t mean to react the way he did. One second he was staring at it, trying to process how gentle and personal and ridiculously thoughtful the gesture was — and the next second he was clinging to Nick again, arms tight around him.

Nick didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He let himself be held, like it was natural.

Like it was normal.

Charlie buried his face against his chest and just breathed, letting himself feel it — the warmth, the quiet, the fact that this all wasn't forced on him, but offered.

He realized, too late, that he might be overstaying the hug. That he might be making it weird.

He pulled back quickly and gripped the crocheted deer instead, hugging it to his chest.

Nick smiled.

“Get some rest, yeah?”

Charlie nodded, curled onto the bed with the deer tucked close. He watched Nick leave, then turned his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Maybe he really is okay, Charlie thought.

Maybe… maybe we could actually be friends.

He barely remembered what that felt like.

But God, he missed it.

And for the first time in years, sleep found him quietly.

Charlie padded into the kitchen, soft socks barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. The morning light poured through the windows, soft and golden, and for the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t immediately feel like collapsing from the effort of just existing. His body still ached in quiet ways—some stiffness in his back, a hollowness he was learning to ignore—but it no longer felt like gravity was trying to rip him apart.

Almost two weeks. That’s how long he’d been here.

And this morning, something was different.

He didn’t feel broken. Just… slightly bent. A little lighter, maybe.

Nick stood by the stove, flipping something gently in a pan. The smell was warm, familiar—eggs. A bit of toast. Something light. He turned at the sound of Charlie’s footsteps, his face breaking into that same easy smile that Charlie still didn’t quite understand.

“There you are,” Nick said, like he was pleased to see him. “Feeling okay? We’ve got that check-up in about half an hour. I was about to knock and wake you. Think you’ll be ready?”

Charlie nodded. He reached automatically for the whiteboard… and blinked in frustration when he realized he’d left it upstairs. His shoulders tensed, unsure what to do with his hands now.

Nick seemed to notice.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, setting the spatula down and wiping his hands on a towel. “Actually—I was gonna ask if it’d be all right to show you something?”

Charlie tilted his head, curious.

“I looked up a few basic ASL signs last night,” Nick said. “Just in case it helps. Want me to show you?”

A pause. Then Charlie nodded again, slower this time, something like appreciation stirring in his chest.

Nick moved a little closer, holding his hands up between them.

“This one is ‘thank you’.” He demonstrated with a soft gesture from his lips outward. “And this is ‘more’.” He tapped his fingers together. “This one means ‘please’.” A circle against his chest. “And this one’s ‘why’.” He tilted his hand by his forehead. “Last one: ‘help’.” He mimed a fist lifted by a flat palm.

Charlie tried a couple.

“Thank you” was fine. “More” was a bit clumsy, and “help” he absolutely fumbled.

Nick laughed softly—not mean, not mocking.

“Can I—?” He gestured toward Charlie’s hand. “Touch you? Just to guide?”

Charlie hesitated only a second before nodding.

Nick stepped closer. His fingers were warm as they gently took Charlie’s and shifted them into place, adjusting the angle of his palm, the bend of his knuckle. It wasn’t much, just hands brushing against each other. But the contact sent a small, unexpected pulse through both of them—something electric and quiet and terrifyingly gentle.

Charlie looked up at him. For a second, their eyes held.

Then Nick let go, clearing his throat softly and stepping back.

“There,” he said, smiling again. “Got it.”

Charlie smiled back. Just a little. But it was real.

Nick went back to his cooking, and Charlie sat at the table, pressing one hand to the front pocket of his hoodie where the crocheted deer now lived when he wasn’t sleeping with it.

Nick was so thoughtful it hurt a little.

And Charlie didn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness.

But for now, he let it happen.

Just for today.

Nick sat in the corner of the clinic waiting room, one ankle resting over his knee, phone glowing in his hand. He glanced up at the frosted door Charlie had disappeared through, then back down at the screen. His thumb scrolled automatically through Instagram—clips from old games, a vacation selfie from Miley in some sunlit tropical spot, a handful of fan tags he didn’t have the energy to open right now.

He closed the app and switched to his email. One from his agent, Jackie, sat at the top:

Jackie M.

Subject: Press + Training Calendar - URGENT

“Hey! We need to lock in your schedule for April–June. Can you look at the proposed press dates and let me know if anything doesn’t work? Also, UNICEF wants to book you for a shoot mid-August.”

Nick skimmed the list, and typed back:

“Can we push the NBC thing to later in June instead? I should have a better idea of timing soon.”

He hit send, sighed, and opened up the team group chat. 237 unread messages.

🏈 THE BOYS 🐐

Sai: [sent a TikTok]

Otis: ok but why is that literally Christian

Christian: I am much more handsome

Levy: BRO WHO LET ME GET THAT WASTED LAST NIGHT

William: YOU did. You let YOU get that wasted. We aren't your keepers.

James: still can’t believe you tried to order “a sandwich of rum”

Mateo: we all let the team down

Alex: no man, we let YOU down. your pants. in the Uber.

Derek: and then out the window.

Harry: ok but let’s not act like that wasn’t the funniest shit I’ve ever seen

Sai: ngl it kind of was

Harry: also @NickN where you been? too famous now that you guys that magazine cover to mess around with the group chat?

Levy: ghosted us harder than my Tinder match smh

Otis: you alive bro??

Christian: pinging Nick like 👻👻👻

Harry: or is he just busy getting LAIDDDDDDD

Nick huffed a quiet laugh, thumbs moving as he replied:

Nick: sorry, just been busy spending time with a friend

Harry: ohhhhhh

“a friend” 👀

what’s her name then?? 👏👏👏

Derek: man literally has a girlfriend

Mateo: right?? Nick wouldn't do that to Miley 

Alex: so no death, just cheating?

Harry: CHILL she’s on vacation. man’s gotta stay busy

Nick clenched his jaw, exhaled through his nose, and typed:

Nick: it’s not like that. just a friend staying with me. relax.

The little gray typing bubbles popped up right away, but before he could see whatever chaos was about to unfold, a nurse stepped into the waiting room with a clipboard.

“Nick Nelson?”

He stood up right away, locking his phone and tucking it into his hoodie pocket.

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans as he followed her down the hall.

The drive back was quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Nick kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting idly on his thigh. His thoughts were too loud for music. The nurse's voice still echoed in his head, going over Charlie’s progress.

"He's responding well. No signs of refeeding complications now that we're past the danger window. You can start slightly larger portions, just small increases every few days. His body is stable."

Nick had nodded, professional and calm, but now—sitting behind the wheel, the late morning sun pouring across the dashboard—he let himself feel it.

Pride.

Charlie had made it almost two weeks. Eating, sleeping, even showing a few glimpses of life again. That crooked half-smile when Nick gave him the deer—Nick would hold onto that forever.

Still, a quiet ache tugged at him.

The silence.

He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to hear Charlie’s voice until he caught himself imagining it. Would it be soft? Low? Raspy? He only had that one, horrible night to go off of—those broken, manic laughs echoing over the gravel as Charlie had bled and shook and haired for air on the roadside.

Nick swallowed hard. That wasn’t the version of Charlie he wanted burned into his brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie in the passenger seat, arms tucked tight to his chest, staring out the window. Thoughtful. Distant.

Nick wished he knew what was going on in that head.

What he was feeling.

What he needed.

They turned off the narrow highway and onto the winding gravel road that led through the woods. Trees stretched tall and green around them, flickering sunlight across the hood of the car. Charlie straightened a little, like the stretch of twisting road and dense trees had become familiar. A kind of tether.

But as they rounded the last bend and turned into the driveway, the house came into view, and Charlie's entire posture changed—tensed, bristled.

Nick followed his gaze.

Shit.

Miley’s car.

His stomach dropped.

She wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.

Charlie looked stricken. His shoulders hunched, his breathing faster. His hand gripped the door handle like he might bolt.

Nick immediately shifted the car into park and reached across the center console without thinking, voice low and calm.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay. It’s just my girlfriend. Miley.”

Charlie froze. Then turned to look at him slowly, brows drawn together in confusion.

Oh.

Nick blinked.

He had only ever mentioned Miley once to Charlie. Vaguely when discussing how lonely he gets sometimes at home. Charlie was still on pain meds at that point and Nick wondered if he even remembered she existed.

That felt… weird.

Not wrong, exactly. Just strange. Like something he was now very aware he’d chosen not to talk about.

Nick offered a quick, apologetic smile.

“I—sorry. I should’ve told you. She’s been gone the past couple weeks on a trip with some friends. I didn’t know she was getting back today.”

Charlie's expression flickered between confusion and panic again, eyes darting to the unfamiliar car.

“Seriously,” Nick added softly. “She’s safe. She’s not gonna hurt you. I promise.”

Charlie still looked wary, but he didn’t unbuckle or run. That felt like something.

Nick took a breath.

“Why don’t you go ahead inside? I’ll talk to her, okay? Just get comfortable. You don’t have to deal with anything.”

Charlie hesitated.

Then he nodded once, and slipped out of the car.

Nick stood in the gravel path out front, arms folded against the cold, the damp air of the woods thick with tension. Miley’s car door slammed behind her, and she stormed across the frosted grass in her high-heeled boots, coat draped fashionably over her shoulders.

"Uh, who's that?"

Nick shushed her, gently.

"That's... Charlie."

She lifted an eyebrow. 

"The one from that night—the guy I picked up. He's... He's going to be starting with me a while."

“You’re seriously living with a homeless crackhead and didn’t think to mention it?” she snapped, gesturing sharply back toward the house. “Jesus, Nick.”

He held his ground, voice low and even.

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

Miley rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry, did I miss the part where we’re not calling it what it is? You picked him up off the road. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to talk about him like he’s a person. Because he is a person,” Nick said, jaw clenched. “He’s been through hell, Miley. He just needs some support, not judgment.”

She scoffed, hugging her arms tight around herself.

“Okay, whatever. He's a person." The mocking in her voice was clear and it made Nick even more tense. "Can we go inside and discuss this? It’s freezing out here.”

Nick shook his head.

“No. He doesn’t need to hear this. Us yelling—it could be triggering.”

She blinked at him like she didn’t understand the sentence.

“Triggering? Nick, he’s a grown-ass man. He can deal with an argument.”

“Miley,” Nick said quietly. “You’re being really insensitive right now.”

She paused, then softened her voice, stepping a little closer.

“I’m not trying to be. I’m just—worried about you. You let some stranger into your house, Nick. You don’t even know him.”

“I do know him,” he said. “And he’s not a stranger. He’s not dangerous.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, exasperated. “You think he’s telling you the truth? You think it’s some big coincidence you just happened to be there when he was overdosing or whatever? Come on. What if he’s playing the long con? Waiting to rob you. Or worse.”

Nick blinked at her, then raised his eyebrows.

“Well, if I wind up murdered in my sleep, you can say ‘I told you so,’” he said dryly.

She didn’t laugh.

He sighed and softened his tone.

“I promise you, Miley. He’s not trying to scam me. He’s sick. He needs help. That’s all.”

She stared at him for a beat, annoyed but recalculating.

“Whatever. Are we still going out tonight or not?”

Nick looked at her, confused for a moment, then remembered. Dinner plans. Tomorrow night. Except now she was standing here, back early from her trip with friends and already pressing.

“I thought that was tomorrow, when you said you were getting back,” he said gently.

“Well, I am back,” she said, all forced sweetness. “So we can just go tonight instead.”

He hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the house.

“I’m sorry. I… I really can’t tonight. Things are still settling. He’s not ready to be alone for long without warning. We had a plan for tomorrow night.”

Miley’s jaw twitched.

“Okay,” she said, clearly not okay. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. You’ll text me?”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I promise. We’ll figure something out.”

She gave him a tight smile and turned back toward her car without another word. He stood still as she drove off, exhaust curling behind her tires.

When the sound of her engine faded down the dirt road, Nick finally exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face.

Behind him, the house sat quiet. Warm light spilled from the kitchen window. Somewhere inside, Charlie was probably curled up comfortably with that little crocheted deer. And that comfort felt so important to protect.

Charlie watched through the upstairs window, the glass cold against his fingers as he leaned just close enough to see the shape of Nick’s broad shoulders, tense beneath his hoodie. Miley stood a few feet away, all sharp movements and biting words he couldn’t hear but could easily imagine. He didn’t need the volume to know what this was about.

Him.

His stomach knotted. A bitter coil of guilt burned its way up his throat. He hadn’t asked to stay. Hadn’t begged. But he’d accepted it. He was trouble, and he knew it. It didn’t matter how polite he tried to be, how careful and quiet. He was still the stranger in the guest room, still the guy who threw up in the middle of the night and made Nick miss plans with his girlfriend. He wasn’t worth this.

Charlie stepped back from the window when he saw Miley stomp to her car. Her door slammed. The engine revved. And just like that, she was gone.

Downstairs, he heard the front door open. Close. Heard Nick walking around in the kitchen, opening cupboards, the kettle’s whistle rising sharp and shrill. He didn’t know how long he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall with the little crocheted deer hugged to his chest, when he heard the slow creak of the stairs and a knock.

Nick stepped in holding two mugs. His voice was soft.

“Hey. I made tea. Thought maybe you’d want one?”

Charlie nodded and reached for the one held out to him, warm and earthy in his hands. He set it down on the bedside table before giving Nick a small “thank you” in sign.

Nick’s smile lit up his whole face.

“You remembered. That makes me happy.”

Charlie gave the tiniest shrug, something like shy pride ghosting across his expression. Then he reached for the whiteboard and uncapped the marker.

"I'm sorry."

Nick read it and laughed gently, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Man, I was really hoping we could dodge that one. Was trying to delay teaching you the ‘S-word’ in sign. Might have to ban it entirely.”

Charlie’s mouth twitched at that — not quite a smile, but close. Then he tipped his head toward the window.

Nick followed the gesture and sighed, sitting down on the ottoman across from the bed.

“You don’t need to apologize for that. It’s not your fault, Charlie. Miley… she just doesn’t know you. And she worries, but it comes out wrong. Loud.”

Charlie gave him a skeptical look, but didn’t argue.

After a pause, Nick looked over and said quietly, “Can I tell you something? If I do, will you keep it between us?”

Charlie gave him a look, like 'Really?' He gestured at his mouth, as if to say: You think I’m gonna tell anyone?

Nick let out another breath of laughter, soft and real.

“Fair,” he murmured. “Very fair.”

Charlie smirked. Just a little. Just for a second.

Nick took a breath, rolling the mug between his hands.

“I don’t know if things with Miley are really working anymore. I'm not sure they have been for a while."

Charlie’s expression shifted, more serious. He nodded once to show he was listening.

“We’ve been together a few years,” Nick continued, voice quiet, “but… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like she’s more into the idea of dating me than actually into me, as a person. Like—because I play professionally, have a following, do interviews—she gets attention when we’re together. More followers. More likes.”

He winced.

“I feel like a dick even saying that out loud. But she’s always trying to polish me up. Fix little things. The way I talk. The way I dress. She’s always nudging me to look more ‘put together,’ to say the right things when she’s filming content or whatever. Sometimes I don’t even know if she actually likes who I am.”

He paused, fingers tightening around the mug.

“She doesn’t know I’m bi. Never told her. I guess… I don’t really know how she’d react.” A weak smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “She doesn’t know I like baking. Or that I crochet. I just—I hide things around her. Trying to look more 'masculine', I guess. And I know that’s probably a sign, right? That it’s not a great relationship. But sometimes she makes me feel like I matter. Like I’m important. Other times, it’s like I’m failing some test I didn’t even know I was taking.”

Nick looked up, blinking back whatever emotion was threatening to surface.

“Anyway. That’s probably more than you needed to hear.”

Charlie sat up straighter, setting his tea down and hugging the deer close. He caught Nick’s eyes and gave him the warmest look he could manage — not pitying, but real. Understanding. Safe. Then he put a hand, softly, in Nick's bicep.

Nick smiled softly.

“Thanks for listening, Charlie.”

He stood, nodding toward the door.

“I’ll give you a bit of space. But join me downstairs whenever you’re ready, yeah?”

Charlie nodded. As the door clicked shut, he let himself exhale. The deer was tucked under his chin, the tea still warm, and something strange curled in his chest like a quiet ember.

Nick had just been so vulnerable.

And it felt like the beginning of something real.

Maybe Nick really did like him. Not just in spite of the mess, but through it.

And that thought stayed with him as he curled up for his nap.

Chapter Text

Nick adjusted the collar of his dark purple button-down as he pulled into the restaurant’s valet lane. Purple, chosen to match the 'transitioning from winter to Valentine's theme' of Miley's current insta grid. The place had moody lighting, white linen tablecloths, and an ambient hum of overpriced wine glasses clinking. Miley had insisted on it — “Do you know how many followers Kenzie Holt got from just posting a mirror selfie in their bathroom? We’re going.”

Nick had suggested staying in. He’d offered to cook — something warm and homemade. Something personal. But Miley had wrinkled her nose at the idea of sharing space with Charlie.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said, “but I don’t feel safe. You know?"

And Nick did get it. Sort of. He wasn’t going to argue that women had to be careful. But Charlie? Charlie was smaller than Miley. And even if Charlie did try something — which he wouldn’t — Nick could handle it. Still, he hadn’t pushed. He’d kissed her cheek, told Charlie quietly that he’d be safe, that the locks were solid, they had deadbolts, and reminded him again how to set the alarm.

Now, across the table, Miley was showing him a reel from her trip.

“We snuck onto a private beach,” she said, her glossy nails tapping the screen. “And then did, like, a whole Barbie-themed beach shoot. I’m gonna post it later with a dumb caption like 'life in plastic’ or whatever, but it actually turned out so cute.”

Nick smiled.

“It looks amazing. Did you take that one?”

She nodded, flipping to a picture of her and her best friend in big sunglasses and sheer scarves.

“We had the best time. The villa was a little cramped but had such good lighting.”

Nick nodded again.

“I’m glad. You deserve a fun trip.” He sipped his water and tried to tell her about his mom’s pug — Henry — who had gotten stuck under the couch again, but halfway through the story, Miley was tuned out and halfway into a series of selfies.

He watched her angle her chin, tilt her phone, swipe through filters.

Still, for a while, the dinner wasn’t bad. They laughed. They shared a plate of fancy gnocchi that cost more than a week’s groceries. Nick relaxed a little, remembering what it used to feel like when they were new — when she giggled at his bad puns and he loved how confident she was.

But then the waitress came back — a tired-looking woman in her forties with a warm smile — and set down their desserts.

“Here’s the flourless chocolate cake,” she said. “And the citrus tart.”

Miley barely looked up.

“Oh, finally. Took you long enough.”

Nick glanced up, frowning. The waitress offered a polite smile and walked away, and Miley leaned toward him.

“You’d think with these prices they could train their staff not to move like turtles. What’s the point of claiming five-dollar-sign service if they don’t act like it?”

Nick set down his fork.

“Why do you always do that?”

She blinked.

“Do what?”

“Talk down about people. The waitress is probably exhausted.”

Miley rolled her eyes.

“God, Nick. It was a joke. Get a sense of humor.”

Nick didn’t say anything else. When the check came, he slid in his card and quietly left a tip large enough to offset her comment — and then some.

Miley didn’t notice. She was already adjusting her top in the dim reflection of her dessert spoon, readying for the bathroom selfie she’d come here to get.

The cursor blinked in the username field, patient and silent. Charlie sat at Nick’s desktop, the soft whir of the PC’s fans humming against the quiet. He stared at the login screen, palms sweaty on the keyboard, and told himself again that it wasn’t a big deal. Just a stupid app. Just some pictures. Just…

A whole past life staring back at him.

He typed in his handle. —@Charlie__spr1— Then his password — Benz4Ever427!— Fuck. His hands shook so badly he had to retype it twice.

Click. Logged in.

The wave hit him instantly.

Notifications flooded the screen. DMs. Likes. Tagged photos. Posts he hadn’t seen — hundreds of them. His screen name lit up in the corners of group shots, protest signs, holiday parties, film nights. A few were blunt text posts: “Has anyone seen Charlie Spring?” The oldest ones were panicked. The newer ones were quieter, but still there. Still waiting.

He felt cold.

It had been almost three years.

Charlie scrolled back to his last post. It was a grainy, late-night photo in Tao’s dorm. He and Isaac were on the floor, a pillow fort behind them. Charlie had his head on Isaac’s shoulder and his tongue sticking out; Isaac looked mid-laugh. They looked so alive. So dumb and messy and normal.

Charlie blinked. He didn’t even recognize that version of himself.

When had he stopped being that? That boy who went to protests with hand-painted signs. Who screamed about women’s rights and trans rights and marched until his legs ached and cheered until he was hoarse. That kid who used to be loud, unfiltered, who didn’t second-guess the size of his voice.

Now he didn't even have one.

He swallowed thickly and kept scrolling.

Tao and Elle were engaged.

His chest clenched, a strange twist of happiness and loss.

There was a photo of Elle standing next to one of her paintings in a gallery. She looked so proud. So herself. And then Isaac — sweet, quiet Isaac — sitting at a picnic table with James, a blurry book in his hand while James did bunny ears behind him. His heart ached at the sight.

Then—

Tori.

She’d posted a photo at some cozy restaurant, a plate of fries and milkshake in front of her. She was holding Michael’s hand over the table. Her caption read:

“Month five. Four to go. Give me all the vinegar and none of the judgment.”

His breath caught.

Tori. Pregnant? Oh my God.

His sister was having a baby.

He barely had time to feel it all before a notification appeared at the top of the screen.

New message from Elle Argent

“Charlie?”

She’d seen that he was online.

His pulse jumped. He stared at the message preview like it might explode.

He wanted to answer. He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his whole body went tight. That same spiral of panic, cold and fast, wrapped around his ribs. He clicked the browser shut, hands shaking, and stood up too quickly.

Then, without turning off the computer, he climbed back into bed.

He curled under the covers — Nick’s thick comforter pulled all the way up over his head — and tried to breathe. The screen’s glow was gone. The past was gone. The noise in his head wasn’t gone.

He’d meant to reconnect.

But it was too much. Too soon. 

What did they all think of him? He'd disappeared one day after a fight with Tori, not even caring that they were going to worry about him. 

They'd tried to protect him. Tried to get him to see what they saw. But he refused. He'd been too stubborn. Too gullible. Too broken. 

They probably hated him for putting them through what he has. 

Maybe it's better for them to think he's dead. At least that way, they never have to deal with him causing them nothing but stress ever again.

He'd meant to shower, after his exploration into the past. Instead, he drifted off, fingers still curled against his chest, the stuffed deer Nick crocheted tucked safely in the crook of his arm.

Charlie woke with a jolt.

The sound of the front door opening echoed through the dark house like a gunshot in his chest. He froze, breath shallow, body stiff and cold beneath the covers. He listened. A step. Another. Footsteps creaking up the stairs.

No.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He was half asleep, tangled in sweat and shadows and memory, and all logic fled. The part of his brain that knew it was probably just Nick — home from his date — couldn’t override the sheer, animal panic that spread through him like fire.

It's Ben.

It has to be Ben.

He’s found me.

He knew I was alone.

Maybe he's just been lying in wait this entire time.

He's coming upstairs.

He's going to drag me out of this soft, safe room and back to the filthy motel.

Back to punish me.

Back to finish what he started.

Charlie curled tighter, shivering violently beneath the comforter, trying to disappear. His breath was ragged, hands fisted in the blankets, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

Then paused.

A shadow fell across the sliver of light under the door.

Then, softly—

“Char?”

Nick’s voice.

Not Ben’s.

Nick.

Charlie’s breath hitched. The panic didn’t vanish, but it staggered — faltered. He scrambled out of bed and stumbled to the door, yanking it open.

And then he was in Nick’s arms.

Warm. 

Calm.

Safe. 

Warm. 

Calm.

Safe.

Nick flinched, startled, but wrapped his arms around him instinctively, soft and solid and real. Charlie pressed his face to Nick’s shoulder, still trembling.

“Hey,” Nick said gently, hand rubbing Charlie’s back. “You okay?”

Charlie nodded against him.

“You sure?”

Charlie pulled back, not noticing until that moment that he cheeks were wet and so was Nick's shoulder. He reached for the whiteboard on the desk. Quickly, he scrawled:

“Promise. Just glad to see you.”

Nick’s whole face softened.

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes kind.

Charlie nodded again.

There was a pause. Then Charlie lifted the pen again. He held the bored up a bit more sheepishly.

“How was your date?”

Nick blinked — then laughed a little. It was nervous and a bit pained.

“Uhh. Complicated.”

Charlie tilted his head slightly, raising a brow.

Nick chuckled and ran a hand through his hair.

“Wanna come downstairs for a bit? We could have a snack. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Charlie hesitated only a second, then nodded.

“…and like, she’s mostly fine,” Nick was saying, his voice a low murmur as he peeled the corner of a granola bar wrapper, half-forgotten in his hand. “But I don’t think she even realizes how rude she comes across sometimes. Like it’s just… automatic.”

Charlie sat across from him on the couch, curled into the corner like he was trying to disappear into the cushions. The oversized sweatshirt Nick had loaned him made him look even smaller. His knees were pulled up under the blanket, the ever-present whiteboard resting in his lap.

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I don’t know. I think she means well. She just… grew up really differently, y’know? Private schools. A summer home. Fancy vacations. She’s never had to think about whether someone else could afford the same meal or outfit or whatever. And she doesn’t say things to be cruel. She just… says them. But she's not like... A bad person.”

Charlie’s marker squeaked gently as he wrote. Then he turned the board toward Nick.

“But is she a good person?”

Nick blinked. The question wasn’t rude or accusing. It was just honest. But it landed like a stone in water, rippling outward.

He looked at the board for a long time before answering, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I think so?” he said, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it. “I mean… I used to think that without hesitation. We’ve been together for a while. But sometimes it feels like…” He paused. “Like she’s more interested in the version of me that shows up in pictures than the one who leaves dishes in the sink and crochets at night when he can’t sleep. And, I'm not sure anymore if she knows how to think of who anyone is outside of their relation to her. But, I guess that's what happens when you turn your entire personality and life into a brand.”

He gave a little laugh. It came out more bitter than he meant it to. Charlie didn’t smile either. He just nodded.

Nick cleared his throat.

“Anyway. What about you? How was your solo night?”

Charlie lifted a shoulder. A little shrug. His eyes darted away, and the whiteboard stayed still in his lap.

Nick noticed the hesitation but didn’t push. He could ask later—if Charlie wanted to share, he would.

Then his phone buzzed against the table.

He looked down at the screen and sighed.

“Sorry—just a sec. It’s my agent.”

He answered quickly.

“Hey Liz, what’s up?”

The voice on the other end was quick, professional, with the sharp edge of urgency.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay. I can do tomorrow morning. What time? …Got it. 9:30. Zoom, right? I’ll be there. Thanks.”

He hung up and set the phone down with a sigh.

Charlie had already picked up the whiteboard. He scrawled something and held it up.

“You’re kind of a big deal, huh?”

Nick huffed a laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

“I guess? Quarterback of the Stags. Captain of the dream team. Local boy does good. Just did a cover for Grit magazine.” He gave a mock-bow. “You may now request autographs.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows like well damn, feigning wide-eyed admiration as he leaned back dramatically.

Nick chuckled.

“Don’t act so impressed. You’ve literally seen me spill coffee on myself twice this week, and rewash the same forgotten load of laundry three times.”

Charlie smirked—just the barest ghost of one—but it was real.

Nick was about to say something else when he caught movement outside, just past the window.

His expression lit up instantly.

“Oh—Charlie. Look.”

Charlie sat up straighter and turned toward the living room’s huge window. The moonlight poured in like silver milk.

And there, at the edge of the grass, stood the deer.

The same little family—four of them. Two adults, two smaller ones, hooves dark and delicate in the frost-dusted grass. They were closer than they’d ever come before. Maybe ten feet from the glass. Maybe less.

One of the fawns twitched an ear. The mother lifted her head and looked directly at the house, as if she knew.

Charlie stared, unmoving.

The glow from the moon made their coats shimmer, like pale stars had settled onto their fur. They looked like ghosts. Or angels. Or something in between.

Nick didn’t look away from Charlie.

And then—

Charlie’s face softened. His lips curved. His eyes lit up just a little, something warm flickering in their depths.

He smiled.

Nick’s breath hitched.

Dimples.

Charlie didn’t seem to realize at first. But then something in Nick’s expression must have tipped him off, because his eyes darted over and caught the way Nick was looking at him—like he’d just watched the sun rise for the first time.

“You’re smiling,” Nick said, voice barely above a whisper.

Charlie blinked and looked down fast, the smile slipping away as quickly as it came, replaced by pink creeping up his cheeks. But it had been there. Nick had seen it.

Charlie pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders and glanced sideways, maybe embarrassed.

Nick didn’t push. He just sat back with a little exhale and looked back out at the deer, his chest tight with something that felt warm, a little sad, and more than a little fluttery.

Outside, the smallest deer turned, stepped closer.

And inside, in the quiet hush of the living room, something in both of them continued to thaw.

Chapter Text

The next couple of weeks passed in this strange, domestic rhythm—simple, quiet, and… pleasant.

Nick found himself slipping into a routine he hadn't even realized he wanted. Mornings started with a protein shake. Then came his morning workout in his basement gym, and a quick shower, before starting breakfast for himself and his house guest. Roommate? That morning was oatmeal, sweetened with honey a side of buttered toast. For himself, coffee, sweetened with French vanilla creamer. For Charlie, ginger tea. Good for digestion. It was just about half way through making breakfast that he would hear the low creak of floorboards as Charlie moved quietly around the upstairs hallway to the bathroom. He was walking more now—steadier, freer, more confident. He didn’t flinch every time he entered a new room or check over his shoulder every few seconds. That alone felt like a miracle.

Nick noticed the little things first. Like how Charlie started grabbing his own snacks when he was hungry—small things, sure, but he did it without hesitation now. Granola bars. Crackers. A banana once, which Nick had watched with baffled awe because the first week, Charlie had looked at the fruit bowl like it might bite him.

And meals were easier, too. The nurse had officially cleared him for medium-sized portions—actual real meals that didn’t need to be weighed or dissected for balance every bite. Nick still took care with how he served them, careful to keep textures soft and portions gentle, but watching Charlie eat with less tension in his shoulders made him want to hug the world.

They were even getting close to reintroducing sugar.

That one, Nick was secretly counting down the days to. He hadn’t baked once since Charlie arrived—not even his comfort muffins—and his fingers were itching to dig into some flour and butter again. Maybe something cozy and classic. Maybe something ridiculous and fun, like glittery cake pops. He didn’t care what it was. He just wanted to bake something with Charlie. Wanted to see what Charlie’s face would look like tasting something sweet and warm again.

In the afternoons, they kept things low-key. Movies, mostly. Charlie always curled into the far end of the couch with a blanket over his legs and a mug between his hands, eyes flicking toward the screen like he was studying it instead of enjoying it. But Nick could tell he was enjoying it—especially when it was something funny.

They ended up playing Mario Kart one rainy Saturday. And then again the next day. And again the day after that.

Charlie destroyed him.

Like, genuinely wrecked him.

Every. Single. Race.

Nick had played this game since he was eight and had never in his life been taken out by a blue shell three times in a row by a guy who acted like the tv was a novelty item.

But God, the way Charlie’s eyes would spark and the tiniest smirk would tug at the corner of his mouth when he won—it made losing feel like winning. Nick would tease and dramatically clutch his controller in defeat, and Charlie would roll his eyes and almost laugh. Sometimes he even did—a quiet puff of sound like something escaping before he could stop it.

And once or twice… he smiled.

Not a fake one. Not a strained polite curve of the mouth. But a real one. Always fleeting. But Nick saw it.

And he felt it too.

Something in the air had shifted. The house didn’t feel like a halfway point anymore. It felt… lived in. Charlie’s presence wasn’t just tolerated, like he seemed determined to think—it was enjoyed. It felt right. Woven into the quiet of Nick’s days like a thread he didn’t want to pull out.

Sometimes Nick would catch himself humming while doing the dishes, thinking about what kind of dinner might feel good for Charlie that night, or wondering if he could sneak a laugh out of him again with some over-the-top game commentary.

It was weird.

And easy.

And kind of lovely.

The rain hadn’t let up all day. It was the kind that came down in thick, relentless sheets—rattling against the windows, soaking the world in gray. Charlie had curled up on the oversized armchair in Nick’s living room, his legs tucked beneath him, a blanket drawn tight over his lap. The lamp beside him cast a soft golden hue over the pages of Brideshead Revisited, the familiar prose pulling at something quiet and nostalgic in his chest.

He’d been stunned to find the book on Nick’s shelf the day before. Of all things. It wasn’t a novel most people casually owned—it was one of his comfort books. One he used to read in his university dorm, perched on the window ledge with a cigarette and too many feelings for one boy with a wounded heart to sort through. Reading it again now felt like gently shaking hands with his old self. The version of him that existed before—

The thought was interrupted by a dull thud from the basement. Charlie knew what it was—Nick working out. Again. He could practically hear the clinking of weights beneath the floorboards. It had been happening a lot lately. Nick claimed it helped clear his head, and Charlie didn’t doubt it. But—

He turned another page and sighed.

Why do his arms have to look like that?

It was rude. The occasional glimpse of Nick in a tank top was enough to turn Charlie’s brain to smoke. He tried to focus on the paragraph in front of him, on the slow ache of Sebastian and Charles, but then—

The lights went out.

Just like that, the warm lamp beside him blinked to black. The heater went silent. The hum of the fridge died. A deeper darkness settled in—complete and suffocating. Thunder rumbled somewhere close, loud enough to make the window shudder.

Charlie’s body froze. His breath caught. His skin felt... Wrong.

The book slipped from his lap.

It’s just the storm, he told himself. Just a power outage.

But it didn’t matter.

Because in his mind, he was suddenly back in that goddamn motel room. The stink of mildew. The thin mattress with the cigarette burn on the left corner. The sound of the lock sliding into place as Ben walked away, laughing under his breath, saying something like, “Maybe a few days in the dark’ll remind you what I give to you.”

The cold. The hunger. The stillness.

No light, no heat, no one.

Alone.

Forever.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

“Charlie?”

It was far away.

“Hey—Char, can you hear me?”

Something warm touched his hand and he flinched. His eyes opened without realizing they’d been closed. And there was Nick—kneeling in front of him, lit only by the flashlight from his phone, the edges of his expression soft with concern.

“Hey,” Nick said again, his voice quieter now. “You okay?”

Charlie made a noise in his throat and then launched forward, burying his face in Nick’s shoulder, arms wrapping tight around him in the way that came unsettling natural these days. He felt Nick melt a little—and then a warm hand settled gently on his back, stroking upward in slow, grounding lines.

“Scared you, huh?” Nick murmured.

Charlie nodded, still shaking.

“It’s okay. It’s just the storm. The power goes out sometimes up here, but we’ve got backups.”

Charlie’s breath caught again.

Nick pulled back just enough to look at him and reached for the coffee table, lighting a few candles that Charlie hadn’t even seen there before. The soft glow flickered across the walls, and then Nick handed him a flashlight.

“Here,” he said. “Hold this for a second, yeah? I’m gonna go turn on the generator.”

Charlie blinked at him, heart still hammering, but nodded. He clutched the flashlight like it was a lifeline as Nick disappeared out the back door. A minute passed. Then another. Then—like magic—the lights flicked back on. The heater kicked back into gear. The fridge hummed. The room was alive again.

Nick came back in shaking a bit of rain from his arm.

“See?” he said with a soft smile. “Told you. There’s a generator on the covered porch. Runs on propane. I’ll show you how to use it sometime, just in case I’m ever not here. That way, you won’t ever be stuck in the dark again, okay?”

Charlie stared at him.

Then his eyes welled up again, and he folded forward until his forehead rested against Nick’s chest.

Nick stilled.

Then wrapped both arms around him with care.

Charlie sobbed silently, trying to fight it, but the sound cracked through once—raw and broken—and Nick didn’t pull away. He just held on tighter and rubbed gentle circles between Charlie’s shoulder blades.

You won't ever be stuck in the dark again.

Never again. 

“It’s okay,” Nick whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Charlie nodded against him, clutching the edge of Nick’s sweatshirt. He didn’t want to admit how good Nick smelled. How warm he was. How steady he felt. But the truth was—he didn’t want to pull away either.

So he didn’t.

And Nick let him stay.

The storm had passed sometime in the early hours, leaving the world outside washed clean and still. A light breeze drifted through the newly opened kitchen window, carrying the soft scent of damp earth and something green and hopeful. Nick stood barefoot at the counter, the cool tile grounding him as he started making his shake, yawning into the back of his wrist.

The morning sun hadn’t climbed high yet, but its presence was undeniable—streaming golden through the windows, warming patches of hardwood floor, and casting long, gentle shadows. It was one of those rare March mornings in upstate New York that teased of spring’s approach. The kind that made you want to open every window just to smell it, even if your fingertips still tingled with leftover winter chill.

Nick reached for his mug and paused, something catching his eye through the kitchen window.

Charlie.

Out back.

Nick leaned forward, squinting slightly to be sure he was seeing it right.

Charlie was standing in the middle of the backyard, barefoot in the dewy grass, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The morning light made his curls glow like dark bronze. In his outstretched hands, he held small piles of dried corn, and there—right in front of him—the tiniest of the deer family, the baby fawn, was nibbling grain straight from his palms.

But it wasn’t just the image that stunned Nick—as beautiful as it was.

It was the sound.

So soft, he almost thought he imagined it—Charlie's voice. Humming.

Nick moved closer, through the open back door. He couldn't tell what he was humming, but the tone was low and coaxing, like a lullaby or a secret being offered to the woods. It was... beautiful. A little broken at the edges, a bit raspy with disuse, but unmistakably warm. 

Nick’s breath caught in his throat, and without meaning to, he let out the faintest sound of surprise.

The deer bolted at once, bounding across the yard in a flash of tan and white. Charlie jumped slightly and spun around.

But instead of shrinking away or retreating—he grinned.

Grinned.

Big and real and unguarded. Dimples and all.

“Nick!” he called, and Nick swore his knees almost gave out.

It was the first time he’d ever heard Charlie speak , and it was to say his name.

It felt like spring had fully arrived.

Chapter Text

Nick stood frozen on the porch step, still caught in the echo of what he’d just heard.

It had been soft. Raspy. Like it hadn’t been used in a long time.

It was so... him.

Beautiful.

Charlie turned slowly, almost sheepish, blinking in the morning light. His eyes met Nick’s—wide and uncertain now that the moment had passed. Like he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

Nick didn’t move. His mouth hung open slightly. His chest felt tight and full and unfamiliar. That voice—how did he feel like he'd missed a sound he'd never heard before?

And it had said his name.

It felt like an honor—better than any goal he'd ever scored. Any trophy he'd ever won. Any magazine cover.

Charlie looked down at the ground like maybe he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Char,” Nick breathed.

“I—” His voice cracked, barely there. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t even mean to. It just—” He touched his throat like he didn’t trust it to work again. “It happened.”

Nick finally stepped off the porch, keeping his movements calm and measured.

“Charlie…”

Charlie’s gaze flicked up, searching his face for some kind of reaction.

“I haven’t… not once since… since he,” he said. The words came haltingly, like his body didn’t believe it could form them. “I couldn’t. Not even when I wanted to.”

Nick’s eyes burned.

Then, as if just now realizing the weight of it, Charlie sat down hard on the steps. His hands were shaking.

“I thought—” He shook his head. “I thought it was permanent.”

Nick crouched beside him, blinking rapidly. He didn’t want to cry—he needed to be steady—but god, this boy.

“You’re okay,” he said softly. “You’re safe. And your voice came back. That’s… that’s huge, Charlie.”

Charlie let out a small, disbelieving laugh that quickly collapsed into a sob. The kind that sneaks up from somewhere deep and old. His shoulders curled forward, and the tears came fast, unexpected, unstoppable.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get it back,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I thought I broke it. Broke me.”

Nick didn’t say anything at first. He sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on Charlie’s back. Not pushing—just there.

Charlie wiped at his face with the sleeves of Nick’s hoodie.

And then, softly, “I feel like… I can actually say thank you now.”

Nick looked at him.

Charlie turned, meeting his eyes, and said with quiet sincerity, “Thank you. For everything. For… being patient. For not treating me like I’m broken.”

Nick swallowed. His own tears finally slipped free.

“You’re not broken,” he said, voice thick. “You're healing. That’s different.”

Charlie nodded, biting his lip hard enough to turn it red.

They sat in the quiet for a while, the sun warming their shoulders, the distant sound of birds and the early rustle of spring brushing through the air like music.

Then Charlie blinked hard, clearing the fog in his chest, and said, “You startled the deer.”

Nick let out a small, emotional laugh through the wetness still clinging to his lashes.

“You startled me, to be honest.”

Charlie gave him a look. “You’re not the one who just came back from the dead.”

Nick held a hand to his heart. “Fair. But you just blew my mind. I feel like we should celebrate.”

Charlie looked at him cautiously. “With?”

“Tea?" Nick offered, watching as the tension melted from Charlie's shoulders. “Or… I don’t know, cookies shaped like deer?”

Charlie huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh, then blinked again, surprised at the sound he’d made.

“I used to talk all the time,” he said, voice a little steadier now. “Tori said I never shut up. I’d go on weird tangents and make dumb puns and—” He stopped, throat working. “I was loud. And opinionated. That was... before.”

Nick tilted his head. “And now?”

Charlie shrugged a little. “Now I guess I don’t know who I am.”

Nick sat beside him.

“Well… I’m pretty sure scolding me for scaring your emotional support deer means you still exist in there.”

Charlie’s lips twitched.

“He trusts me.”

Nick gasped.

“Wow. More than me? I’m the one who buys the corn.”

Charlie gave him a sidelong look.

“You breathe loud.”

“I’m an athlete!” Nick said, mock-offended. “I have powerful lungs.”

“You huffed up the porch steps like a dying walrus.”

Nick gave him a betrayed look. “You’ve been saving that, haven’t you?”

Charlie smirked. “Maybe.”

They sat there for another quiet moment, the laughter softening into comfort.

Then Charlie said, more softly, “I don’t know if this will… stay.”

Nick looked at him gently. “That’s okay.”

“I didn’t do anything different,” Charlie said. “It just… happened. And it might not again.”

Nick nodded.

“And if it doesn’t, that’s still okay.”

Charlie looked down at his hands. “I’ve felt so broken. Like… even my voice gave up on me. And now I’m scared I’ll lose it again.”

Nick didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t say anything that would make the fear disappear. He just leaned in and said, “Then we’ll take today as the win that it is.”

Charlie nodded slowly.

“Do you want tea?” Nick asked.

“Sure.”

Nick stood and offered a hand.

“Come on. I think we’ve got some lavender earl grey with your name on it.”

Charlie took it, and they walked into the house, Charlie quiet again—but this time, only because he wanted to be. And when Nick handed him a ridiculous mug shaped like a dinosaur and he muttered “Rawr” under his breath?

Nick laughed and “rawr”ed right back.

And Charlie, just for a moment, let himself believe this might be the beginning of something he hadn’t thought possible again.

Genuine connection.

A soft clatter of cutlery echoed through the warm kitchen as Charlie leaned his elbows on the table, watching Nick move around with casual confidence. The sun spilled lazily through the window over the sink, casting gold light across the floorboards and the edges of Nick’s hair, which was still damp from his post-workout shower.

He was plating breakfast now, humming off-key to whatever was playing softly from his phone speaker—some old indie love song Charlie didn’t recognize but kind of liked. Nick was grinning to himself, completely absorbed in the task of arranging the eggs and sweet potatoes just right.

“You know,” Nick said, tossing a dishtowel over his shoulder and sliding a plate onto the table in front of Charlie, “a while back—Valentine’s Day, actually—I ordered this insane meal from this little French-Italian fusion place. It was, like, the only thing Miley and I could agree on that night. But the food? Unreal. I’ve been thinking I might try to recreate it for dinner tonight… if you’re interested?”

His tone was light and open, full of enthusiasm. Charlie glanced at the plate and then back up at Nick’s expression, struck again by how unfiltered Nick was—how openly he felt things, how easily he smiled and showed delight. It wasn’t performative. He just seemed to live in his emotions, not run from them. It was... remarkable. Strange. Beautiful.

Charlie felt something catch low in his throat— Gratitude, maybe.

He nodded once, just enough to show interest, then looked down at his hands. Nick’s joy was such a contrast to the quiet storm that always seemed to spin in Charlie’s chest.

Two months. He’d been here for two whole months now. And somehow, it had begun to feel... familiar. Safe. Even—God, even like home. But that terrified him. Because homes were temporary. And he didn’t know how to be a person out in the world anymore. He didn’t know if he’d be okay once Nick inevitably had to move on. What if he couldn’t take care of himself? What if Ben found him again? What if—

“You okay over there?” Nick’s voice broke through, gentle but firm. “I can hear your brain doing laps.”

Charlie blinked out of it and looked up. Nick had sat down across from him, his own plate barely touched, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“I’m okay,” Charlie said after a pause. “Just thinking.”

Nick didn’t push. He just smiled like he always did when Charlie used his voice now—quietly delighted but not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

“I, um.” Nick scratched the back of his neck. “There was something I was going to ask you, actually... but—” He trailed off, watching as Charlie froze a little, his fork dropping to the edge of his plate.

Charlie swallowed and said, very softly, “I can’t— Um, I can't do serious conversations while I’m eating.”

Nick blinked, then immediately nodded.

“Got it. Of course. No problem. It can wait.”

Charlie let out the breath he had been holding.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Nick picked up his fork, as casual as if nothing had happened. “Besides, I have something else quite interesting to talk about."

Charlie looked at him warily.

“My team’s doing a charity calendar photoshoot in April.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“We’re going to be shirtless,” Nick continued, grinning. “Playing with puppies.”

Charlie snorted into his water.

“I know, I know. It’s exactly as ridiculous as it sounds,” Nick said, feigning martyrdom. “But it’s for charity. So I’ll suffer through. Somehow.”

Charlie shook his head, a small but real laugh escaping.

“It's going to be the highlight of your life and you know it."

Nick’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, you have no idea. I’m going to frame mine and hang it in every room of the house.”

Charlie gave him a look.

“If you do that, I’m putting googly eyes on every single one.”

Nick raised his glass in a toast.

“Deal.”

Charlie clinked his with Nick’s, and for the rest of breakfast, they talked about stupid puppy names and whether or not one of the guys would try to smuggle a puppy in their jacket after the shoot, and for the first time in a long time, Charlie forgot to be afraid of what came next.

Charlie stood still in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom, the steam from his shower still curling around the edges of the glass. The mirror had fogged, but he had wiped it clean with a swipe of the towel, leaving a streaky, uneven surface—appropriate, really. His reflection stared back at him, raw and quiet in the dim light.

No more bruises.

That was the first thing he noticed.

They had faded weeks ago now, leaving behind nothing but pale, faint memories on his skin. His nose had mostly healed straight. Unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn’t notice the slight crook. He tilted his head slightly and examined it with a clinical sort of detachment.

It was still his face. That was the strange part. Still him. Just... changed. More... Open?

His eyes drifted downward.

The scars remained, of course. He wasn’t surprised. The thin, silvery lines on his thighs and forearms—the quiet souvenirs from when he was sixteen and overwhelmed by a world that never made space for softness. For understanding. He traced the faint cigarette burn on the inside of his left bicep without really thinking, a hollow pit settling in his stomach as he remembered the client who had smiled, calmly, while doing it. A kink.

And the one on his wrist—the pinker, more recent scar, only a couple of years old, where Ben had tied him up for the first time. Not even as part of something sexual. Just as punishment. Charlie had tried to leave. That was the punishment. The rope had been too tight, and he hadn’t been strong enough to get free. The wound hadn't gotten infected. Even though he’d hidden it from Ben for days.

He was lucky, he guessed. If “lucky” was a word that belonged anywhere in that chapter of his life.

Charlie looked away from the scar and focused on the rest of his reflection. His collarbones were still sharp, but his cheeks weren’t as hollow anymore. His eyes looked less sunken. The faint blue tinge beneath them was still there, but not as heavy. The doctor had said he was doing well. That his progress was steady and soon, very soon, he’d be approved to start reintroducing sugar and caffeine.

He hadn't had coffee in years.

Not since college. Not since everything fell apart. Not since he stopped going to the little shop around the corner from campus where he and Isaac used to meet, week after week, swapping books and opinions and obscure literary jokes. Isaac would roll his eyes every time Charlie ordered his usual—indeed oat milk latte with one shot of vanilla—and would always taste it anyway, just to complain that it was “blasphemous.” that black coffee was the only way.

That had been the last time he felt normal. That kind of normal that fills in your lungs without you realizing it—simple, routine, easy. Safe.

He thought about Nick.

The banter was similar. That same sense of being understood without having to try too hard. Even back when Charlie couldn't speak, Nick still got him. Knew when to crack a joke, when to leave him alone, when to distract him with stories or movies or dumb charity calendars. Charlie still had walls up, of course. But Nick never tried to tear them down. He just waited patiently by the door until Charlie was ready.

That was what made it so strange.

Nick treated him... normal.

Not like glass, like his friends and family.

Not like disposable trash, like every other man he met.

Not like something dirty, like he felt.

Just like a person. A friend.

Charlie let out a soft breath and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink.

His reflection didn’t look fully healed. Not yet. But it didn’t look hopeless, either. He didn’t flinch at the sight of himself anymore. He wasn’t afraid of what Nick might see. And that was something.

Maybe he was healing on the inside, too. Slowly. Quietly. Not all at once, and not neatly. But he was sure it was happening.

He turned off the bathroom light and walked back into the bedroom, the mirror fading to shadow behind him.

Charlie is amazing.

The thought hit Nick like a punch to the chest, soft but undeniable, as he leaned against the kitchen counter and quietly watched Charlie across the room.

Charlie was sitting at the table, legs folded beneath him, stirring a cup of tea while flipping through the last pages of a book Nick had recommended. He looked relaxed—really relaxed. His shoulders weren’t hunched the way they had been when he first arrived, when he used to shrink in on himself like he was trying to disappear. His fingers no longer trembled when he held utensils. He ate without hesitation now—still small portions, still slow and careful—but without fear. Without flinching.

Nick had to bite back a smile as Charlie suddenly looked up, catching Nick’s gaze, and rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Are you watching me like I’m a zoo animal again?” he teased, his voice low and still a little raspy. That dry, sideways humor of his was becoming more and more familiar. And Nick loved it.

It had only been a few weeks since Charlie had started talking again—really talking—and every day felt like unwrapping a gift. His voice, at first just a whisper, had strengthened with time, and with it had come a quiet storm of personality. Charlie was clever. Quick. Sassier than Nick ever could’ve predicted. He gave as good as he got, and the way his eyes lit up when he landed a particularly good jab made Nick want to fist-pump the air every time.

He’d started out so timid. Couldn’t meet Nick’s eyes for more than a second without flinching. Used to apologize for everything—even bumping into furniture. But now? Now he made jokes about Nick’s over-the-top protein shake obsession. About the ridiculous football calendar shoot with the puppies. Affectionately teasing about the fact that Nick cried watching Paddington 2.

He was starting to trust. Not completely—but enough. And it made Nick's heart ache in the best possible way.

There were things Nick still wanted to ask, of course.

Where did you come from?

How long were you in that situation?

What happened to you?

Where is your family?

But the calm they'd settled into—this weird, domestic, quietly perfect rhythm—felt too precious to risk disturbing.

Charlie was doing so well. And the last thing Nick wanted was to push too hard and watch that light dim again. He was about to start Zoom therapy this week, and Nick was hoping that talking to a professional might help Charlie begin to process the things he kept buried. Maybe, eventually, he'd open up to Nick too.

But Nick had already made peace with the fact that Charlie’s story was only his to tell—if, and when, he wanted to share it. That trust had to come on Charlie’s terms.

Nick could be patient. For Charlie, he could be anything.

The more time passed, the more Nick couldn’t ignore the imbalance in his own life—the stark contrast between what he felt in this house, with Charlie, and what he felt when he was with Miley.

He hadn’t told Charlie yet that he was planning to break up with her.

The moment that made it clear had happened a few days ago.

They were out to lunch—some influencer-trendy spot Miley had begged to try—and while they were waiting for their food, a woman with a visible facial scar walked past their table. Miley had leaned in and, in a voice much too loud, said, “God, I’d just stay inside if I looked like that. It's cruel to make people hve to pretend to not stare.”

Nick had frozen. Genuinely stunned.

He had stared at her, searching for some acknowledgement or realization that she hadn’t just said something that vile. But she had just sipped her drink, unbothered, scrolling through Instagram.

He’d gone quiet the rest of the lunch. And later that night, when she posted a follow-up selfie captioned “Had a fab day with bae 💋✨ even if he was weirdly moody 🙄”—Nick had realized they were done. He just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

He also hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Charlie.

About how, when Charlie looked in the mirror, he probably still saw brokenness. About how he flinched at compliments. How he was afraid of being too much trouble. How he still didn’t believe he deserved to take up space.

And how Miley, without knowing a damn thing, would probably look at Charlie and see nothing but someone she’d call “a mess.”

But Nick saw someone brave. Someone rebuilding. Someone who’d survived hell and still found a way to be funny and clever and quietly kind.

Charlie is amazing, he thought again.

Nick looked over at him just in time to see Charlie mouthing the final words of his book with a grin, then snapping it shut with a satisfied little flourish.

God help him—he couldn't deny this anymore.

The house was quiet, holding its breath in the soft light of early morning. Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, golden and low, and the air carried the scent of flowers beginning to bloom.

Charlie stood at the counter, barefoot on the cool tile, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The knife in his hand trembled just slightly as he chopped mushrooms and green peppers into careful, uneven slices. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, dark crescents beneath them, but he kept moving. Focused. Steady.

He hadn’t really slept. Not well.

A nightmare had come again.

He’d woken choking—back arched off the bed, gasping for air that wasn’t coming. In the dream, he’d been in a ditch somewhere outside the motel. The ground was wet and freezing and the blood on his shirt had gone stiff. He remembered the metallic taste in his mouth. Remembered screaming for help and hearing nothing but wind. He remembered trying to crawl, ribs aching, legs numb. And then silence. The kind of silence that meant no one was coming.

Until Nick’s voice had broken through the darkness. Quiet, steady. A lighthouse in a storm.

Charlie had clung to him. Not just physically, but with a desperation he hadn’t let himself feel in months. And Nick… Nick had done what he always did. Had just held him. Grounded him. Waited with him until his breathing evened out.

And then gave him space. No questions. No pressure. Just a hand squeezing his shoulder, arms holding him steady, waiting for him to breathe again before slipping out of the room.

Charlie wanted to do something—anything—to show that he noticed. That he appreciated.

So here he was, in Nick’s kitchen, making the one thing he felt like he could manage. A mushroom and green pepper omelet. Nothing fancy, but something warm. He poured the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble and firm around the vegetables, the butter hissing in the heat.

The basement door creaked open behind him, followed by the soft thud of footsteps.

“Hey—I was wondering where you—”

Nick stopped.

Charlie tensed. He didn’t turn around yet.

Nick’s voice dropped, lighter now.

“Are you… making breakfast?”

Charlie turned, awkwardly tucking a stray curl behind his ear. He shrugged, a little sheepish, and nodded once.

Was this the wrong move? Is he angry?

I didn't even ask to use his kitchen. 

Oh no...

Nick looked at him for a long second—still a little sweaty from his workout, fringe damp, tank top clinging to his chest. He had a towel around his neck, half-forgotten. And in that moment, he looked stunned.

“You’re making an omelet?” Nick said, awe bleeding into his voice. A grin spread across his face and Charlie's anxieties melted away 

Charlie gave him a half-smile and nodded again, pointing to the peppers and mushrooms with his spatula.

Nick walked forward slowly, like he didn’t want to spook the moment. He sat at the counter, watching.

“Charlie… you didn’t have to do this.”

Charlie set the plate down in front of him a moment later, still hot. Then sat down across from him with his own plate, fingers fidgeting with his fork.

“I wanted to,” he said softly.

Nick’s eyes softened. He took a bite and closed his eyes like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“This is amazing. Like, actual five-star restaurant level.”

Charlie huffed a quiet laugh.

“It’s literally eggs.”

“Yeah, but they’re, like, emotionally resonant eggs. I feel them in my soul.”

Charlie rolled his eyes but flushed with something that wasn’t shame for once.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re impressive,” Nick said gently.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, chewing. Charlie kept stealing glances at Nick—at his strong arms, his crinkled smile, the way his presence made everything feel less… sharp. Less painful.

Nick gathered the dishes, placing them gently in the sink before looking at him, more serious now.

“You didn’t sleep great last night, huh?”

Charlie’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

“Want to talk about it?”

Charlie hesitated. Then, just above a whisper, “I was in a ditch. In the dream. Bleeding. I couldn’t breathe. I think I was dying.”

Nick’s face went still. But not tense. Gentle. He looked present. Anchored.

Charlie looked down at the table, fiddling with his napkin.

“You pulled me out of it. Like always.”

Nick reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly across the back of Charlie’s hand.

“I’m always gonna try, Charlie. No matter how dark it gets.”

Charlie looked at him for a long time.

Then, shyly, “You’re gonna be unbearable with your praise now that I made you breakfast, aren’t you?”

Nick grinned.

“Oh, absolutely. You’re never gonna hear the end of it. I'll be calling my mom to tell her all about it later.”

Charlie smirked and took another bite.

“You better not put a picture on your Instagram.”

“No promises. Hashtag: domestic life.”

“I’ll throw your phone in the woods.”

Nick leaned back in his chair and laughed, full and bright.

Charlie's new favorite sound.

Too bad he was going to lose it some day.

Chapter Text

Charlie sat at the desk, legs pulled up in the oversized office chair, arms wrapped around his knees. The computer screen glowed in front of him, the Zoom waiting room bouncing a soft blue. He could see his own image in the corner box—a thin figure in Nick’s hoodie, still a stranger to himself.

He didn’t want to do this.

His heart had been hammering for ten straight minutes now. His mouth tasted like metal. There was a tremble in his hands he couldn’t quite still. He hated this. Talking. Explaining. Risking everything just to say the things he hadn’t let himself say out loud... Ever. Nick thought he was doing better. That he was healing. And he was, wasn’t he? He could speak again. He could eat. He could laugh—sort of.

But none of that made him less disgusting.

None of that changed what he’d done. Or what he’d let happen.

Nick was going to find out eventually. Maybe not today. But one day. He’d find out what Charlie was. The kind of broken thing he’d brought into his home. He’d burn the sheets. Disinfect everything Charlie touched. Throw away the pillows. Replace the dishes. Like you would after an infestation.

Charlie wasn’t stupid. He was just selfish. That’s why he was still here. Stealing warmth. Stealing care. Letting Nick look at him like he was worth something. Like he was a person. He was holding on to a lie and pretending it was safety.

He thought about the last time he’d felt this safe—those early weeks with Ben. When Charlie thought he’d finally found someone who understood how hard it was to be alone. Who let him believe he was special. Worth protecting.

And that had ended in blood and rope burns and silence. And an attempt to—

The screen shifted.

A face appeared: warm eyes behind thick glasses, a soft sweater vest, graying beard, calm smile.

“Charlie?”

Charlie swallowed.

“Hi. I’m Geoff.” The man’s voice was quiet but assured, like he’d been doing this a long time and didn’t need to push to be heard. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

Charlie gave a small nod.

“You too,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re right on time,” Geoff continued, gently clicking something on his screen. “How are you feeling about being here today?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Nervous.”

Geoff smiled like he’d expected that answer.

“That’s totally fair. New things are weird. Talking to a stranger can be weird. But I want you to know this is your space. I’m not here to make you say anything you’re not ready for. We’ll go slow, okay?”

Charlie nodded again.

“Good. Can I ask a couple basics? Just to get us started?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Charlie Spring, yeah?"

Charlie nodded.

“Do you have a middle name?"

"Francis."

"Ah, that was my dad's middle name. Lovely." He paused. "And I see you're twenty three?"

Charlie nodded.

“Your introduction forms show that you're staying with someone right now, yeah? A friend?”

Charlie hesitated.

“Sort of. I… I didn’t really know him. At first. He found me in a bad situation. Helped me. Let me stay with him when I had nowhere to go.” He picked at the sleeve of the hoodie—Nick’s hoodie. “He’s been… kind.”

Geoff gave a slow nod.

“That’s good to hear. Would you like to elaborate on the situation that he found you in?”

Charlie's breathing struttered. 

"Maybe... Um, maybe we could work up to that? If that's okay?"

"Of course that's okay, Charlie. As I said, this is your space. We go at your pace."

Charlie looked away, eyes locked on the bookshelf near the desk.

“I hadn’t spoken out loud in almost a year,” he admitted.

“But now you can?”

“Only recently. Just started. I didn’t think I ever would again, to be honest.”

“That’s huge, Charlie.”

“I guess.”

“Do you know what's brought on this change?”

Charlie blinked hard. He thought of Nick’s eyes, wide with surprise when Charlie had called his name that morning. The warmth in his chest when Nick smiled back like it was a miracle.

“I don’t know. I guess, maybe, Nick just makes me feel safe. Like—like I'm allowed to exist outside if my own head again.”

Geoff didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, waited.

Charlie exhaled shakily.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he said. “Like, in therapy. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Or what matters.”

“Whatever feels like it matters to you,” Geoff said. “There’s no wrong way to be here.”

Charlie was quiet for a while. Then, almost involuntarily, he blurted out, “I lived with someone dangerous. For years. And I let him do… things. I let things... Happen. Because I didn’t know how to leave.”

“Someone dangerous?”

Charlie nodded, eyes cast downward. 

"Was this someone you trusted, at first?"

Charlie’s throat burned.

“Yeah. He made me feel seen, at first. Like I was someone worth keeping. But then it turned into something else. He started controlling everything. Took my phone. Told me my friends didn’t care. Told me my sister was trying to ruin my life.”

“And your family—did they know what was happening?”

“My sister tried. She knew something was wrong. But I didn’t listen to her. I thought she was jealous or controlling. I screamed at her. Told her to leave me alone.” Charlie’s voice cracked. “She was right. I was so fucking stupid.”

Geoff’s voice stayed calm.

“Charlie, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“If a friend told you that they were isolated, manipulated, abused—would you tell them they were stupid?”

Charlie blinked, stunned by the question.

“No. Of course not.”

“Why do you talk to yourself that way, then?”

The silence that followed made Charlie’s ears ring.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice small.

Geoff nodded slowly.

“I think a lot of people carry shame after trauma. Because it’s easier to believe we had control than to accept we were truly powerless. But what happened to you wasn’t your fault. Staying doesn’t make you weak. It means you were surviving.”

Charlie’s breath hitched.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. It’s like… even though I got out, my body doesn’t believe it yet.”

“That’s incredibly common.”

“I feel like a problem. Like a guest who overstayed. Nick’s been amazing, and I don’t know why. I keep waiting for him to get tired of me.”

Geoff looked thoughtful.

“Maybe he simply enjoys your company.”

Charlie blinked. Something inside him loosened.

"That doesn't feel possible."

Geoff leaned back slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth—kind, not dismissive. His voice was quiet but steady.

“Sometimes, when we've been treated like a burden for so long, kindness feels like a trick. Like a delay before the punishment we think we deserve.”

Charlie’s breath hitched just slightly.

“But being cared for without conditions? That is possible, Charlie. It just feels unfamiliar right now. Your nervous system is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, because that's what it was trained to expect. But sometimes… the other shoe never falls.”

He paused.

“Sometimes, people stay. Not because they feel obligated. Not because they’re waiting for something in return. Just because they want to... Because they see your worth, even when you can’t.”

Charlie felt the heat of tears gathering behind his eyes and swallowed, trying to hold them back.

Maybe this wouldn’t fix him.

Maybe nothing could.

But… maybe he could be... Enough?

It was a week and a half later.

The baking show had just reached the judging segment — cakes wobbling precariously, contestants nervously wringing their hands as the camera zoomed in on fondant figures that had slightly melted — when Nick heard soft footsteps on the stairs.

He muted the TV instinctively and turned to look.

Charlie stood at the edge of the living room, bleary-eyed and quiet. His curls were tousled, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, and thick socks muffling his steps. In his arms was the small crocheted deer Nick had made him, held like a child might carry a teddy bear — close and guarded and careful.

Nick offered him a warm smile.

“Hey, Char. How’re you feeling?”

Charlie shrugged slightly, his expression unreadable. A little tired. A little folded-in. But present.

“You want some tea?”

Charlie gave a small nod and signed please.

“Alright,” Nick said gently. “Give me a sec.”

He stood and moved to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. The sky outside had gone that soft, watercolor blue of late afternoon fading. The kind of light that made everything feel still. Nick liked making tea — liked the way it forced you to slow down. He chose Charlie’s favorite herbal blend, added a squeeze of honey, then started his own cup. The act was methodical: tap water to kettle, kettle to boil, the little hiss and pop of the steam. It grounded him.

He returned to the living room with both mugs. Charlie had tucked himself into the corner of the couch, the deer still in his lap.

Nick handed him the tea.

“Here you go.”

Charlie took it and gave a small nod of thanks. He didn’t speak — not unusual, not these days. Sometimes his voice stayed locked in his throat after therapy, sometimes not.

“You wanna watch this with me?”

Another nod.

Nick restarted the episode and sat at the other end of the couch. They watched together in silence. The show was cheerful and ridiculous — contestants fretting over sponge textures and icing placement, judges delivering devastating critiques in flowery language.

When the episode ended, Nick stretched and glanced over.

“Hey, how about takeout tonight? We could do that sub place you like.”

Charlie gave a vague shrug, eyes lowered.

“That’s alright,” Nick said softly. “If food’s hard today, I can just make you some toast.”

Charlie’s mouth twitched into a small, grateful smile. He signed thank you.

“Of course.”

Nick returned to the kitchen and made a plate of toast for Charlie, and a sandwich for himself. Simple and comforting. When he brought them back, Charlie accepted his plate quietly, then settled in again with his tea.

Nick didn’t turn the TV back on. Instead, he sat beside Charlie and asked, “Would you want to watch a movie? Or I could just… talk at you.”

Charlie shook his head at the movie suggestion, then nodded at the latter.

So Nick talked.

He leaned back into the cushions, letting his voice find a rhythm.

“I used to spend summers in France when I was a kid,” he began. “With my grandmere. She had this old villa outside Marseille, with the most amazing garden. Everything smelled like rosemary and lavender. She let me help with planting — which mostly meant I got dirt everywhere and ate strawberries before they were ripe.”

Charlie gave a quiet huff of amusement, his attention clearly focused.

That's when she taught me to crochet, too. Said it’d help with patience, and give my hands something to do when I felt all wiggly. I think she also liked the company.”

Nick smiled softly.

“You could help with the garden this year, if you want. It’s almost planting season. I’ve got room for tomatoes, carrots, herbs. It’s not exactly the French countryside, but…”

Charlie gave a little nod. His hands were curled around his mug, but his body was relaxed in a way that told Nick he was present.

“I ramble too much,” Nick said, chuckling.

Charlie shook his head, then surprised Nick by reaching over and gently squeezing his hand.

Nick stilled, then returned the squeeze. His chest felt warm.

“She was the best,” Nick said. “I wish you could’ve met her. Honestly don’t know how my dad came from someone like that, but… her and my mom. They’re my heroes. They're the reason I am who I am.”

Charlie put his plate aside and picked up the crocheted deer again. His fingers ran slowly along the yarn ears. Nick smiled at the sight.

“You brought your little deer down with you.”

Charlie looked up at him, eyes soft.

“Aegis,” he said quietly.

Nick blinked.

“Sorry — what?”

Charlie glanced down at the deer, then back up again.

“That’s his name. Aegis.”

Nick tilted his head and smiled.

“Aegis. I like that. Why'd you choose it?”

Charlie hesitated, clearly self-conscious, but then spoke, his voice quiet and steady.

“It’s from Greek mythology. The Aegis was a shield — carried by Athena, sometimes Zeus. It wasn’t just protection, it… it was this symbol of safety. Of divine power and shelter. And over time, it came to mean comfort too. Like… something that makes you feel safe when everything else is terrifying.”

Nick’s heart stuttered.

Charlie looked down again, stroking the deer’s tiny stitched legs.

“I… I thought it fit. He makes me feel… okay. On the bad days.”

Nick swallowed thickly.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, and meant it completely. “Really. I… I’m so honored he makes you feel safe.”

Charlie didn’t answer, just hugged Aegis tighter against his chest.

Nick let the silence settle between them, full and tender.

Eventually, he whispered, “I think that name’s perfect."

Just like you, he almost said — but held it back, letting the moment speak for itself.

The house was quiet, lit only by the small lamp in the corner of the living room. The rain had started up again outside, a gentle, rhythmic tap against the windows and roof. Nick lay stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, thumb absently tracing patterns on the hem of his sweatshirt.

His mind was full. But it wasn’t heavy.

He thought about Charlie — upstairs now, probably curled into his blankets with that little crocheted deer in his arms. Aegis. That name had stuck with Nick. The idea that something so small and stitched together could represent protection, could be a shield in a world that had hurt someone so deeply — it moved him more than he knew how to say.

Charlie had now done three of his biweekly therapy sessions. Nick hadn’t asked for specifics — he never did — but he could always tell when Charlie had logged off. He’d come downstairs a little slower, eyes a little foggier, the lines of his shoulders drawn tight at first. But there was also a shift, eventually. A loosening of breath. Like letting air into a long-sealed room.

He was talking more. Smiling a bit more.

It was... so domestic. And weirdly, it wasn’t awkward. None of it had been. Not when Charlie padded into the room and stole the good throw blanket, or when he fed the deer in the early mornings with his hoodie still rumpled from sleep. Nick had been watching the deer too — they were growing braver, coming closer. Last time, one of them let Nick get within fifty feet before bounding off.

He exhaled slowly, warmth spreading through his chest.

Charlie was healing. Slowly, yes. One small shift at a time. But it was undeniable. And it made Nick feel proud in a way that almost overwhelmed him. Charlie was strong. So much stronger than Nick could ever say aloud without choking on it.

Which only made him feel like more of a coward in comparison.

His smile faded a little.

Because while Charlie was doing the brave thing — facing the ugliest parts of his past, talking through it with a stranger, showing up to fight his own mind — Nick was still dodging texts from a woman he should have broken up with weeks ago.

He’d cancelled their plans last week, claiming “tummy issues.” He actually typed that. Tummy. God, he was pathetic.

He knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. It wasn’t just the lies — it was the weight of pretending. Pretending he still wanted to be with someone who lacked empathy. Who only thought of herself. Who didn’t really see him. Who didn’t know him. Who didn’t want to know him, really — not the soft parts, the weird parts, the bisexual parts. The parts that liked baking and slow mornings and long silences and making little animals out of yarn. 

He closed his eyes, groaning softly to himself.

“You can do hard things,” he muttered under his breath, recalling the phrase from a motivational poster he once saw in some overpriced boutique. His friend Darcy had been with him at the time and had elbowed him with a snort — "Bet you can, Nelson."

He huffed a quiet laugh at the memory, then reached over to grab his phone from the end table.

He didn’t scroll. Didn’t overthink. Just opened his messages with Miley, ignoring the last two texts — one asking if he was “still alive,” and the other a mirror selfie from the gym with a wink emoji.

He tapped out:

Hey, would you want to meet up for coffee tomorrow? Afternoon sometime?

Simple. Neutral. Direct.

He hit send before he could second guess himself and immediately dropped the phone face down on the table like it might catch fire.

Upstairs, the house creaked softly in its settling. Nick closed his eyes and let the quiet wash over him, and despite the knot of dread tightening in his gut, he found his thoughts drifting — not to Miley, but to Charlie.

To Charlie’s soft laugh.

To the way his eyes crinkled when something genuinely amused him.

To the first time he’d ever said Nick’s name out loud.

Nick fell asleep with that memory tucked close, a small anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

And he slept well.

The living room was a sprawl of clean laundry and late afternoon light. A half-folded blanket was draped over the arm of the couch, socks were scattered like puzzle pieces across the floor, and the coffee table had been entirely taken over by teetering stacks of towels.

Nick and Charlie sat cross-legged on the rug, facing each other over the mountain of fabric between them. Nick was working through a pile of his workout shirts with what could only generously be called effort, while Charlie — meticulous as ever — had already sorted most of the socks by color and length, forming perfect little bundles.

Nick held up one of his older t-shirts, squinting at it.

“Okay. Be honest. Is this still ‘vintage hot,’ or has it crossed the line into ‘homeless gym rat’?”

Charlie looked up from his neat sock pile and deadpanned, “That shirt died five years ago, Nick. Let it go.”

Nick groaned and flopped dramatically back onto the rug.

“Rude. Disrespectful. You don't know what this shirt and I have been through together. I first benched 300 pounds in that shirt.”

Charlie stared at him with an unreadable, wide-eyed expression for a moment, before shaking his head and reaching over to pluck the shirt from Nick’s hand. He then folded it with military precision, and set it gently onto a pile that he was quite obviously Things Nick Should Never Wear Outside Again.

Nick squinted at it.

“Is that the shame pile?”

“It’s the mercy pile,” Charlie said. “For shirts you’re too emotionally attached to burn.”

Nick sat up, grinning.

“You are a folding snob."

“I take textile crimes very seriously.”

Charlie held up a mismatched sock pair — one black, one neon green with what looked like a cartoon hot dog on it. He raised an eyebrow.

"This still haunts me."

Nick tried to defend himself.

“In my defense, I was in a hurry."

“You wore them with a suit.”

“A casual suit.”

Charlie smirked, tossed the socks behind him like a judge dismissing a hopeless case, and went back to folding.

They kept working in rhythm for a few minutes, soft background music playing from Nick’s phone. Every once in a while, Nick would hum along or toss a balled-up pair of socks into the laundry basket like a basketball shot. Charlie worked steadily but was visibly more relaxed than usual — his shoulders loose, his posture open. Comfortable.

Nick watched him quietly for a moment, feeling that strange warmth in his chest again. Charlie had been speaking more lately. Bantering, even. There were still shadows under his eyes and hesitations in his voice sometimes, but he was doing well.

“You’re kind of a folding machine,” Nick said eventually.

Charlie shrugged, a little proud.

“Lived with my mom. She’s a system person. Chaos in the linen closet was treated as blasphemy.”

Nick ignored the jump in his stomach at Charlie mentioning family so casually for the first time, not wanting to call too much mention attention, and instead nodded seriously.

“Do you get to keep your folding license, or do you have to renew annually?”

Charlie reached for another shirt.

“I passed my recertification a few years back. Top of my class.”

Nick cracked up.

“Of course you did.”

Outside, the wind nudged the trees gently. The sky was a soft blue-gray, the light slanting golden through the windows.

Nick tossed a sock deliberately into the wrong pile, just to see what Charlie would do.

Charlie paused, looked at it, then looked at Nick.

“I'm watching you.”

“Oooh so scary.”

Nick smiled, wide and stupid.

Charlie didn’t even try to hide his own small smile.

They folded in silence for another minute, the quiet a gentle one. No pressure to speak. No tension. Just the small rhythm of a shared space.

Nick reached for another towel but glanced over at Charlie a little more seriously.

“Hey, um... after lunch, I’m going to get coffee with Miley. Just for a bit.”

Charlie looked up, caught off guard. Nick added quickly, “I’m sorry it’s kind of last-minute. You don’t have to do anything, I just didn’t want you to come looking for me and wonder where I went.”

Charlie shrugged and nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I still get a little... nervous when you go out, but... the alarm system helps.”

Nick nodded, understanding.

“I get that. Actually, I was thinking... maybe we should get you a phone.”

Charlie froze.

The moment hung, tension knitting the air between them.

Nick didn’t seem to notice right away, but Charlie’s mind had already splintered away from the conversation. The offer stuck like a thorn. Something about it tugged too close to the edge of something else—something dangerous, something he'd tried not to look at too closely since he'd gotten here.

Because this — all of this — Nick’s warm house, the good food, the soft couch and the thick blankets and the candles lit during storms — it was so good. Too good. And it was starting to feel familiar in a way that made his lungs close up.

Nick had given him so much.

He said Charlie didn’t owe him anything. That he was safe here.

But Ben said that too.

At first, the room had been clean. Cozy. There were snacks on the dresser. A TV that worked. Ben had helped him get weed so he could eat and stop feeling like a ghost. He said Charlie deserved to relax. He said Charlie didn’t owe him a thing.

Then it was alcohol.

“It helps even more,” Ben had said. “Takes the edge off. You don't have to think as much."

Then it was letting his friends crash the motel room for a night — “they’re chill, don’t be uptight” —Ben would playfully coax Charlie into performing sexual favors on them, and Charlie, a little drunk, a little high, and wanting to show his boyfriend he could be fun, worth the trouble, said okay.

Only later did he realize they’d paid.

He’d been sold.

Ben made it sound like Charlie owed him that much.

“You’re always so easy for everyone I bring around. Might as well make your cheating benefit me somehow.”

Charlie agreed—a bit confused, a little embarrassed.

Because he was weak. Because he’d already taken so much. Because saying no felt like setting fire to the only lifeline he had.

And then food slowly became a privilege. Sleep became a privilege. Pain became punishment. And he—he became nothing. "A hole to fill." is what Ben had called him.

The air in Nick’s house suddenly felt too thick, the light too bright. Charlie’s heart slammed against his ribs as nausea twisted in his gut. He didn’t realize he was shaking until the folded towel in his lap slid to the floor. He didn’t realize he was crying until he couldn’t breathe. Panic climbed up his throat, he could feel it's claws. 

It hurts.

The world around him felt miles away. Underwater. He barely heard it when Nick said his name the first time. Or the second. But on the third—

“Charlie.”

He blinked.

The living room snapped back into focus all at once.

The sunlight from the windows. The folded clothes. Nick’s face — worried, kneeling beside him now. The soft hum of the heater.

Charlie was still gasping, trembling, his body wound too tight to even know what to do with itself. He pressed his palms to his eyes. He didn’t want Nick to see him. He was being too much again.

Nick stayed quiet, just nearby. Still and steady.

Charlie pulled in one more shaky breath and finally said hoarsely, “I’m fine.”

Nick didn’t challenge the obvious lie, but he did reassure Charlie that he would listen if he wanted to talk about it. 

He didn't.

"What were we talking about?”

Nick gave him a quiet, concerned look, then said gently, “Nothing important.”

Charlie nodded, barely. His throat burned.

Nick hesitated, then spoke carefully.

“Would it be okay if Miley came here for coffee instead? I’ll just keep it short. You don’t have to see her.”

Charlie didn’t answer. He stood up suddenly, his breath still too fast, and nodded once before heading toward the stairs.

He clutched the railing all the way up.

Behind him, Nick sat back on the rug, staring at the half-folded laundry.

Nick opened the door just as Miley was stepping up to it, her sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky. She brushed past him without even a hello, muttering, “You’ve been ignoring my texts for days and then make me drive all the way out here to the middle of fucking nowhere? It smells like cow shit, Nick. We could’ve just met for coffee somewhere decent.”

Nick closed the door behind her slowly, jaw tight.

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry for not responding. I’ve just had a lot on my mind, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.”

She turned back toward him, all sickly sweet perfume and sharp heels, her tone shifting into something lighter, more coaxing.

“Well,” she said, stepping in close, “are you ready now?”

Nick stepped back half a pace, putting space between them.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”

Miley tilted her head, her voice softening like sugar in tea.

“Can we do other things with our mouths first?” Her fingers played with the collar of his shirt, her body pressing into his before he had the chance to respond.

A sudden bump echoed from upstairs—something soft, a drawer or a door nudged shut. Nick glanced toward the ceiling just as Miley pulled away from him like she’d been shocked.

“Oh my God," she hissed. “Is that guy still here?”

Nick looked back at her sharply.

“Charlie,” he corrected. “Yes. He’s still here.”

Her face contorted with disbelief.

“Nick, you know I’m not comfortable being in the same space as someone so unstable and unpredictable.”

“Keep your voice down,” Nick said, trying to stay calm. “Please.”

“Oh my God,” she scoffed. “You’re so insensitive. You never think about my needs.”

That snapped something in him.

“I think about your needs constantly, Miley,” he said, voice rising slightly, but still trying to avoid alarming Charlie. “I’ve been ignoring my own for you for years.”

“And yet here we are!” she shouted back. “If you cared about me at all, we’d be living together in New York City instead of you clinging to your mommy in this sad little town like some emotionally stunted baby!”

Nick blinked. Something inside him settled, but not the way she wanted. It wasn’t doubt or guilt—it was clarity. He was more sure than ever that what he had planned to do today was the right thing.

“I don’t think this is working,” he said, quiet but firm. “We need to break up.”

She blinked once, slow and calculating, like recalibrating her next move.

“You’re being dramatic again,” she said, and stepped in, pressing her lips against his before he could move. “You just need to remember how good we are together.”

“No,” Nick said, pulling back.

But she didn’t stop. Her hand slid down between them, grabbing at him through his jeans, rubbing insistently. Nick’s body jolted with disgust and confusion.

“Miley,” he warned, reaching for her wrist. “Stop.”

She smiled, using her free hand to trail up his side, still groping him.

“You know you can’t resist me.”

"Please," he grabbed her arm and gently pulled it away, "don't." But she just used her other hand as replacement.

“I said stop!” he shouted, shoving her off him hard enough that she stumbled back a few feet, gasping but not falling.

There was silence for half a beat—until she glanced over Nick’s shoulder.

And her face shifted, smug but poorly painted over with a look of hurt.

“Did you see that?” she barked. “He just shoved me! He put his hands on me!”

Nick spun around—and his heart nearly stopped.

Charlie was there.

Standing just at the edge of the hallway, pale and still in his pajamas, his hair messy and fluffy from a nap. He was holding his little crocheted deer in one hand, the other clenched into a fist. His eyes—dark and cold as cut glass—were locked on Miley.

“What I saw,” Charlie said, his voice low but clear, “was you sexually assaulting him.”

Miley turned on him like a storm.

“Are you insane? He’s literally my boyfriend. I was trying to have sex with my boyfriend, and he shoved me!”

Charlie’s voice didn’t waver.

“I heard him say no. Multiple times. You didn’t listen. You wouldn’t take your hands off him. He didn’t hurt you. He got you off of him.”

She stared between them, her chest heaving, and for a moment, something calculating flickered behind her eyes.

“You’re both crazy,” she snapped. “And you’re gonna regret this, Nick. I promise you.”

Then she turned and stormed out the door, slamming it hard behind her.

The second it clicked shut, Nick’s body folded in on itself. He collapsed onto the couch like the wind had been knocked out of him, shoulders curled forward, hands shaking. A choked noise caught in his throat before it could become a sob—but then it broke loose anyway, and another followed.

Charlie was beside him in an instant, setting his deer on the coffee table and kneeling at Nick’s side. His arms wrapped around Nick carefully, like holding a wound, and he pulled him close.

“You’re okay,” Charlie murmured, brushing Nick’s hair back with shaking fingers.

"I shouldn't have done that." Nick says, voice weak and shaking. "I didn't have to push her. She's smaller than me,  I could have hurt her."

"Nick," Charlie looked him in the eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t.”

Nick pressed his face into Charlie’s shoulder and sobbed harder.

Charlie rocked him gently.

“You said no,” he whispered. “She didn’t listen. That’s not your fault. You panicked.”

Nick nodded, barely.

Charlie kept holding him, one hand tracing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades.

“You’re safe,” Charlie whispered. “I promise.”

The moon cast pale light across the room as evening crept in through the windows. Outside, the sky had faded to a washed-out navy, the bare branches tapping gently against the glass like the world was afraid to interrupt.

Charlie woke first.

He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim room, and realized that they were still wrapped up on the couch—blankets tangled around their legs, Nick curled up against him, one hand unconsciously fisted in the front of Charlie’s hoodie.

The ache in Charlie’s neck didn’t matter. Not with the way Nick was sleeping in his arms, warm and safe and quiet. Breathing softly. Still here.

Charlie didn’t move.

Instead, he stared down at the crown of Nick’s head and felt something strange twisting in his chest—something raw and hot and unfamiliar. His own past had never sent fury through his bloodstream like this. Not when he was being yelled at, or ignored, or touched without permission. He’d always just folded into himself. Gone small. Compartmentalized.

But watching someone do it to Nick—he’d wanted to burn the house down. That fury had felt... terrifying. And impossibly protective.

Maybe that made him insane.

Or maybe it was because Nick was so good. Too good. The idea of someone hurting Nick—violating him—was unbearable in a way that Charlie still didn’t know how to name.

Nick stirred then, letting out a soft sound and burrowing further into Charlie’s chest like he didn’t quite want to wake up yet. Charlie swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. It was almost too much. To hold someone like this. To be held back. Even if it wasn’t romantic. Even if this was all just platonic to Nick, this was the kind of gentle intimacy Charlie had never known. Had never let himself hope for.

Nick blinked blearily up at him, eyes sleepy, cheeks flushed pink from where they’d been pressed to Charlie’s chest.

For a second, Charlie panicked. What if this was weird? What if now that Nick was clear-headed and rested, he’d pull away? Act awkward?

But Nick smiled. A quiet, tired thing that made Charlie feel like the whole room exhaled with him.

“Hey,” Charlie said softly. “How’re you feeling?”

Nick sat up slowly, rubbing his face. He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and looked down at the floor.

“I can’t believe that happened.”

Charlie stayed quiet, giving him space.

Nick started to ramble.

“I mean—I should’ve been clearer about where I stood. Maybe I wasn't making sens. Maybe she was just trying to get me to connect with her, maybe she’s right and I am selfish. She wants more, Charlie—New York, career stuff, real life—and I’m still here. With my team. My house. My garden. My mom.” He laughed, bitter and self-conscious. “God. Maybe I am pathetic. I’m in my mid-twenties and I still live a five-minute walk from my mother. Maybe I was holding her back.”

Charlie frowned.

“You weren't.”

Nick didn’t seem to hear him.

“She’s right about one thing. I should grow up. I could live half the year there. I’d get more exposure. Our brand deals are mostly based in the city anyway—”

“Nick,” Charlie said gently, cutting him off. “She’s not right. Not about any of that. You’re not selfish. You're the furthest thing from selfish. And it’s okay if you want different things. You’re allowed to stay where you’re comfortable. You’re allowed to not want to uproot your entire life.”

Nick’s breath caught. His shoulders trembled slightly, and then—

“I pushed her,” he whispered, like it hurt to say.

Charlie froze for a second, then spoke softly but firmly.

“She was assaulting you.”

“I still—” Nick’s voice cracked. “She’s half my size. I didn’t need to—”

“You didn’t hurt her,” Charlie said. “You didn’t want to hurt her. You were careful. I saw it. You said no. Multiple times. She kept touching you. You got her off of you. With your muscles, you could’ve thrown her across the room if you weren’t holding back, but you were.”

Nick let out a watery laugh, sharp and self-loathing.

Charlie continued. 

"She moved, what, a foot? You didn’t shove her to scare her. You were scared. You said no. You told her to stop. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nick was shaking again. Charlie reached out instinctively, putting a hand on his knee.

“No one gets to talk to you like that. No one gets to ignore your boundaries. There is nothing you could have said or done that would excuse that kind of abuse, and nothing she said or did was your fault.”

And then the words hung there.

Charlie’s lips parted slightly, realizing what he’d just said—what he needed to hear. What he never got to believe. His chest tightened.

Nick caught it.

“Char?” he asked softly.

Charlie just nodded, eyes suddenly too wet.

The room fell quiet.

Nick seemed to understand the shift.

A long beat passed before Nick reached for the remote.

“TV?”

Charlie nodded again, more firmly this time.

As the sound of some old sitcom filled the space, Charlie rose, still quiet, and padded into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with a cup of tea for Nick and a sandwich cut diagonally, just how Nick liked it. For himself, he’d poured a bowl of cornflakes—simple, safe, familiar.

He sat beside Nick again.

They watched. Or pretended to.

Neither said a word, but they stayed close, taking comfort in each other's presence. 

Chapter Text

Charlie had the blanket tucked around his shoulders, more for comfort than warmth. It was early April, and the sun filtering through the upstairs window warmed any of the leftover chill. The familiar Zoom loading wheel spun slowly before giving way to the kind face of his therapist.

“Hey, Charlie,” Geoff greeted, his voice warm and easy, like always.

Charlie gave a small nod.

“Hey.”

“How are we today?”

He paused, eyes flicking down.

“I’m… okay. I think.”

Geoff waited, expectant but patient.

Charlie took a slow breath.

“Nick’s ex came over a few days ago. Miley. She kind of barged in, and… tried to force herself on him. Like, actually. He told her no. Over and over. But she wouldn’t stop. She... grabbed him.”

Geoff’s eyes darkened slightly with concern, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He had to push her off of him,” Charlie went on, voice quiet. “And she tried to turn it around on him. Accused him of hurting her. I—” He hesitated, his throat tight. “I saw it. I heard her. And I was so… angry. Not just upset—like… rage. Shaking, stomach-flipping, full-body fury.”

He paused again, rubbing his knuckles along the blanket.

“But I realized, after calming down a bit, that I wasn’t angry when that kind of stuff happened to me. Not like that.”

Geoff’s face softened.

“Shall we unpack that?”

“I just—when it was me, I figured I must have done something wrong. That I deserved it, or I owed it, somehow. I never stopped to think maybe it was... Not okay.”

“And now?”

Charlie swallowed.

“Now I’m realizing that maybe… there’s no excuse. For what Ben did. For what any of them did. Even if I was desperate, or high, or trying to feel loved. Or useful—I'm not even sure which it was— It doesn’t mean it was okay.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Geoff nodded.

“You were in survival mode. That means you did what you felt you had to do. And now, you’re no longer surviving—you’re starting to live. That’s when the truth starts to rise up. And yeah, it can hurt… but it also means you’re healing.”

Charlie looked away, biting the inside of his cheek.

“It made me feel protective, I guess. Of Nick. Like… what happened to me, I can’t undo. But what happened to him—I wanted to take that pain from him. Carry it myself if I could.”

“That’s not strange at all,” Geoff said. “Empathy is often clearest when it’s directed outward. Sometimes we see in others what we’re still learning to see in ourselves. You took care of him the way that you wish someone had for you.”

Charlie blinked a few times. That landed harder than he expected.

Geoff gave him a moment to breathe. Then he smiled gently.

“How have things been since then?”

Charlie exhaled.

“Better, I think. We haven’t talked about it again. But we’ve both kind of… found a way forward. Nick said it was time to start the garden. So we’ve been working on that.”

“The garden,” Geoff repeated with a pleased nod. “Tell me about that.”

Charlie’s eyes lit up slightly.

“It’s kind of meditative, actually. Pulling weeds. Planting stuff. Watching it grow.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Charlie admitted, almost sheepishly. “I thought I’d be bad at it. Or bored. But it’s kind of nice. I like working beside him.”

“And it gives you a goal. A rhythm,” Geoff added. “That’s very grounding.”

Charlie nodded, then huffed a tiny laugh.

“Also, Nick said something really dumb the other day.”

“Oh?”

Charlie looked up, a glint of warmth in his eyes.

“He told me I should go outside and talk to the deer and use my Disney princess powers to ask them to please not eat our vegetables.”

Geoff laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That is both hilarious and very on-brand for him.”

Charlie cracked a real, genuine smile—and this time, it stayed a little longer.

Geoff leaned back in his chair slightly.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like that before.”

The smile faltered and Charlie looked down, half embarrassed.

“Nick’s just… funny.”

“I think he’s many things that seem good for you,” Geoff said gently. “And I think he sees more in you than you’re ready to believe. That’s okay. There’s time. But don’t ignore the things that bring you light, Charlie. Not after everything.”

Charlie nodded slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket in thought.

“And what you said earlier?” Geoff added. “About not getting angry when it happened to you? It takes time. But that anger is part of healing too. It means your sense of justice is waking up. And maybe that voice inside you that says you deserve peace and kindness and care is getting a little louder.”

Charlie didn’t answer right away. But the blanket slipped down from his shoulders slightly, and he sat a little straighter.

He was starting to believe it.

Even just a little.

The garden was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of the trowel pushing into soil and the occasional chirp of birds overhead. Early spring had finally begun to make itself known—sunny days with a breeze just sharp enough to make a hoodie comfortable but not necessary. The sky was pale blue, and the scent of turned earth lingered in the air like something fresh and new blossoming.

Nick wiped the back of his gloved hand across his forehead, smudging a line of dirt across his temple. Charlie was kneeling a few feet away, sleeves pushed up, carefully tucking a little green sprout into the ground like it was made of glass.

“I told my mum the other day,” Nick said casually, “that she gets first dibs on the zucchini.”

Charlie glanced over, eyebrow raised.

“Is there high demand for your zucchini?”

For a moment they both paused, wide-eyed at Charlie's accidental innuendo, before they both burst into giggles.

Nick grinned once they both calmed.

“No, no she just makes the best zucchini bread. Like, out-of-this-world good. You’ll see.”

Charlie blinked.

“I’ve never had it.”

Nick stopped what he was doing and turned to face him fully, mock offended.

“You’ve never had zucchini bread?”

Charlie shrugged, lips twitching.

“Sounds disgusting, to be fair. That’s a vegetable pretending to be dessert.”

“It’s incredible,” Nick said, all righteous energy. “My mum’s basically a food wizard. If anyone can make you understand, it's her.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“More like a promise. She loves baking for people. That’s where I get it from, actually. When I was in high school, she used to bake something every week for my whole team. Muffins, banana bread, cookies—like clockwork.”

Charlie blinked slowly.

“Your mom sounds… kind of amazing.”

Nick’s smile softened.

“She is.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward but tentative. Then Nick added, voice a little quieter, “You could meet her sometime. If you wanted.”

Charlie’s hands stilled over the soil. He didn’t look up right away.

“You think… she’d be okay with that?”

Nick set down his trowel.

“Charlie, she’s been asking about you since before you moved in. I just didn’t want to push you before you were ready.”

Charlie finally looked up, expression wary.

“She doesn’t think it’s weird? Me being here?”

“Not at all,” Nick said, completely earnest. “She thinks it’s great. She trusts my judgement. And she’s glad you’re safe.”

Charlie gave a slow nod, eyes flickering away.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe… yeah. If you're sure she’s comfortable with it.”

“I promise,” Nick said softly.

They went back to planting in silence for a few minutes, the quiet more thoughtful now. Charlie ran his hand along the row of soil they'd finished, trailing a clean groove with his finger.

“My mom never really cared about that kind of stuff,” he said after a while. “She barely acknowledged my friends. I'm not even sure she knew their names.”

Nick glanced over again, cautious but attentive.

“Did you guys have… an okay relationship?”

Charlie’s mouth tilted sideways.

“Kind of. She was supportive of me being gay, so that’s something. But she was cold. Controlling. She never trusted me. Never really tried to know me. Just kind of expected me to be whatever she thought I should be and do what she thought I should do.”

Nick frowned, heart twisting.

“That’s… hard. I’m sorry.”

Charlie shrugged, brushing it off like he was used to doing.

“It is what it is.”

Nick hesitated.

“And your dad?”

“He was there,” Charlie said. “He was kind. But he never really challenged her. Just… let things be how they were.”

Nick nodded slowly, unsure how much to say. Then, “You mentioned once you had a sister?”

That brought the smallest smile back to Charlie’s face.

“Tori. She’s the best. Always stood up for me, even when it got her grounded. She’s a force of nature.”

Nick grinned.

“Tori,” he repeated, filing the name away like it meant something. “Older or younger?”

“Older. By, like, a year. Almost exactly. We were best friends growing up...” His voice got quiet at the end.

Nick turned toward him, noticing the way Charlie’s posture shifted slightly—shoulders rising like a silent brace.

Charlie looked up abruptly.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

Nick blinked.

“Uh—”

“I’ll get it.” Charlie stood quickly, brushing off his jeans even though the dust clung stubbornly to the knees. He didn’t meet Nick’s eyes as he walked off toward the house.

Nick stayed where he was, watching him go, soil under his fingernails, and a new sense of trust behind to firm, but it was fragile.

Whatever Charlie was remembering, whatever made him walk away—Nick would wait.

And when Charlie was ready, he'd be ready to listen.

The couch had become their evening ritual.

Charlie was curled up against one side, long legs tucked under him, a book resting open against his knees. Nick was sprawled out beside him, socked feet kicked up on the ottoman, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok with the sound low.

Every once in a while, he’d glance over and check on Charlie—not in a hovering way, just… a habit now. Protective, even when unnecessary. And when he stumbled on a clip of a golden retriever stealing an entire baguette and parading around the yard like a king, he grinned and tilted the screen toward Charlie.

Charlie looked over, eyes sleepy and amused, and laughed—quiet and warm and so real it made Nick’s chest ache.

Nick hesitated a second, then set his phone down, turning slightly toward him.

“Hey,” he said gently, “I was thinking… if you're ever in a place where you want to talk about stuff. About your past. Or anything really. I’d really like to listen. I mean—I want to know you. All of you."

Charlie blinked. The smile he’d worn a moment ago softened, dimmed. He didn’t close off, exactly, but something quieter slipped behind his eyes.

“It’s just hard,” he said finally. His voice was low, thoughtful. “I don’t want you to see me any of the ways everyone else has.”

Nick leaned forward a little, voice equally soft.

"I already see who you are, Charlie. You’re kind. Smart. Thoughtful. Witty. Braver than you think. Whatever you’ve been through—it doesn’t change any of that.”

Charlie looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, sad smile. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either.

Nick let the quiet settle again. Let it breathe between them for a beat before he gently asked, “Can I ask you something? About earlier… when we were in the garden, and you mentioned Tori. You seemed like you wanted to say more. Is that… okay to ask about?”

Charlie glanced down at the book in his lap. He traced the edge of the page with his thumb.

“I realized,” he said slowly, “that tomorrow’s her birthday. She’s turning twenty-five.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I did some snooping a while back… Found her Instagram. She’s pregnant. About six months now.”

Nick blinked.

“You’re going to be an uncle?”

Charlie gave a hollow laugh.

“Apparently. And I might never even meet them.”

Nick’s brow creased.

“Why not? Have you thought about reaching out? Or… even checking in with any of your friends? You’ve said you can use Instagram.”

Charlie’s face tightened.

“My last conversation with Tori was… messy.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “And I pushed my friends away long before—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

Nick didn’t push.

Instead, he reached out and gently placed a hand over Charlie’s.

“You don’t have to finish that. Not if you’re not ready.” He waited for Charlie to meet his gaze. “But… for what it’s worth, I think they’d be happy to hear from you. If you were my brother, or my best friend, and you just disappeared—I’d never stop thinking about you. I haven’t even known you that long and I already can’t imagine not having you in my life.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched under Nick’s touch, like he might pull away—but then he didn’t. He just sat there, head bowed, letting the weight of the moment settle around him.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Nick squeezed his hand.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation until you’re ready,” he said. “But you’re not alone. Not now.”

Charlie nodded once, eyes misty but steady.

They didn’t need to say anything else. The book was still open, TikTok still waiting, the light still warm.

And between them, something steady and real was taking root.

The kitchen smelled faintly of rosemary and lemon, the window cracked open to let in the soft breeze of early April. Nick stood barefoot near the counter, scribbling possible menu ideas onto a notepad while Charlie hovered nearby with a mug of tea in his hands.

“So I’m thinking your roasted veggie risotto for the main,” Nick said, glancing over his shoulder. “And maybe that apple tart thing we saw on Bake Off for dessert?”

Charlie raised a brow.

"The one with the crust that kept falling apart and nearly made poor Johnathon cry?"

Nick nodded.

“I am an ambitious man, Charlie. And I haven't cried over a baked good in like... a year.”

Charlie huffed a quiet laugh and took another sip of tea.

“So,” Nick said, voice suddenly lighter, mischievous, “that calendar shoot is next week."

Charlie groaned.

“Oh god, I forgot about the puppies and shirtless men.”

Nick grinned, spinning a pen between his fingers.

“I’ve been practicing poses.”

He dramatically dropped into a wide stance, then mimed cradling an invisible golden retriever in his arms, gazing off toward the ceiling with a faraway look.

Charlie rolled his eyes, but his cheeks colored.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’ve got more,” Nick said, straightening and pretending to smolder. “This one’s my ‘brooding-with-a-beagle’ pose.”

Charlie turned quickly toward the sink, hiding a laugh.

Nick watched him with a flicker of something softer in his chest. The way Charlie’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his dimples appeared before he could stop them. And that blush… it wasn’t much, but Nick noticed it. Filed it away. Not because he expected anything from it—God, no. Charlie had been through too much, and the last thing Nick would ever do was risk making him feel unsafe or obligated.

Still, the idea that Charlie might find him attractive in any small way… It lit something gentle inside him.

Nick turned back to the counter, picking up the pen again.

“You said you and your sister are close in age, right?”

Charlie nodded.

“Almost exactly a year apart?”

“Yeah.”

Nick tilted his head.

“So when’s your birthday?”

Charlie shifted slightly, his grip tightening on the mug.

“It’s... soon.”

Nick turned toward him, curious.

“How soon?”

Charlie looked down.

“April 27th.”

Nick’s eyes widened.

“That’s in less than three weeks?!”

Charlie flinched and ducked away, squeezing his eyes shut.

Nick’s voice caught in his throat.

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry.”

Charlie blinked, then gave a small shake of his head.

“It’s okay. I know you weren’t yelling at me. My body just… hasn’t figured that out yet.”

Nick nodded slowly. His voice softened.

“Can I hug you?”

Charlie looked up.

“Yes. Please.”

Nick crossed the space between them and wrapped him in a warm, steady embrace. Charlie melted into it, letting his forehead rest against Nick’s shoulder for a few quiet seconds. The scent of citrus and tea and laundry soap settled between them.

When they pulled apart, Charlie looked off to the side, almost shy.

“I haven’t really thought about my birthday in years,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Nick gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“You deserve to be celebrated, Charlie. Every day. But especially on your birthday.”

Charlie shrugged, bashful.

“You’re always doing things for me. It’s okay if it’s low key.”

Nick smiled.

“It can be as chill as you want. No surprises, no big crowds. Just something a little special.”

Charlie hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“I’ll think about it.”

Nick bumped his shoulder lightly.

And for a moment, standing in the quiet hum of the kitchen with a notepad full of half-written recipes and sunlight dancing across the floor, everything felt wonderfully, achingly simple.

The kitchen was filled with the soft sounds of Nick moving from counter to stove, the rhythmic clatter of pans and the occasional hum as he chopped vegetables. The scent of garlic and onion already hung in the air, and Charlie stood awkwardly by the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

He tugged slightly at the hem of Nick's oversized t-shirt—navy blue. It brought out his eyes. It hung loose on his frame, the sleeves brushing his elbows. His sweatpants were comfortable, too. As he looked at the table Nick had set so carefully, the soft linen napkins and flickering candle in the center, Charlie felt… out of place.

Nick glanced over from the stove and smiled.

“You doing okay?”

Charlie nodded.

“Just… nervous.”

Nick wiped his hands on a tea towel and leaned against the counter.

“She’s going to love you, you know."

Charlie looked down at himself.

“I don’t really have much else to wear and I feel a bit... Like a mess.”

Nick’s smile turned softer. “She's not going to care what you're wearing. But if you ever want to go shopping, I’d be happy to take you. You know, help you find some stuff that feels like you.”

Charlie shook his head quickly.

“No, thank you. I already told you—I don’t want you buying me more than you already have. I’ll get more when I can. And I’ll pay you back.”

Nick didn’t argue. He just nodded and reached back for the spoon on the stovetop.

“I get it. Just putting it out there.”

A beat passed before Nick asked, gently, “Did you get a chance to apply to any freelance jobs this week?”

Charlie leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

“A few. But there’s a lot of competition when you don’t have a degree. Or references. Or a paper trail that proves you exist after 2021.”

Nick glanced over at him again, his expression unreadable for a second.

“Still proud of you for trying.”

Charlie looked away quickly, suddenly too warm.

“Yeah.”

The kitchen filled again with soft movement—Nick stirring a sauce, flipping something in a pan, humming along with a playlist that had been playing quietly in the background. Charlie watched him, heart heavy and full at the same time.

Nick was so casual. So steady. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t try to make Charlie into something he wasn’t ready to be. He made everything feel almost… normal.

Which is exactly what terrified Charlie the most.

He knew Nick’s mom would ask questions. Not in a cruel or prying way—Nick wouldn’t allow that—but in the gentle, curious way of someone trying to understand. And Charlie didn’t know if he could lie convincingly enough to make himself sound like a person who hadn’t burned his entire life down.

He was halfway into a spiral when—

Ding-dong

Charlie’s breath hitched.

Nick wiped his hands again and tossed the towel over his shoulder. He gave Charlie a reassuring look as he walked past to the door.

“You’ve got this,” he said softly.

Charlie tried to nod, but his knees were already shaking.

Charlie hadn’t known what to expect.

He’d barely slept the night before. His stomach had twisted all afternoon. But now, sitting at Nick’s dining table with the scent of roasted vegetables and lemon-herb chicken in the air, watching Nick and his mom laugh like old friends, he realized something startling:

Nick had been right.

Sarah Nelson was… wonderful.

She’d stepped into the house with a smile that somehow felt like sunlight and a calm breeze at the same time. She had asked, gently, “Would it be alright if I gave you a hug?” And Charlie, before he could even think to weigh the question, had nodded.

It wasn’t one of those polite, brief hugs. It was real. Strong. Grounding.

Charlie had nearly cried from the sheer warmth of it.

Apparently amazing hugs were hereditary.

Then she’d stepped back, hands still lightly on his arms, and said, “You have the loveliest blue eyes. I always wanted blue eyes myself—until I saw my brown ones on my beautiful boys.”

He hadn’t known what to say to that. Nick's eyes really were beautiful, but he couldn't say that out loud.

Now, plates half-empty in front of them, Charlie let himself relax into the comfort of the moment. He watched Sarah and Nick tease each other, their conversation weaving easily between updates on Nick’s team, Sarah’s gardening, and what Charlie realized was a familiar rhythm only long-term closeness could build.

Sarah turned to Nick mid-story and asked softly, “And how are you feeling now, sweetheart? After… everything with Miley.”

Charlie saw the brief flicker in her gaze. Something quiet. Knowing.

She knew. All of it.

Nick smiled, small but genuine.

“I’m okay. Doing really well, actually.”

Sarah gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

“Good. Because that miserable cunt shouldn't be allowed to steal a moment more of your energy.”

"Mom!" Nick had gasped, and Charlie couldn't hold the laugh that burst out of him. His own mother thought "crap" was a bad word. 

She shrugged.

"I'm sorry, dear, but sometimes nothing else fits."

Nick should his head, still laughing gently.

Then, seamlessly, Nick pivoted to teasing Charlie about his complete lack of experience with zucchini bread.

“Can you believe Charlie has never had zucchini bread? It’s like… the superior bread.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“You say that, sure, but it's made of squash.”

Sarah laughed, setting down her fork. 

"Don't let him fool you, Charlie. He protested trying it until he was well into his teens." Nick gasped, faux scandalized. "Same with cheesecake."

“Lies,” Nick protested. “Slander.”

“Oh, no, no,” she said sweetly. “Don’t make me tell the story about you crying because your banana muffin had ‘spots’ in it.”

Charlie’s face lit up with a laugh he didn’t mean to let out.

“Spots?”

“They were chocolate chips,” Nick muttered, face in his hands. “And I was five.”

“And here I was, falling for your food snobbery.” Charlie said, eyes gleaming. "Bamboozled, I tell ya.'

“You’re both traitors,” Nick declared.

Sarah grinned at Charlie.

“I like this boy, Nicky. He's a fun one."

For the first time in… maybe ever, Charlie felt like he belonged somewhere.

Later, after dishes had been cleared and tea poured and emptied, Sarah stood by the door, coat over her arm, ready to leave. She hugged Nick first—tight and long, murmuring something that Charlie couldn’t catch.

Then she turned to Charlie.

She didn’t ask this time. Just opened her arms. Charlie stepped into them without hesitation.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For keeping Nick company. He seems more himself around you.”

Charlie blinked, caught off guard.

“I… I think I just got lucky. Winding up with him.”

She smiled, pulling back slightly to look at him.

“I think you both got lucky.”

He swallowed.

“It was really nice meeting you.”

“You, too, sweetheart.”

When the door finally closed behind her, Nick turned and leaned against it with a content sigh.

“She’s so kind,” Charlie said, still smiling.

“Yeah,” Nick said, smiling back at him. “She really is.”

Their eyes held for a moment, warm and a little brighter than usual.

It had been a good night.

And for once, Charlie let that feeling be enough.

Nick lay flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting over his chest as if to keep his heart from floating too far upward. His room was quiet, just the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the settling house. Outside, the wind stirred the trees.

But inside, his thoughts buzzed.

Dinner had gone so well. Better than he could’ve imagined. Charlie and his mum had slipped into conversation like they’d been friends for years. Joking. Smiling. His mum had laughed that soft, warm laugh she always saved for people she liked, as opposed to the polite one she often used with Miley, and Charlie… Charlie had lt up. Still hesitant, still shy, but he clearly felt good. Accepted. Comfortable.

He had fit. In a way Miley never had. Not that they were comparable situations, obviously—but still. That thought curled quietly in Nick’s chest, warm and a little bittersweet.

He turned his head and stared at the dark ceiling.

He wanted to know Charlie. Not just what he was like now, in bits and quiet pieces, but who he used to be. Who he was before all of this. What he loved. What made him laugh. What he was just passionate about. What had been stolen from him.

So, he reached for his phone.

He hesitated for a moment. Then opened Instagram.

It took some guesswork—his name, a couple filters—but eventually, there it was:

@Charlie__spr1

The profile picture stopped him cold.

Charlie looked maybe eighteen. Curly hair much shorter. His eyes, the same stormy blue Nick saw every day, were bright. Free. There was a wide grin on his face, and Nick couldn’t help but imagine the moment someone must’ve captured it—Charlie laughing at a dumb joke, maybe, or looking at someone he loved.

He swallowed hard.

Private Account.

Of course.

Still… that was him.

And then, another name stirred in his head.

Tori.

He typed quickly: Tori Spring.

Scroll. Scroll.

There—a profile picture of a woman in her mid-twenties with heavy bangs and sharp cheekbones. The same eyes. Definitely related. Her profile wasn’t private.

He clicked.

There it was. One image captured his eye, a few months ago: a picture of her cradling her belly in a sunflower field, captioned:

“19 weeks of feeling like a small dragon is kicking my insides 🐉🖤 Can’t wait to meet you.”

Nick smiled softly.

That must be her.

He kept scrolling.

Photos of her cat. Of her and a tall person with curly hair and large glasses who must’ve been her partner. Memes. Book recommendations.

And then—he stopped.

The photo was of a gravestone. Simple. Surrounded by early spring flowers. In the caption:

“Two years. I still feel you in everything. I always will.”

Nick stared.

He couldn’t breathe for a second.

The stone read:

Charles Francis Spring

Beloved son, brother, and friend

April 27th, 2001 — April 27th, 2022

His stomach dropped.

No. No, that—

That couldn’t be.

He sat upright in bed, staring at the glowing screen like it might explain itself.

Was this some kind of… symbolic gesture? A metaphor? A moment of grief for who he used to be?

Or did…

Did they really think he was dead?

Nick stared at Charlie’s name etched into stone, and a chill climbed the back of his neck.

Because if they thought he was dead...

Whatever happened…

Whatever Charlie had gone through…

They had no idea.

How did they think...?

Nick’s thumb hovered over the screen, trembling.

He didn’t know what to feel.

Grief. Horror. Fury.

But most of all?

Fear.

What had Charlie survived?

And how close had he come to not surviving at all?

Chapter Text

Charlie lay curled under the duvet, blinking slowly at the soft light spilling in through the window. The air smelled faintly of rain-soaked soil and clean laundry—Nick must have hung the laundry out to dry before his workout this morning. The house felt quiet in the way only early mornings did. Full of peace. Stillness. Comfort.

He thought of Sarah. Her gentle voice. Her warm hug. The easy way she’d looked at him, like she’d known him longer than just a dinner. No probing questions. No pity. Just… kindness. Charlie hadn’t realized how much craved being seen by a motherly presence until he’d nearly cried in her arms.

And then Nick.

Charlie smiled faintly.

He always worked out early. Then came breakfast. Eggs or toast or those protein-packed smoothies that Charlie pretended to hate but secretly kind of liked. They had a rhythm now, soft and unspoken.

He didn’t trust it to last. Couldn’t. Things like this—gentle mornings, shared jokes, safe spaces—weren’t made for people like him.

But it was nice. Fragile, precious, and fleeting.

And right now, it was his.

Charlie slipped out of bed, stretched, and headed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, humming a little under his breath, then turned on the shower and stepped under the warm spray.

He tilted his head back, eyes closed, letting the water wash over him. Soothing. Grounding.

His hands moved on autopilot—soap, shoulders, arms, chest.

And then, as he moved to wash between his legs, he paused.

His breath caught.

It had been years.

Not since before. Before sex became something transactional. Something he owed. Something he endured. There had been a time—before Ben—when he’d touched himself because it felt good. Because it was his. His body. His desire. His control.

He couldn’t even remember what that felt like anymore.

But lately...

Lately, he’d started noticing things again.

The way Nick looked when he came in from a workout, shirt clinging to his chest, face flushed and hair damp. The way his muscles flexed when he lifted heavy things in the garden. The way he laughed, rich and warm.

Charlie tried not to notice. He tried really hard.

It felt unfair. Invasive. Like stealing something he hadn’t earned.

Nick wasn’t for him. Not like that. Not when Nick was just being kind. Not when Nick thought Charlie was good. Worth saving. Deserving of care.

Charlie wasn’t ready to risk that. Not by being honest about his feelings. And not by admitting the truth.

Because as soon as Nick knew what Charlie had done, where he’d been, what he’d let happen—he’d want him to leave. Of course he would. Anyone would. Even sweet, kind people like Nick had limits. Standards. Charlie was very sure he did not meet them.

He exhaled shakily and finished rinsing. His body still didn’t feel like it belonged to him entirely, but… maybe it could. Someday. Geoff seemed to think so.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower, wiping the fog from the mirror with one hand. He met his own gaze.

Still here.

He got dressed quietly—comfy joggers and one of the softer shirts Nick had picked out for him when he was in the hospital. It had a tiny embroidered sunflower on the sleeve. He loved it.

Then he padded downstairs barefoot, bracing himself for Nick’s usual light teasing over his bed head and the promise of tea and toast waiting in the kitchen.

Charlie stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower and his sleeves pushed up like he was bracing for something. Nick was at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping something in a pan. The familiar sounds of breakfast—oil crackling, soft music playing from the speaker on the counter—should have been comforting.

But something felt… different.

“Morning,” Nick said, turning his head with a small smile. “Sleep okay?”

Charlie nodded.

“Yeah. Um. You?”

Nick gave another faint smile, eyes returning to the pan.

“Yeah. Pretty decent.”

“Good,” Charlie said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s… good.”

The silence stretched out in a way it usually didn’t. Not between them. It wasn’t that Nick was being cold, exactly. He was still making breakfast. Still being nice. But something in his posture was tighter than usual. Something in his voice less warm.

Charlie sat slowly at the table and looked down at the plate Nick had just set out for him. Eggs, scrambled. Toast, sour dough with a thin layer of butter. Some berries from the garden—just how he liked it.

His stomach still churned.

He tried to eat. He really did. But every chew felt like it scraped down his throat.

Did he say something wrong?

Was Sarah just being polite yesterday, and she actually hated him? Maybe she told Nick after she left. Maybe he embarrassed Nick somehow, and now Nick’s trying to figure out how to tell him to go.

His chest started to tighten. His breathing quickened. He blinked and something wet dropped onto the back of his hand.

Tears.

He heard Nick’s voice—sharper this time, worried.

“Charlie?”

Charlie’s head jerked up. Nick was watching him now, concern all over his face. He took a step toward him.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie blurted, trying to rub at his eyes. “I—I didn’t mean to do something wrong. If I upset you, or if your mom didn’t like me, or you changed your mind about all of this, it’s okay. I can go. I’ll figure something out. I mean, I’m not dying anymore or anything. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have stayed this long anyway, I’m—”

“Charlie,” Nick said, gently but firmly, crouching beside him. “Please. Stop.”

Charlie did. Not because he was done, but because Nick’s voice was so careful. So full of something that didn’t sound like anger or frustration at all.

Nick reached up and brushed his thumb just under Charlie’s eye, catching another tear.

“Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong. I swear. I’m not upset with you. I’m really, really glad you’re still here.”

Charlie’s chest hitched.

“Then why…?”

Nick sighed, pressing his hands to his knees.

“I’m not upset with you, Char. I’m— I'm just nervous. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ve been trying to figure out how.”

Charlie stiffened.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want to bring it up while you were eating,” Nick said quietly. “Didn’t want you to miss a meal.”

Charlie glanced down at the barely-touched food on his plate and gave a tiny, watery laugh.

“That ship’s kind of sailed.”

Nick tilted his head, concerned.

“I promise I’ll eat something for lunch,” Charlie added quickly. “I’ll even have seconds. Scout’s honor.”

Nick smiled, small but sincere.

Then he stood and moved to the blender.

“Or perhaps we could try a smoothie?”

Charlie nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah. That’d be okay, I think.”

He watched as Nick opened the fridge and pulled out almond milk, frozen banana, blueberries, and protein powder. His movements were calm and practiced. Something about watching him, step by step, felt grounding. Maybe it was for Nick, as well.

Charlie hugged his arms around himself at the table, heart still ticking a bit faster than usual.

What could this be about?

Nick blended the smoothie until it was thick and purple, then poured it into Charlie’s favorite mug—the one with the pastel leaves. He set it in front of him gently.

Charlie looked up.

Nick was still giving him a soft, kind look.

But his eyes were heavy with something unsaid.

“Okay,” Charlie said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m listening.”

Charlie sat frozen, the smoothie half finished in front of him, his hands limp in his lap. Nick’s voice had gone quiet after he explained it all—what he found when he searched for Charlie’s Instagram, then Tori’s. What he saw on her profile. The gravestone.

Nick had barely gotten the words out before he started apologizing.

“I shouldn’t have gone looking. I wasn’t trying to pry or—God, Charlie, I’m sorry. I just— I just wanted a small glimpse but then I saw that and I panicked and—”

But Charlie hadn’t moved.

Just stared.

“So that’s why they never came looking for me,” he whispered, like he’d just solved the final piece of a terrible puzzle. His voice cracked around the edges. Then he made a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—and folded forward, burying his face in his hands.

Nick was kneeling at his side before he even realized he’d moved.

“Charlie—hey—hey, no, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He wrapped an arm around his shoulder, feeling the tremors start to shake through him. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Charlie clung to him then, curling in like he didn’t know how to stay upright on his own. Nick felt him shake harder with each breath, and he just held on tighter, one hand moving slowly up and down his back.

They stayed like that for a while.

Then Nick said, softly, “Please talk to me, Charlie. I’m not trying to push, I promise, I just… I’ve been trying so hard to give you space, to let you come to me on your own time, but this—” He broke off, his voice strained. “This is so much. And I’m so confused. Please. Tell me what happened?”

Charlie was quiet.

Then, without a word, he pulled back just enough to look Nick in the eye, red and glassy and resigned.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Nick nodded, even though it made his stomach twist.

Charlie disappeared upstairs, and Nick stood frozen in the kitchen, arms crossed tight over his chest, heart racing. He didn’t know what Charlie was getting. He didn’t know what to expect. But something told him whatever came next was going to change everything.

It was nearly ten minutes later when Charlie came back down the stairs holding the hospital backpack—the one they’d given him when he was discharged. A simple black canvas with the hospital logo stitched on the front.

Charlie came back to the table and sat down slowly across from him. He placed the bag down next to him, and rested his hands on the table. He stared down at it for a minute, seemingly gathering his thoughts.

Then he looked up.

His expression was steady, but tired. Resolved.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you.”

December 2021

Charlie yanked a hoodie off its hanger and shoved it into the duffel bag without folding it. The room around him was a mess of open drawers and angry motion—papers scattered, closet gaping, dresser half-empty like it had been looted in a hurry.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

He ignored it.

A beat later, it creaked open anyway. Tori stepped inside without asking and perched quietly at the edge of his bed, long legs tucked under her as she watched him wordlessly.

He didn’t look at her. Just kept packing.

“Please don’t go,” she said, quiet but firm.

Charlie stuffed a pair of jeans into the bag with more force than necessary.

“There’s no reason to stay.”

Tori glanced around the room, then back to him.

“What if there is? What if this is just a rough patch and it gets better?”

Charlie scoffed.

“If by ‘rough patch’ you mean our parents pulling my tuition because I won’t major in math, then yeah, sure. Real promising start to the new year.”

“You’re really good at math,” Tori said gently.

“But I don’t love it,” Charlie snapped. “I don’t want to be an accountant, or a fucking finance bro.”

Tori rubbed her hands over her thighs, sighing.

“And you shouldn't, if you don't want to. So, don’t do math. Do something else. Anything else. But please— don’t leave with Ben.”

Charlie turned sharply to face her.

“He has a place for me. A real place. And he actually listens to me. He cares about what I want. Unlike—”

“I understand you,” Tori cut in. “I’ve always tried to. You know that.”

He shook his head.

“You’ve been so wrapped up in Michael and your—your blog—”

She blinked.

“Charlie—”

“Who even reads blogs anymore, Tori?! You’re checked out and you know it. You didn’t even defend me when Mum tore into me about changing majors.”

Tori stood now, frustration rising to match his.

“Because you lied to everyone, Charlie. Even me ! You hid it from us. You never used to lie to me, of all people. You haven’t been yourself for a long time. All your energy’s gone into Ben. You don’t write anymore. You don’t have film nights. You barely talk to anyone who isn’t him.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed.

“You sound just like Mom sometimes.”

Tori recoiled.

“I mean it,” he spat. “You think you know better than me. You think you’re being helpful, but you’re just another person trying to shove me into a box. Ben wants me to write. He thinks I’m talented. He supports me, and he—”

“He isolates you,” Tori snapped, her voice tight with anger. “He wants you dependent on him. That’s not love, Charlie.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Charlie said, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re just jealous. Because I’ve grown up. Because I’m not stuck being a prudish little wallflower who can't physically satisfy the man I love.”

Tori went still.

The room suddenly felt too quiet. Her expression didn’t twist with anger—just hurt. Deep, stunned hurt. Tori had confided in him about her insecurities involving her asexuality and Charlie had just used it against her in an unforgivable way. A way he didn't even actually mean 

Charlie’s stomach dropped.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Save it ” Her voice cracked. “You knew exactly where to hit.”

“Tori—”

But she was already heading for the door, moving like she’d been punched in the ribs. She didn’t slam it behind her. Just closed it with a quiet finality that made Charlie feel small.

The silence afterward was brutal. He stood alone in the middle of his torn-up room, breathing hard, chest tight.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, face in his hands. The tears came quickly, hot and full of guilt. He could still hear the echo of his words in his own skull, could still see the way her face had changed. He’d said the one thing he knew would hurt her. Because he was angry. Because he needed to push her away. It was easier, because he didn’t know how to stay.

And still, after all that…

He got up.

Shoved the rest of his things into the bag.

Shouldered it.

When he opened the front door, his mother called out from the kitchen, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’m done,” he said without turning around.

He stepped out into the cold and didn’t look back.

Ben was parked across the street, engine already running. He was leaning over the console, smiling lazily as Charlie approached.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Ben said as Charlie climbed in. “You okay?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He just dropped his bag in the footwell and stared straight ahead.

Ben leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“It’s all gonna be okay now. Our real lives start here.”

Charlie nodded slowly.

He tried to believe it.

February 2022

Charlie sat cross-legged on the edge of the motel bed, laptop propped on a pillow, an open document glowing in the dim light. The blinking cursor mocked him with its emptiness. He exhaled slowly, drawing in another lungful from the joint clutched between two fingers, willing it to pull him somewhere softer, somewhere clearer.

The wall behind him thudded with bass. Laughter—low and boisterous—rolled in from next door. Ben's voice carried easily through the thin plaster, louder than the rest, charmed and charming.

Charlie wasn't invited.

Not that he wanted to hang out with the Wall Street rejects Ben called “the future of modern finance.” They made crude jokes, wore overpriced polos, and looked at Charlie like he was a pet Ben had picked up off the street.

Still, the rejection sat like a stone in his chest.

He closed the laptop with a sigh and leaned back against the wall. Maybe tomorrow he’d get more done. Or maybe he’d sleep through it again, blurry and slow like he’d been for weeks.

A knock came at the door.

Charlie blinked and sat up straighter, quickly stubbing out what was left of the joint and waving his hand to clear the air. Before he could reach the door, it swung open.

Ben walked in, followed by two tall, broad-shouldered men Charlie didn’t know. Ben was grinning, eyes glassy and wild, pupils blown so wide they looked like ink spills. The other two looked similarly drunk—or high on something—Charlie couldn’t tell which. Probably both.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Ben drawled. “Hope you don’t mind—we need to crash a couple boys in here tonight. The other rooms are packed.”

Charlie stood up slowly.

“I—uh. I thought this one was just ours.”

Ben’s smile flickered.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he hissed, voice low but sharp, like a threat under velvet. “Come on, be cool.”

Charlie swallowed hard.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—just—was working, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Ben said, softer now, glancing at the laptop. “Still stuck?”

Charlie nodded.

“Bit of a block.”

“Loosen up,” Ben said, already pulling a red cup from behind his back and offering it to Charlie. “Drink a little. Maybe it’ll help you think outside the box.”

Charlie took it with a small, hesitant smile. He didn’t really enjoy drinking, but he also didn't want to seem ungrateful. He had food here, a room, someone who wanted him around. That had to count for something.

He drank.

The liquid burned going down—cheap vodka and something sweet—not strong enough to explain the way his limbs started buzzing a few minutes later. His thoughts blurred at the edges. The room felt like it was rocking gently underfoot, like the floor had become a boat.

Ben was on the bed now, laughing at something one of the guys said—the tall one with the dark, shocked back hair. The other one—shorter, buzzed hair, maybe twenty-five—had taken the chair in the corner.

Charlie tried to focus, but his eyes kept drifting.

Then—fingers on his thigh. It wasn't Ben, it was buzz cut.

He flinched, blinking hard, and pushed the hand off.

The man’s expression darkened. He turned a questioning glare toward Ben.

Ben met Charlie’s eyes and offered a tight-lipped smile.

“Come on, baby,” he said smoothly. “We’re all just hanging out. Let’s have a little fun.”

Charlie hesitated.

His brain felt like it was underwater. He didn’t want this. Not really. But if this was what Ben wanted—if this was part of it—if being open and easy made him more worthy...

“I—I guess,” he murmured.

The man didn’t wait for confirmation. He grabbed a fistful of Charlie’s hair and tugged him forward—harder than necessary. Charlie gasped, the sting sharp enough to snap something loose inside him. He tried to speak, to say wait, to say stop, but his tongue was thick and the words floated uselessly in the haze.

He watched the man's fingers fumble on the button of his own jeans.

And then—nothing.

Just dark.

November 2022

The air was sharp and cold against Charlie’s skin, biting down his spine like icy fingers. He pulled the threadbare towel tighter around his shoulders, but it didn’t help much. His damp hair clung to the back of his neck. The motel heat had been shut off again—another late bill, another reason Ben had grumbled about the “burden” of keeping Charlie comfortable.

He sat on the edge of the bed, bare thighs sticking uncomfortably to the stained sheets, eyes fixed on the cigarette burn near the pillow. He counted the stains like they were stars, trying not to think about wherre each one came from. Trying not to think about the hollow, tight feeling in his chest.

Ben had told him to be ready by seven.

Charlie wasn’t allowed to get dressed yet.

“He’s in a rush,” Ben had said. “Between meetings. Wants you prepped and ready to go. Be quick, be good, be quiet.”

Charlie clenched his jaw and shivered harder.

The guy who came on Thursdays was never cruel—not like some of the others. He was quiet. Always smelled like aftershave and leather seats. Never made eye contact. Never said Charlie’s name. It almost made it easier. Like he wasn’t there. Like Charlie wasn’t, either.

However, he was always in a rush.

The first time had been the worst. He hadn’t been prepared. Charlie had bled and ached for days. He learned quickly after that. Adapted. Cleaned up. Got quiet. Did what was expected.

It wasn’t so bad if he didn’t think about it too hard.

Still, his stomach twisted as he heard the soft knock on the door.

He didn’t stand. He didn’t need to.

He just looked down at the chipped linoleum floor and said, through gritted teeth, “Come in.”

The door creaked open.

The man stepped inside, wearing the same stiff navy suit and a winter coat that still carried the outside chill with it. He closed the door behind him without a word, dropped his briefcase by the wall, and started taking off his coat.

Charlie let the towel fall away.

Detached. That was the only way.

He didn’t think about how cold he was. Or how hungry. Or how this man had probably just come from a catered office meeting with bagels and coffee and smiling secretaries.

He didn’t think about the fact that this was the fourth time this week and he still hadn't seen any money.

He didn’t think about the novel sitting in his email outbox, sent to the publisher Ben promised would love it. He didn’t think about how he hadn't felt the inspiration to write since.

He didn’t think about the new phone that still hadn’t arrived. About how he hadn’t spoken to Tori in nearly a year. About how, if something happened to him in this room, no one would even know.

He just went still. Silent.

Gone.

October 2024

The room was dim. Cold. Charlie lay still on the bed, his wrists raw beneath the restraints. His ribs rose and fell with shallow, careful breaths. The skin beneath him ached from too many nights pressed against the worn mattress. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd spoken.

Ben’s voice was hoarse from screaming.

He paced the room, wild-eyed, the effects of whatever he'd taken pulsing through him like electricity. Rage laced every movement. He hurled accusations, contradictions, venom — all aimed at Charlie, who didn’t flinch anymore. Not when Ben yelled. Not even when he hit.

Charlie had tried to leave.

He had made it outside. Down the road. Nearly two miles, barefoot, freezing, his heart thudding with hope and terror — before it all vanished beneath blackness. He had woken up back here. And now Ben was unraveling.

"Ungrateful," Ben spat. "After everything I’ve done for you."

Charlie stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly.

“You think I wanted to hurt you?” Ben’s voice cracked. “You made me. You always make me.”

Then suddenly, as if flipped by a switch, Ben collapsed to his knees beside the bed, pressing a shaking hand to Charlie’s face. His touch was rough, fingers digging in like bruises yet pretending to be tender.

“I’m sorry,” Ben whispered, wet-eyed. “I hate when we fight.”

Charlie didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not just because the words were gone, but because any response — even the wrong blink — could tilt the night further into violence.

Ben kissed his cheek — too hard, too long — and buried his face in Charlie’s neck.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmured. “You don’t understand what would happen to me. I would die, Charlie. I need you .”

Charlie closed his eyes.

He stayed very still.

Somewhere, deep beneath the numbness, his mind was curling in on itself. Recoiling. Disappearing. But not entirely. Because some quiet part of him was still counting days. Watching. Waiting. Listening for a moment to run again. For the chance to try— just one more time.

Charlie didn’t lift his head. Couldn’t. His fingers tightened around the strap of the backpack that he'd slowly moved onto his back, like it was a life vest and he was already halfway underwater.

“I don’t know what happened the night you found me,” he murmured. “Or even the days before. It’s just... gone.”

He took a shaky breath and turned toward the door, still not daring to look at Nick.

“Thank you,” he said. “For letting me stay. For helping me get better. Even if you regret it now, I won’t forget it.”

He made it halfway to the exit before Nick said, softly but firmly, “Wait.”

Charlie’s feet stopped, but his eyes stayed on the floor. There was something in Nick’s voice—raw and unfamiliar—that made his pulse stutter.

He heard movement. A few steps. Then, gently, “Charlie… will you please look at me?”

Charlie turned, hesitantly. When his eyes finally lifted, the sight undid him.

Nick was crying.

Tears streamed slowly down his face, unhidden, unashamed. His chest rose and fell with a quiet, aching intensity. He still looked at Charlie like he was seeing something precious and breakable and beloved.

Charlie’s voice barely worked.

“Why are you crying?”

Nick looked stunned. 

"Why am I—?"

He shook his head and reached out, but didn’t touch him.

“Charlie. Can I hug you?”

The question felt like a balm—so human, so kind. Charlie nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Nick stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, slowly, securely. And for a moment, Charlie stood stiffly, a little unsure. Then his body gave in.

He clung.

Hard.

Tears sprang up hot and fast, burning tracks down his cheeks. His arms tightened around Nick’s back like he needed to make sure he was really there. The warmth of it—Nick’s breath near his ear, his heartbeat steady and real—was almost too much. Too much in the best possible way.

Nick whispered, “Thank you for telling me. That was the bravest thing I've ever witnessed someone do."

Charlie let out a choked laugh, barely a sound.

“You think I’m brave?”

Nick pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I think you might be the strongest and bravest person I’ve ever met. There’s no way in hell I would’ve survived what you went through.”

Charlie’s mouth trembled.

“You don’t think I’m disgusting?”

Nick’s brows pulled together.

“What? No. Of course not.”

“I was a sex worker for years,” Charlie said, voice breaking. “I let men—awful men—touch me, use me. I didn’t even know most of their names. I didn’t even want it. I just let it happen.”

Nick's hands slowly came up to cradle Charlie’s face with such gentleness it made Charlie’s knees feel weak.

“You were manipulated. Hurt. Trapped. That wasn’t your fault, Charlie. None of it.”

He tilted his head slightly to meet Charlie's wavering gaze.

“But even if it had been voluntary,” Nick continued, “even if you’d chosen it, it wouldn’t make you disgusting. Sex work is real work, and it doesn’t make anyone worth less. What you went through… it never touched your worth.”

Charlie stared at him, breath stuttering in his throat.

And then it all cracked open.

Relief. Gratitude. The deepest, most desperate yearning for acceptance that he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying. It spilled out of him in a rush of sobs, but not like before. These weren’t sharp with shame or fear. They were soft. Overwhelmed. He cried like someone who had never truly felt like enough.

He buried himself in Nick’s shoulder, clinging tighter, breathing in the comfort and safety of someone who didn’t flinch away from the truth. Nick’s hand rubbed slow circles against his back.

After a long moment, Nick gestured to Charlie's backpack and asked quietly, “Did you think I was going to ask you to leave?”

Charlie sniffled, gave the smallest shrug.

“Kind of, yeah. I don’t exactly feel… like I belong in your beautiful home. I never have.”

Nick nuzzled his face gently into Charlie’s tear-damp cheek.

“You fit here just fine,” he whispered. “You’re welcome for as long as you want to be here.”

Charlie nodded against him, silent, but something in his chest loosened for the first time in years.

He believed him.

Chapter Text

Charlie sat curled into one corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath him, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his knee and the flickering light of a classic horror film casting eerie shadows across the living room walls. It was one of those older ones — creaky doors, melodramatic screams, the suspense more psychological than gory. He liked the aesthetic of it, the pacing. Calm, almost, in a nostalgic way. Tao loved this one and they watched it on multiple occasions.

He heard footsteps creaking down the stairs, then Nick’s voice from the hall, “Sorry — my agent wouldn’t shut up about the calendar shoot.”

Charlie didn’t look away from the screen.

“Tell her to stop booking you for things that require you to take your shirt off. She's too thirsty.”

Nick walked into the room, towel-drying his damp hair, and gave him a crooked grin.

“You say that like you don’t secretly support my blossoming modeling career yourself. I saw you peeking at least year's calendar.”

“Exactly my point, Nicholas. Parched."

Nick laughed and flopped down next to him.

“What’re we watching?”

“The Haunting,” Charlie said, scooting the popcorn over a little in offering. “Old, dramatic, pretty tame.”

Nick grabbed a handful of popcorn.

“Good, because I suck at horror. Like, genuinely pathetic.”

Charlie gave him a side-eye smirk.

“I’ll protect you.”

Nick grinned but didn't answer, just nudged closer under the shared blanket. At first, it was casual — knees touching, shoulders brushing. But as the movie built, slow and tense and atmospheric, Nick kept sinking deeper into Charlie’s side like gravity was cheating. By the third creepy hallway scene, Nick was practically curled into him, one hand loosely clutching the blanket near Charlie’s ribs, his cheek grazing against Charlie’s chest.

Charlie’s heart thudded in his ears. He didn’t dare breathe too deeply. It wasn’t the movie making him tense. It was the weight of Nick pressed against him, the way his warmth soaked through two layers of cotton and curled into Charlie’s skin.

He tried to focus on the screen.

“You’re literally trembling,” Charlie said quietly, glancing down.

Nick peeked up at him with wide, sheepish eyes.

“I told you I’m terrible at horror.”

Charlie bit back a smile.

“You okay?”

“Not really,” Nick said, muffled into the blanket. “But this is helping.”

Charlie felt his throat go dry. Nick’s eyelashes brushed against his shirt when he blinked, and his mouth was right there — barely a breath away from the base of Charlie’s throat.

Then Nick shifted, eyes lifting to meet Charlie’s with a faint, flustered smile. His gaze flicked — first to Charlie’s lips, then away just as fast. The tension that passed between them wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it crackled. Slow. Charged. Unsure.

Nick cleared his throat, straightened up like he’d just remembered where he was.

“Anyway. That wasn’t so bad.”

Charlie stared straight ahead at the screen, which had faded to credits.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little too light. “You were very brave.”

Nick bumped his knee against Charlie’s.

“Shut up.”

They both stood slowly, too aware of how warm the other had been.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nick said, rubbing the back of his neck, voice gentler now.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, tugging his sleeves down over his hands. “Sleep well.”

Nick nodded, hesitated a beat, then turned and padded upstairs.

Charlie sat back down, blanket half on his lap, and stared at the blank TV screen.

That hadn’t meant anything. Of course it hadn’t. It was just a horror movie. Just comfort. Just Nick being Nick.

But as he pressed his fingers to the warm spot on his chest where Nick’s head had rested, he couldn’t help the flutter of something helpless and dangerous blooming behind his ribs.

And upstairs, in his room, Nick lay awake far too long wondering what might’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled away.

The morning air still held a bite of cold when Charlie stepped out onto the porch, a basket of apples in hand. The deer were already waiting, their soft, watchful eyes glinting in the early sunlight. The youngest among them — though not really a baby anymore — padded forward with quiet confidence, antlers now fully grown, elegant and proud. Charlie smiled.

“Well, look at you,” he said, crouching down and holding out an apple slice. “Feeling yourself, huh? King of the backyard.”

The buck nudged the fruit from his palm, chewing contentedly as Charlie slowly reached out to scratch behind his ear.

“So I was thinking,” he continued conversationally, “we should plant more lavender near the fence. Maybe it'll keep you guys from decimating the tomatoes this year.”

From the kitchen window, Nick stood at the sink, pausing mid-dish to watch. Charlie’s curls glinted in the light, his voice carrying just enough for Nick to hear snippets.

“...and I told him, no way am I wearing that ugly shirt, even if it is free,” Charlie was saying to the deer. “You’d agree, right? Antler-boy has taste, I can tell.”

Nick snorted quietly to himself, shaking his head. He felt something warm settle low in his chest — a tenderness that curled itself around the sight of Charlie laughing, even if it was at his own expense.

Charlie came back in fifteen minutes later, his cheeks flushed pink with cold and his fingers slightly sticky with apple juice. Nick had made toast and eggs and already poured their coffee. Charlie dropped into his seat across the table with a grateful sigh.

“So,” Nick said casually, sliding the butter closer to him, “we need to talk birthday plans. Cake choices. Preferences.”

Charlie blinked, then smiled.

“Tori always got me cheesecake,” he said softly. “I love it. My mom always bought regular cake though. Said it was more traditional. Something about ‘what guests would expect.’”

Nick made a face.

“Well, screw guests. Cheesecake it is.”

Charlie grinned into his coffee.

“You’re not a cheesecake hater, then?”

“I’m a cheesecake enthusiast, Charlie,” Nick declared solemnly. “Especially if it’s for your birthday.”

They laughed together, warm and easy, the kind of moment that settled into Nick’s bones like sunlight.

After breakfast, Charlie started to rise from the table.

“I’m gonna go check on the hydrangea near the fence,” he said, brushing crumbs off his hands. “The one with the sad little leaves.”

“Yeah, but—” Nick stood too, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before you go, I was thinking... About what you're posted and... maybe we should try to figure it out.”

Charlie looked at him blankly.

“I mean... why everyone thinks you’re dead,” Nick said gently. “It’s strange, isn’t it? What made them think—”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Charlie snapped, sharp and immediate.

Nick flinched at the sudden shift in tone.

“I just thought—”

“Well don’t,” Charlie said, grabbing his jacket. “If you’re looking for a reason to push me out, just say so. I’ll go.”

“Charlie, I’m not—”

But Charlie was already turning away, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched.

Nick watched the door close behind him, the echo of it stinging more than it should’ve.

Outside, Charlie stomped across the yard, fury burning behind his eyes, but it wasn’t really at Nick. Not exactly. It was at the knot in his chest that twisted whenever he thought about his family. It was at the weight of being unsure if he wanted to know what happened… or if the truth would just break him worse than anything else ever had.

But still, part of him ached. Because he knew he’d been rude to Nick. And even if Nick forgave easily, Charlie didn’t.

Not when it came to himself.

Nick shifted the grocery bag higher on his hip, balancing his phone in one hand as he nudged the door shut with his foot. He kicked off his trainers and wandered into the kitchen, phone buzzing nonstop.

Thirst Traps United 💦📸

Otis (11:41am): reminder to hydrate before the shoot or Nick’s gonna faint shirtless again and give the interns a free show

Christian (11:42am): again???

Sai (11:42am): I swear this man’s core temp is like a hummingbird’s

Nick (11:45am): I hate all of you

Nick (11:45am): but also I bought three new pairs of undies for the shoot. 

All on theme.

So I'm a master of preparation.

Mateo (11:46am): fashion icon

Christian (11:47am): slutty renaissance

James (11:48am): I’ll bring the bulge enhancing socks if any of you need them so that I don't embarrass you.

Harry (11:49am): you do know we all share a changing room with you, right?

Nick snorted quietly, tossing apples into the fruit bowl as he opened another thread.

L&B Brigade

Darcy (11:32am): we’re coming to visit this summer and i WILL bring jam

Tara (11:33am): homemade jam

Darcy (11:33am): sorry yes. queer jam. artisan gay jam.

Nick (11:50am): I’m holding you to that.

Darcy (11:51am): and I’m holding you to intro’ing us to mister mysterious deer-whisperer

Tara (11:51am): only if he’s okay with it 🩵

I hope he’s doing well. You seem calmer lately, Nick.

Nick (11:53am): thanks, I think he’s okay. some days are hard. but he’s... he’s incredible.

Darcy (11:53am): OH YOU LIKE HIM

Nick (11:54am): I’m ending this chat now

Darcy (11:55am): CONFIRMATION

Nick laughed under his breath, locking his phone and setting it aside. But the smile faltered a little. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Three days. That’s how long the shoot in the city would take. Just three days. He could make sure the fridge was stocked. That Charlie had everything he needed. Still, the thought of being hours away made his chest feel heavy. Charlie had come so far. But Nick wasn’t blind—he knew the ground under him was still fragile.

He was still turning that thought over when he heard the soft footsteps behind him.

Charlie stepped into the room, hoodie sleeves pulled low over his hands, head ducked. He moved cautiously, like a kid unsure whether the floor would creak too loud.

Nick turned and smiled instantly, gently setting the last bag on the counter.

“Hey,” he said.

Charlie sat down at the table slowly.

“I’m... sorry I snapped at you,” he murmured. “Earlier. I shouldn’t’ve spoken to you like that in your own home.”

Nick walked over, crouched a little beside him.

“Can I—?” he asked, palm half-upturned.

Charlie nodded, and Nick took his hand carefully.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Nick said, squeezing it softly. “I mean it—I’m actually really glad you feel safe enough to be honest with me. Even if it’s not pleasant stuff. Even if I mess up and push too hard. This is your home too. And if I crossed a line, I’d rather you say something than hold it all in.”

Charlie blinked quickly, his eyes glossy.

“How are you even real?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

Nick huffed a little.

“It’s really just basic human decency, Charlie. You deserve more than that, but at the very least... you deserve that.”

Charlie swallowed hard and, after a brief pause, slowly leaned into Nick’s chest. His head found the soft spot under Nick’s collarbone, and his breath came shaky, uneven.

Nick wasn’t sure what to do for a second. Then he rested his cheek gently on Charlie’s curls and let his arm curl around his back.

They stayed like that a while—quiet, breathing in tandem, the world feeling a little softer between them.

Then, from somewhere in Nick’s hoodie, Charlie’s voice came muffled and small.

“I think... maybe it’s better they think I’m dead.”

Nick’s arms stiffened slightly, just for a second.

“Why would you think that?” he asked gently.

Charlie shrugged.

“Because I spent all of my teen years being difficult. With my eating stuff. With the OCD. I fought with my parents constantly, I lied to them, pushed away everyone who cared. I was awful. I didn’t listen when they tried to help with... Ben. I hurt them all, and then disappeared. And now... now they’ve moved on. They’ve probably healed. I don’t want to come back and just reopen that wound.”

Nick sat up just enough to look down at him.

“Charlie,” he said, soft but firm, “your mental health struggles don’t make you unlovable. They never did. And yeah, you were hurting, and yeah, you pushed people away... but they tried to help because they loved you. Because you matter.”

Charlie’s chin quivered.

Nick brushed a thumb over his cheek.

“Even now. Even years later. They’re still posting about you. Still grieving you. They didn’t move on—they lost you. And if they knew you were alive...” His voice cracked. “They’d be so relieved. Tori would cry. Your friends would probably show up at the door.”

Charlie laughed, tearfully.

“I don’t even remember how to talk to people."

“I do,” Nick said, gently. Then with a smile added "I'm PR trained and everything." Charlie huffed a small laugh and Nick's voice shifted back to soft and gentle. “I’ll help, if you ever want to reach out.”

Charlie nodded slowly.

“I’ll think about it.”

Nick didn’t push. He just held him tighter.

Charlie was still humming with nerves as he padded down the stairs, fresh from his video call with Geoff. It had been a good session—honest, vulnerable, heavy—but just as he'd started to settle into the quiet, a sudden knock at the front door had his entire system sparking with panic. His body still hadn’t quite figured out that door knocks didn’t always mean danger anymore.

He didn't think—just turned on his heel and let his feet carry him down a different staircase this time, deeper into the house than he’d ever ventured.

The air grew cooler, the lighting more industrial, and when he rounded the corner into Nick’s home gym, he was immediately struck dumb.

Nick was shirtless, his hair damp with sweat, lifting a dumbbell in one hand with casual, practiced ease. His back was toward Charlie, muscles shifting fluidly under his skin, every inch of him cut and strong and absurdly beautiful.

Charlie blinked, forgot how breathing worked for a second, then cleared his throat—loudly.

Nick turned mid-curl, surprised.

"Hey," he said, a bit breathless but grinning. “Didn’t know you were coming down here.”

“Yeah, I, uh…” Charlie stared at him for a beat too long before remembering how to form words. “Someone knocked. I panicked. Came to find you.”

“Oh—yeah, sorry, that’s probably just some dumb PR package my agent made me agree to post about.on Instagram. I’ll grab it.”

Nick set the dumbbell down with a solid thud and jogged past him, the warm breeze of his movement brushing against Charlie’s skin as he went. Charlie stood there, brain lagging, trying not to ogle the sweat sheen on Nick’s chest. It was like every soft-core fitness fantasy he’d never let himself have.

He wandered farther in while Nick was upstairs and eyed the dumbbell Nick had just been using. On a whim, he bent down to lift it.

It didn’t budge.

Charlie huffed, gave it one more dramatic tug, and straightened up with a disbelieving chuckle.

“What the hell are you made of, Nelson?” he muttered to himself.

Nick returned, a cardboard box tucked under one arm.

“As expected,” he said, holding it up, “influencer garbage.”

Charlie grinned.

“Do they send you stuff like protein powder and 'Dude Wipes'?”

“Basically,” Nick laughed, setting it down. “Some of it’s not bad. Want me to sign you up for free face masks? They're pretty lovely." He picked up the barbell once again and grunted as he curled it six more times.

Charlie laughed, crossing his arms, trying to pretend he wasn't a bit flustered and hoping he wasn't as red as he felt.

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be the softhearted golden retriever of the household, you’re kind of a beefcake.”

Nick mock-scoffed.

“Are you body-shaming me?”

“I’m admiring you,” Charlie deadpanned, then flushed again as Nick’s eyebrows rose. “I mean—I was just saying. You’re… absurdly strong.”

Nick’s grin turned crooked.

“If you ever want to use the gym, you can. It’s all yours too.”

Charlie looked around, one brow raised.

“Aren’t I a bit small and weak to be lifting weights?”

Nick put a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Hey. I have little ones. You don’t have to start with the ones that are the size of a small horse.”

“Ohhh,” Charlie said, eyes gleaming. “So you are saying I’m small and weak?”

“No! I’m saying you don’t have to—” Nick flailed, then laughed. “You’re a dick.”

Charlie giggled, and Nick bumped his hip against him in retaliation. It was gentle but familiar, and Charlie’s heart thudded wildly in response. There was something so easy about this—the banter and the warmth of shared air.

“Okay,” Charlie said, still grinning. “Teach me what to do, Coach.”

Nick beamed like Charlie had just agreed to adopt a puppy with him.

“You’re gonna regret this in like ten minutes.”

“We’ll see about that,” Charlie teased. “Just don’t laugh when I drop a dumbbell on my own foot.”

“I wild never laugh at you,” Nick promised, already reaching for a lighter weight set. “But I might blush of you call me Coach again."

Charlie rolled his eyes, heart light. There were storm clouds in his past, but right now? It felt like sunshine.

The post-shower warmth clung to Charlie’s skin as he padded barefoot into the kitchen, towel still slung around his shoulders. Nick was already there, damp fringe flattened across his forehead and a faint scent of eucalyptus lingering from his body wash. He looked up when Charlie entered, eyes crinkling gently.

Charlie hovered a second, then leaned against the counter.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Nick echoed, voice light.

They stood in a moment of easy silence, the way they often did now, like the air between them had learned to settle instead of buzz.

“I talked to Geoff earlier,” Charlie said, voice casual but his fingers twitching slightly against the counter. “And I… I think I do need to know what my family thinks happened to me.”

Nick straightened slightly, setting aside his water bottle.

“Yeah?”

Charlie nodded, slower this time.

“I mean… it might help. Figuring out if I want to reach out, or when. Or how. It’s hard to picture anything clearly when I don’t even know what story they’ve been living with.”

Nick’s face softened, open and steady.

“I think that’s a really good idea. And… if you want to talk afterward—about whatever you find—I’ll be here.”

Charlie hesitated for a beat, then glanced up through his lashes.

“Actually… I was kind of hoping you’d help me look. That we could do it together.”

Nick felt his chest flutter, breath catching for a moment before he smiled.

“Of course I’ll help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Later, after dinner, they settled on the couch with Nick’s laptop balanced between them. Charlie had his crocheted deer tucked protectively under one arm, the soft yarn slightly flattened from how often he held it. He leaned close to Nick, their arms brushing, his thigh pressed along Nick’s for reassurance.

Nick opened the browser and typed in Charlie’s name.

It didn’t take long.

The article titles stared back at them like ghosts.

“Body Found in Burnt Vehicle Believed to Be Missing College Student.”

“Storm Leads to Tragic Accident: Charles Spring Confirmed Dead.”

“Local Tragedy: Vehicle Plunges from Cliffside in Heavy Rain.”

Charlie read the words aloud slowly, voice hollow.

“He had borrowed his boyfriend’s car for a grocery run… drove off a cliff… burned… died of blunt force trauma…”

He stood so abruptly the crocheted deer tumbled to the floor. Then he bolted for the bathroom.

Nick was right behind him.

Charlie collapsed beside the toilet, retching until there was nothing left. Nick crouched with him, hand gently rubbing slow circles across his back. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to reason it away or soften the horror. He was just there.

When Charlie finally sat up, pale and shaking, he looked at Nick with wild, disbelieving eyes.

“That makes no sense. I’m right here. How did they… how did they find someone—how did they identify me—if I didn’t die?”

Nick reached out, brushing hair from Charlie’s damp forehead.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. But we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Charlie nodded faintly, dazed, and let Nick help him up.

A few minutes later, tucked into the safety of his blanket, Charlie curled on his side and looked up at Nick with exhausted eyes.

“Will you… stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

Nick didn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

He climbed into bed beside him, careful to keep space at first—but then Charlie scooted closer, resting his forehead lightly against Nick’s chest, hand still clutching the crocheted deer. Nick stayed still, one arm gently wrapping around him, his chin resting atop dark curls.

And in the quiet hum of the room, Nick could feel Charlie’s breathing begin to slow.

He didn’t fall asleep right away, but he stayed anyway. Holding him. Anchoring him.

Until Charlie finally let go of the day.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed since the night they sat side by side on the couch and watched Charlie’s entire identity come undone with a few cold paragraphs from a local news archive. Since then, everything between them had taken on a quieter rhythm—like they were afraid to do anything more to shake or shift reality. Both tiptoeing around the weight of what had been revealed. Nick not wanting to distress Charlie, Charlie not wanting to drag Nick down.

They ate breakfast in the kitchen with the windows open. The morning breeze curled through the screens, carrying the scent of the garden, fresh flowers and pollen. Nick poured tea into Charlie’s mug and didn’t ask outright how he was feeling, but the softness in his eyes asked it anyway. Charlie gave him a small smile and faint nod in return.

He was thinking about the way he’d woken up the day before—nestled in strong, warm arms that didn’t feel claustrophobic or possessive, just steady. Solid. Safe.

Nick had held him all night without hesitation, without expectation. No wandering hands, no heavy breathing at the back of his neck. Just a gentle arm around his waist, and a chest that rose and fell with steady calm beneath his cheek. It had been comfort, nothing more.

And Charlie loved that. He really, truly did.

The respect was wonderful. It was what he knew he needed 

But—God, he also wished maybe it was maybe something more.

He tried not to let the thought bloom fully. Tried to clip it before it could unfurl into anything dangerous. Nick had already given him so much. Safety. Shelter. Friendship. Understanding. To ask for more would be… greedy. Naïve.

Charlie, who had spent years being used like a possession, had somehow stumbled into the orbit of the kindest, most beautiful man he’d ever met. A man who had been nothing but good to him from day one. Of course Nick wasn’t into him. That sort of golden luck didn’t exist for people like Charlie.

But still… there were moments.

Like now, sitting across from each other at the table, eating toast and fruit in quiet domesticity. Nick looked up, a smear of jam on his thumb, slowly sucked it off, and smiled at him like it was nothing. Like he didn't just take years off of Charlie's life with a simple, innocent gesture.

Charlie could barely swallow his bite after that.

And now...

Nick was leaving in a couple of hours.

Three days. Just three days.

But it felt… enormous.

Of course, Nick had done everything to make sure Charlie would be okay in his absence. The pantry was stocked. The generator was primed. Every emergency supply had been listed and labeled. Nick had even printed out a map of their neighborhood with handwritten notes about exits and safety spots.

And then there was the phone.

A simple prepaid thing, tucked in a little yellow case. Nick had asked, and when Charlie had once again resisted, Nick had insisted it was for his own peace of mind—just a way for them to stay in touch. No pressure. No expectations. Charlie could throw away afterwards if he truly wanted.

Charlie had taken it, quietly stunned that someone could give something without trying to take something else. He knew now that Nick had no ulterior motive. He just wanted him safe. 

Weird.

“Here,” Nick said, sliding the small wicker basket across the table. “You want to feed your little deer cult while I check my bag one more time?”

Charlie huffed a laugh, fingers curling around the basket handle.

“Afraid you don't have enough puppy undies?"

Nick raised a brow, grinning.

“Gotta bring the full collection. I’m the face of sports underwear this season.”

Charlie made a face, but his blush betrayed him.

Nick winked and headed upstairs.

Charlie stepped outside barefoot, feeling the grass cool beneath his soles. The sky was overcast but gentle. Spring was still shaking off winter’s cling.

He approached the familiar clearing near the woods where his deer friends often gathered. The smallest one, as usual, trotted right over, nosing at the basket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Charlie murmured, crouching down. He pulled out a bruised apple and offered it, smiling as the deer nudged it from his palm. “You know, you’ve gotten pretty bold. Nothing like the shy little thing Nick first described to me.”

The deer blinked at him, unbothered.

Charlie scratched behind its ear absently.

“He’s really amazing,” he said softly. “I mean, I'm sure you already know that. But… He’s the kind of good I didn’t think was real anymore.”

The deer chewed quietly.

Charlie leaned a little closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Also, just between us? He’s really, really handsome. Like… stupidly handsome. Don’t tell him I said that.”

The deer bumped his shoulder gently, almost like it was giving a nod of agreement.

Charlie giggled, something be noticed he was doing pretty freely these days.

He sighed, still smiling, and looked back toward the house. The window to Nick’s bedroom was open, curtain fluttering, and he could hear the faint sound of Nick zipping up his bag.

Three days. He could manage that.

Probably.

The flight was only an hour and a half, but by the time the wheels touched down, Nick felt like he’d been interrogated for a week straight.

The private jet—courtesy of one of the sponsor brands—was supposed to be a cushy, no-stress trip to the city for their shoot and press appearances. But Otis, Sai, Christian, Harry, Mateo, Levy, Alex, and Derek had apparently made it their mission to extract every ounce of intel they could about Charlie in that short window of time.

It started innocently enough.

“So…” Otis leaned forward in his plush seat, resting his chin on one hand. “This guy who's staying with you, Charlie. Is he safe now? Like, is he doing okay? Should we be worried?”

Nick, mid-sip of sparkling water, blinked.

“Uh. He’s… yeah. I mean. It’s complicated, but he’s safe now. He’s been through a lot, but we’re working on it. He’s doing better every day.”

“He’s living with you full-time? Rent free?” Sai asked from two rows back, poking his head between the seats. “That’s kind of amazing. Like, I think it’s really admirable, man. Stepping up like that.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s not like that. I didn’t ‘step up.’ I just… found him when he needed help. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Not anyone,” Christian muttered with a quiet, thoughtful nod.

Nick didn’t respond. His stomach twisted slightly. He wasn’t doing this for praise. He was doing it because Charlie deserved safety and peace and care. That wasn’t noble. That was simply right.

“Okay but—” Harry, lounging sideways with sunglasses still on indoors, cut in loudly. “Be honest—is he hot?”

Nick choked on his drink.

“Harry,” Sai hissed, scandalized.

“What?” Harry held his hands up. "I’m a very supportive queer ally, thank you very much. I’m allowed to be curious.”

“Oh my god,” Christian muttered.

Mateo leaned in with a sly grin.

“Actually… also curious. But like—sincerely. Is he hot? You’ve been cagey.”

Nick tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“I have not been cagey. I’ve been being respectful.”

“So that’s a yes,” Levy added with a smirk.

Nick sighed and admitted, quietly, “Yeah. He’s… beautiful. Gorgeous, actually. But—he’s been through a lot, and that’s not what this is. He’s not interested in me like that, and even if he was, it’d be wrong to start something with him while he’s still relying on me to survive. He needs safety, not pressure.”

“Damn,” Derek murmured. “That’s actually… really mature.”

“Thank you?” Nick said, unsure.

“Maybe he would want you to make a move, though,” Harry sing-songed.

“No,” Nick said firmly. “Definitely not.”

Mateo laughed.

“Okay okay, we’ll drop it. But if you ever bring him to a game, we’re going to be annoying. Just so you’re prepared.”

Nick smiled despite himself.

“I’ll ask him. If he ever wants to meet any of you, it’ll be on his terms.”

A beat passed, and then Alex piped up from his window seat.

“So what really happened with Miley?”

The jet went quiet for a second, and Nick stared out at the clouds before answering.

“She didn’t respect my boundaries,” he said simply. “She didn’t like my friendship with Charlie, and she overstepped—more than once. I realized we were on different paths. We wanted different things. I didn’t want to keep hurting her or being hurt myself.”

There was a pause.

Otis gave a short nod.

“Good for you, man.”

“Seriously,” said Sai. “That takes guts. Most people would’ve just kept the relationship going out of habit. Or convenience.”

“Especially with someone that hot,” Harry added, and then immediately raised his hands in apology when everyone groaned. “What? I’m complimenting her.”

Nick laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“I’m trying to be nice. I'm in my growth era,” Harry said solemnly.

Nick rolled his eyes, but he felt the warmth of it—these guys had his back. Even when they were being idiots. Especially when they were being idiots.

He let himself imagine, just for a moment, Charlie sitting beside him on one of these trips. Smiling softly while Sai asked him thoughtful questions and Mateo not-so-subtly flirted just to see if he could get a blush. Harry trying too hard to prove he was woke. Otis looking out for him.

He thought Charlie might… fit.

If he ever wanted to, that is.

The house was quiet. Not the kind of eerie quiet that made Charlie's skin crawl, but a settled, warm kind of hush. Mid-afternoon sun filtered in through the windows, casting soft patterns on the hardwood floor. The quiet had always been intimidating before, it was always followed by loud noises, shouting, sudden knocks— the calm before a storm. But lately, it felt like maybe silence could be safe too.

Charlie’s phone buzzed beside him.

Nick.

He'd been receiving sporadic texts all day. They always made him smile.

First, a photo of the private jet with a message:

Up and away! Text you when we get there!

Then a picture of their hotel’s sleek modern lobby with one of Nick’s teammates—Sai—pretending to model by the check in desk.

Pretty sure Sai’s now convinced he’s an influencer.

And finally, a selfie of Nick grinning widely with a chocolate-covered croissant held up beside his face, captioned:

Apparently these are famous here. Verdict: 9/10. I'll bring you back one.

Followed by a second message:

View from the room. Next time you should come see this in person with me.

Attached was a photo of the skyline—gorgeous, orange-tinged with the sinking sun.

Charlie stared at it for a long time.

Next time you should come see this in person with me.

It felt like an invitation, but… was it really? Or just a kind-hearted offer he wasn’t meant to take seriously? He couldn’t imagine boarding a private jet, staying in a hotel with a rooftop view, brushing shoulders with Nick’s team, his agent, all the glamorous trappings of Nick’s life. That wasn’t his world. But still… Nick had said it. And he meant things when he said them.

Some day, maybe. When the idea of traveling didn’t fill him with nausea. When he could picture himself outside this house without anxiety shadowing his every step.

He set the phone down and let himself walk slowly through the house.

He paused in the hallway near the bookshelf, eyes catching on a photo of Nick, maybe fifteen or sixteen, grinning beside a beautiful Border Collie—Nellie. Nick’s hair was longer then, his freckles more prominent, cheeks still round with baby fat. He looked so innocent. So soft. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t changed though. Something warm and quietly protective.

Charlie smiled faintly. Even now, with his sharper jaw and broader frame, Nick still carried that gentleness. He was stronger now—physically, probably emotionally—but he hadn’t let the world harden him. That felt… miraculous, somehow.

There were more pictures. One of Nick in his football uniform, laughing with his team. Charlie lingered. Were they kind, like Nick? Did they know Nick was bi? Did they know about him? He remembered Nick asking for permission to share a bit of his story. Charlie had said yes, as long as it wasn’t anything too specific. He trusted Nick, but still… what would they think?

Would they find it weird?

Would they think Nick was ridiculous for letting a damaged stranger live in his home?

Would they see him as dangerous? 

As a burden? 

What if they convinced Nick this was all a stupid idea? 

Miley had failed, sure, but this was his team. They were a unit.

Charlie forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly.

Don’t spiral.

Nick knows them.

If he trusts them, maybe it’s okay.

Maybe the world wasn’t as cruel as it used to be.

He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. His appetite was small today, but he could try. Yogurt, maybe. Something cold and easy. Just to keep his hands busy. He spooned it into a bowl and sat at the kitchen island, staring blankly for a while as his thoughts turned—inevitably—to the articles.

He’d promised Nick he wouldn’t dwell. That he’d wait to dig deeper once Nick was home again. But it was hard not to wonder.

About his own funeral.

Had there been daisies?

They were his favorite. Simple. Quietly cheerful.

But did anyone in his life even know that?

He thinks maybe he told Isaac once, when he had complimented his daisy printed sweater. 

But would Isaac have remembered?

Probably not.

Even so, Jane had probably picked something more "appropriate." Something somber and rigid and presentable. Roses, maybe. Or lilies.

He wondered if Isaac had even been there. Tao. Elle. Sahar. 

His chest tightened at the thought of Tori. Their last fight still echoed in the back of his mind, but so did every late-night talk, every shared snack after their mom lost her mind over nothing, every quiet look of sibling solidarity when they couldn’t say the truth aloud.

He missed her.

He missed them.

Almost without thinking, he ended up back in his room. He booted up the PC and clicked instinctively into Instagram.

Tori’s page.

She had posted earlier that day.

The photo made him freeze.

A baby blanket, carefully stitched. Plaid squares. Muted blues, creams, and soft yellows. The kind of handmade work that meant something. But it was the center that made his breath catch in his throat.

Charlotte Francesca

Embroidered in soft script.

Charlie stared. Then the tears came without warning—sharp and sudden, unfiltered.

My niece. Named after me.

The gesture hit him like a wave. It didn’t matter if they’d fought. If he’d said horrible things. If he’d vanished for three years. She had still missed him. She hadn’t hated him.

She named her daughter after him.

It meant everything.

He got up slowly and crawled into bed, wrapping himself around his crocheted deer. It was too much. He couldn’t hold it all in his chest. He needed to sleep.

But even though Nick wasn’t here to remind him to eat dinner, he could hear his voice in his head—gentle, teasing, encouraging.

“Charlie, come on. You need food to survive. Don’t make me bore you with the science of it all.”

He groaned and kicked off the covers.

A sandwich, then bed.

He could do that. For Nick. For himself. For the version of Charlie that a little baby girl might one day ask stories about.

He was still here.

Still alive.

He needed to stay that way.

The morning of the shoot was chaos in the best way.

The air inside the studio was thick with the scent of hair product, foundation, coffee, and testosterone.

The football team was half-dressed—some in robes, some already in their shoot gear (or lack thereof), most joking far too loudly for the early hour. Lights flashed in test runs. Music played faintly through overhead speakers. Assistants bustled in and out, adjusting sets, fetching water, dabbing at foreheads. It was, in every sense, a well-oiled machine teetering on the edge of frat house energy.

Nick sat in the makeup chair with a calm exterior and a racing mind. The stylist was applying a little powder across his nose and brushing through his hair while he tried not to fidget too much.

His phone buzzed in his lap.

Charlie (7:07am): Slept well. No nightmares.

But dream-you was extremely annoying and now you owe me. 😒

Nick couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He tapped back a response:

Nick (7:08am): Very rude of dream-me.

What did I do??

Another buzz.

Charlie (7:09am): You wouldn't stop speaking to me in nonsense rhymes when I was trying to have a very serious conversation.

Some examples: "Wobble me sideways and tickle my toes, I’m baking a pie made of leftover crows."

"Don’t trust the penguin, he’s made out of jam—
He sold me a ticket to ride a wet clam!"

"A napkin told riddles, my chair started swaying, I married a kettle and now we’re crocheting."

Nick let out a loud laugh, flushing slightly as a few heads turned his way.

Nick (7:12am) In my defense, I sound like an excellent poet.

And why do most of those sound mildly suggestive? 

Charlie (7:13am): You tell me! I was just trying to have a business meeting.

Nick (7:14am) If it makes up for anything, my underwear has little paw prints on it. You can't stay mad at that.

Charlie (7:15am): ...damn it.

And then, a moment later:

Good luck with the shoot. Try not to trip over your own biceps or whatever.

Nick chuckled, fingers moving before he could second-guess himself. He shifted slightly in the makeup chair, glanced at his reflection—his hair done, chest bare, makeup subtle but polished—and snapped a quick mirror selfie. His paw print undies (yes, the ones Charlie teased him about) were visible in the shot, though the angle kept it just cheeky enough.

He added a caption:

Nick (7:17am): Too early to be objectified like this. 😩🐾

I like drinking coffee, Tim Hortons never misses, I'm selling my soul for a few puppy kisses.

Then sent it.

Just as he did, Christian walked past, saw the screen, and howled.

"Are you seriously sexting your mysterious boyfriend from the makeup chair?" he teased, loud enough for several heads to turn.

Nick blushed, immediately locking his phone.

“It wasn’t—! We’re not—he’s not my—”

"He's totally his," Harry cut in from across the room, sprawled in a lounge chair in football shorts and socks, already halfway through his second energy drink. "Look at him. That’s not the blush of a man texting a friend. That’s the blush of a man who wants to get married. Tomorrow. In a field of wildflowers."

“Can we not talk about this while I'm fragile and in nothing but underwear?" Nick muttered, ears burning.

Sai peeked around the corner, eyes wide with mischief.

"You're the one sexting in such risky conditions."

“You guys are the worst,” Nick groaned.

“Love you too, Captain,” Derek called.

Then the PA popped in: “Alright, team! We’re ready for you on set!”

A chorus of groans and cheers broke out as the team shuffled up, various stages of half-naked, laughing and slinging arms over each other’s shoulders. Nick stood up last, brushing off imaginary lint, and tucked his phone into his bag.

But not before one last glance at Charlie’s last message.

Charlie (7:20am): oh no, I've started something now, haven't I?

He felt that now-familiar flutter in his chest.

This was the most exposed he’d ever been around cameras, and yet somehow, thinking of Charlie’s teasing flustered him even more.

Charlie was lying on the couch, half-watching Taskmaster, but only because it was something light and familiar. Mostly, he was looking through the stream of texts and photos Nick had sent him throughout the day.

There were so many puppies. So many adorable puppies. One looked like a living teddy bear. Another had ears that drooped so low it made Charlie snort-laugh.

And, of course, so many shirtless men.

And so many shirtless men with puppies.

He didn't know whether to coo or sweat profusely.

The team had clearly leaned into the calendar theme full throttle, posing in various ridiculous costumes and setups. At least three were cradling golden retriever puppies like babies, one had a Chihuahua perched on his shoulder, and Nick—Charlie swallowed—Nick had taken a picture in the makeup chair in nothing but paw-print boxers, his abs on full display. He looked annoyingly good.

Charlie’s cheeks flushed, and he rolled his eyes at himself.

Nick’s latest message popped up.

Nick (12:46pm): I’m officially in love with every puppy I met today. I need to adopt one immediately.

Charlie smiled as he typed back.

Charlie (12:47pm): Knowing you, it’ll be twelve puppies.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Nick (12:47pm): Not my fault.

Look at their little faces. Every one of them deserves to come home with me.

Charlie froze.

Every one of them deserves to come home with me.

His heart stuttered.

Suddenly, he wasn’t on the couch anymore.

He was standing in front of a motel room, barely twenty years old, wide-eyed and tired and still convinced that Ben loved him. He remembered Ben outside the room one night, speaking in a low voice to a teenager. A boy—no older than 18 or 19. Tall, lanky, tear-streaked—crying quietly while Ben guided him to the far end of the motel.

Charlie had asked, later, who the boy was.

Ben had smiled and said, "Some kid whose parents kicked him out for being gay. I like to let them use the rooms sometimes for free. Every one of them deserves somewhere to stay.”

At the time, Charlie had thought it was sweet. Kind. He’d looked at Ben like he was doing something noble.

But that boy’s face—those bruises, the tears, the way he flinched when Ben touched his arm—it all felt different now.

Charlie’s stomach lurched.

He bolted off the couch and ran upstairs, panic blooming hot in his chest. He didn’t even stop to think. He went straight to the computer and began typing in search terms.

"Teenage boy. Dark hair. Missing. Upstate New York."

It took a few minutes of digging before he found it.

Jesse Lane. Age 16. Missing since December 2019.

His aunt had made the post. Jesse had run away from home after his parents threatened to send him to conversion therapy. His aunt wanted to take him in, begged anyone with information to come forward. There were photos. Jesse standing in front of a Christmas tree, his smile tight. Another from his school ID.

Charlie recognized him instantly.

It was him. That was the boy. That night. The one crying while Ben told him it would be okay.

He clicked through the posts, praying to the unknown—please, please, please—that there had been an update. That Jesse had been found. That he was okay.

But a newer post, just two months ago, was still asking for help. Still missing.

Charlie’s blood ran cold. His whole body started to shake.

Jesse had looked enough like Charlie. Similar height. Similar hair. Same pale skin. And if the body in that burnt car had been too damaged to fully identify—

It could’ve been him. It could’ve been Jesse.

Was that what happened?

Did they find Jesse’s body… and think it was Charlie?

Charlie’s hands flew to his mouth. His chest tightened so hard it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t stop shaking. The memory was so vivid now, so raw—Jesse’s hollow eyes, his bruised cheek. The way Ben looked at him.

Charlie grabbed the prepaid phone Nick had given him and, without thinking, hit the speed dial.

It rang once.

Then Nick answered.

“Charlie?” His voice was light, probably expecting something cute or teasing. “You okay? Did you enjoy my poetry?”

Charlie tried to speak, but a sob tore out of him before he could form a word.

“Charlie?” Nick’s voice immediately changed—urgent, panicked. “Hey. Hey, breathe. What’s going on? Are you hurt? Are you safe?”

Charlie tried to answer, but it was all too much. The photos, the article, the years of unspoken horror, Jesse—

“Charlie, I’m coming home.” Nick’s voice was fierce now. No hesitation. “I’m getting another flight right now. Don’t hang up, okay? Stay with me. You’re not alone.”

Charlie nodded through tears, even though Nick couldn’t see him. He curled tighter into the bed, clutching the phone to his ear.

In the background, he heard Nick moving quickly. Talking to someone—Otis, maybe. Asking them to go out without him. Mentioning something about a personal emergency and needing the soonest flight back.

And then Nick again, steady, grounding:

“I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

Charlie didn’t speak. He just held the phone and listened to Nick breathe, each inhale like a tether.

Nick was coming home.

He just needed to find a way to breathe for a few hours.

Chapter Text

The plane ride home had felt impossibly long. An hour in the air, another in the car from the airport—it might as well have been days. Nick had wanted to stay on the phone with Charlie the entire way, just to keep him grounded, but the second the cabin door closed and the plane taxied for takeoff, that line between them had to sever for a while.

He hated that.

Before boarding, he’d suggested Charlie try journaling while he waited.

“It’s what my friend Tara taught me in high school,” he’d told him. “When you’ve got too many thoughts in your head, you’ve gotta put them somewhere or they’ll just run laps all night.” He’d explained.

When the wheels hit the runway, Nick didn’t even think about grabbing his bag first—he was calling Charlie before the seatbelt sign dinged off. He nearly forgot his luggage all together, had it not been for the very helpful attendant chasing him down, he would have.

Charlie had been calmer by the time they reconnected, he said the journalling had helped, but still… he sounded shaky. It made Nick want to wrap him in every blanket he owned and keep him safe from the world.

Charlie started apologizing immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie had said, over and over. “I shouldn’t have called you and made you feel like you needed to come home like this. You deserved to enjoy your trip—”

“Hey,” Nick had cut in. “It’s fine. I was coming back tomorrow morning anyway. And honestly? I didn’t even want to go out with the team tonight. The guys get sloppy, and I always end up carrying at least two of them back to the hotel. It’s like babysitting drunk toddlers with six-packs.”

"Alcohol or muscles?"

"Both."

That had made Charlie let out a wet, watery laugh. Nick had counted that as a win.

When he finally got home, Charlie had been waiting. No hesitation—he’d gone straight into Nick’s arms and stayed there, shaking, breath hitching against his shoulder. The words had spilled out between sobs.

The boy—Jesse. The Facebook post. The fear that Ben had done something awful. The thought of a family out there still searching, while everyone here mourned a boy who wasn’t actually gone.

Charlie had apologized again for looking into it while Nick was gone, saying, “You told me not to—”

“No S-word,” Nick had interrupted firmly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s your life. Just because I suggested something doesn’t mean you have to do it. I’m your friend, not your keeper.”

That had made Charlie cry harder, leaning into him like maybe he could hold himself together through sheer proximity.

He’d said he felt responsible. That Jesse’s friends and family deserved closure. But that investigating meant revealing he was alive—and that terrified him. Facing people who’d loved him, who he’d shut out, who had warned him about Ben. It was a lot. 

And still, what mattered most to him was Jesse and his loved ones. Making sure they knew.

Now, a few days later, Nick was lying in bed, phone in hand, absentmindedly scrolling through Instagram while giving Charlie space.

In the other room, he could hear the faint sound of the video call. And crying. Both of them—Charlie and his sister, Tori.

She’d answered almost immediately when he messaged her on Instagram. The reply had been just three words and a phone number: CALL ME NOW.

He didn’t know how long it had been—an hour, maybe a bit more—when there was a soft knock at his bedroom door.

“Yeah?” Nick called.

The door opened slowly. Charlie stood in the doorway, eyes red but more open than they’d been in days.

“Can I come in?”

CALL ME NOW.

That was all the reply said.

Charlie had stared at the words for a long moment, his pulse picking up. He’d been nervous to message anyone. Terrified, even. But if there was anyone in the world he could trust with this—really trust—it was his sister, Tori.

Tori wouldn’t run straight to their parents if he asked her not to. She wouldn’t blurt it to his old friends just to have someone to tell. She barely even spoke to her own friends. She’d always been his best friend, and he her's, even now. Even after years of silence, he knew it was true.

So he’d written the message slowly, carefully:

Tori, I know this might seem confusing and a lot to process, but it’s me. I’m still here. I didn’t… die. There’s a lot to explain and apologize for and I’m not sure where to start, but please don’t tell anyone I messaged you. Not yet.

And she’d simply sent back her phone number and that blunt command. Very straightforward. Very Tori.

When he called, she answered on the first ring. The first thing she did was ask a few personal questions—things no stranger could possibly guess—just to make sure this wasn’t some twisted prank. And once she was certain, the floodgates opened.

They both spent a good twenty minutes just sobbing into the line, words tumbling between gasps for breath. Both apologizing. Both trying to say everything at once.

Tori told him she’d always hoped it was a mistake. That he wasn’t really gone. That one day she’d get a call like this. Charlie told her a stripped-down version of what had happened, enough to make her threaten—very vividly—to hunt Ben down and kill him. And, honestly, he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t follow through.

He told her about Nick too, though he left out the last name. Tori’s partner, Michael, was a diehard football fan, and the last thing Charlie needed was for word to spread that he was living in the home of the state’s most beloved captain and quarterback.

Tori was suspicious of Nick—he could hear it in her voice—but Charlie understood. After everything that had happened, she had every right to be. Still, he promised her that Nick was safe. Kind. Gentle. Someone who made him feel… human again.

They didn’t have much longer. Tori had an important doctor’s appointment, which led to fresh tears when they both circled back to the baby. How she’d named her after him. How that had meant more than he could ever explain.

Before hanging up, she made him promise—over and over—that he would call her tomorrow. That there was so much more to say, and they’d start untangling it all together.

Charlie stood outside Nick’s door for a moment after hanging up with Tori, hand hovering in the air before finally knocking.

“Yeah?” Nick’s voice called.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course. Always."

He ducky let his mind go where it tried to go at the implication that he could be in Nick's room "always".

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, glancing around in quiet curiosity. He’d never been in Nick’s room before. It was warm, lived-in, cozy in a way Charlie had fully expected from someone like Nick. A chunky crocheted blanket draped over a chair in the corner caught his eye, and something in him just knew Nick had made it himself.

Nick sat up, hair slightly mussed from however he’d been lying before, and Charlie’s chest did a funny little twist. He looked… adorable.

Nick patted the space beside him on the bed.

“You can sit... if you want.”

Charlie nodded silently and perching beside him.

“How was the call with Tori?” Nick asked gently.

Charlie told him—about the crying, the apologies, the baby’s name, the promises to talk again tomorrow.

Nick’s brow softened.

“God, Charlie," he sighed. "I'm honestly so happy for you. And I'm sure Tori is well beyond happy. But that sounds... emotionally draining."

Charlie nodded lightly, in agreement.

Nick opened his arms wide.

"Do you maybe want a hug?”

“Yes, please.”

And then there it was—one of Nick’s hugs again. Charlie was beginning to feel spoiled by them. Theyb were the kind that seemed to radiate right into his bones, warm and safe and steady.

Seriously, who taught this man to hug like this?

For a moment, Charlie melted into it.

Then, an unwelcome and far too enticing thought crept in: We’re wrapped together on Nick’s bed. And the sudden, flustered heat that came with it made him pull back quickly, standing with a nervous little laugh.

“Uh, so, Tori promised not to tell our parents for a while,” Charlie said, trying to focus on something else. “Do you think it would be selfish if I took a week or two to just… process? Maybe try to be human again before I tell my parents or contact Jesse’s family?”

“Not selfish at all,” Nick said immediately. “You’ve been through trauma, Charlie. What you’re doing—pushing past your fears to help them—it’s incredibly selfless.”

Then his voice gentled even more.

“But… what happens once everyone knows? Will you want to go home? Will you—would you maybe try to press charges against Ben?”

Charlie stiffened, a surge of discomfort shooting up his spine.

“I already told you, I can’t go to the police. They won’t help. They’re friends with him.”

“But, Char, you need to do something, right?” Nick said. “He’s dangerous—”

“I know he’s dangerous, Nick!” Charlie snapped, voice rising sharp and quick. “Do you really think you need to tell me that?! But I can’t do anything!”

Nick stayed calm, but Charlie could feel the heat building under his own skin, a jumble of panic and irritation. This wasn’t just about what Nick was saying—it was about the fact that Ben was out there and nothing could stop him. About being made to think about it before he was ready. About someone, a man, telling him what he should do.

“Charlie—”

“As soon as everyone knows I’m alive, I’m disappearing again,” Charlie cut in. “But this time they’ll know why, and they won’t worry. I’ll go far away. Maybe another country.”

“Charlie,” Nick tried again, quieter now, “I—I don’t want you to disappear.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“Of course not, but—”

“This was a stupid idea,” Charlie cut in, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and frustration. “All of it. I should just pack up now and go. Tell Tori to send an anonymous letter to Jesse’s family again. Then everyone gets closure, I’m safe, and I never have to rely on a man for anything—or have anyone telling me what to do—ever again.”

He turned sharply and slammed Nick’s bedroom door behind him, retreating to his own room with his heart pounding. His footsteps retreated down the hall until they disappeared into his own room, leaving Nick sitting there in the quiet.

Nick sat on the edge of his bed, the echo of the slammed door still vibrating in his chest. It had been loud enough to rattle the framed picture of himself and his mom on his desk.

Nick rubbed the heel of his palm against his knee, staring at the scuffed floorboards. He replayed the moment again—Charlie’s expression, the clipped tone, the way his shoulders had been hunched like he was trying to disappear, despite his confident sharp confident words.

It wasn’t the first time Charlie had gotten defensive, but this had been different. There was something behind it. Not just annoyance at whatever Nick had said—God, what had he said?—but something even heavier.

Nick started picking apart every detail. Had he been too blunt? Too… patronizing? Or maybe Charlie was just tired. But no—there’d been a flicker there, something like pain. Or offense.

And the way he’d left so abruptly—Nick could still hear the uneven rhythm of his footsteps down the hall—there was a kind of desperation in it. Like he needed to get away before Nick could press any further.

Nick swallowed, restless, his gaze skittering to the dog tag necklace on his nightstand. His friends had given it to him as captain, and usually it grounded him. Not now. Now it just reminded him of the weight of expectations, of the way people assumed he always knew how to handle things. Being Captain made him good at strategizing on the field, but his track record would show he was a mess when it cam to personal relations.

He thought about texting Charlie. Something simple—You okay? But he could already picture the read receipt sitting there, ignored. Or worse, answered with a short 'I’m fine' that would leave Nick feeling dismissed and still worried.

Nick lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He told himself to stop stressing, to give Charlie space. But the thing about telling yourself to stop thinking about something is that it’s like telling your body not to flinch when startled—you can try, but the reflex is almost always stronger.

And under all the wondering and self-correcting, there was another thought he didn’t quite want to name: the way his chest had squeezed at the idea of Charlie leaving, and how empty the idea made him feel. How much he wanted him there and, if he were being completely honest, never wanted him to leave. But that was selfish, and those types of thoughts and feelings were the exact opposite of what Charlie needed right now. So he did his best to shut them down.

Charlie didn’t come down for the rest of the day.

When dinner was ready, Nick brought a plate upstairs and set it outside Charlie’s door. He gave a gentle knock.

“Dinner’s here,” he said, keeping his voice soft.

Inside, there was the faint sound of movement—footsteps, maybe—but no reply.

Nick lingered for a second, hoping for an answer, then sighed and backed away. If Charlie needed space, he’d respect that.

The next morning, Nick opened his bedroom door, headed for the stairs, and nearly tripped over the plate. It sat exactly where he’d left it, the food untouched. His stomach tightened. He crouched down, picked it up, and carried it downstairs to clean.

He tried to shake off the worry while working out in the basement, but every rep felt heavier with the thought of Charlie upstairs—alone, not eating.

It wasn’t like him to let something go this long without at least a sarcastic text or a muttered complaint.

When he finished his workout, Nick went to the kitchen and made breakfast. He kept glancing toward the stairs, listening for the creak of a step or the sound of a door opening. But there was nothing.

By the time the eggs hit the plate, the worry had settled into something even sharper. He carried the dish upstairs, balancing it carefully in one hand as he knocked on Charlie’s door.

“Breakfast,” he called. Silence.

He knocked again.

“Charlie?”

Still nothing.

Nick frowned.

“Char, I’m coming in,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Skipping two meals could be dangerous for you still, so—”

He eased the door open.

A rush of panic hit so fast it made his hands go cold.

The room was empty.

Chapter Text

Nick froze in the doorway, plate of breakfast cooling in his hands.

Charlie’s bed was empty. Sheets rumpled, pillow creased, but no Charlie.

“No… no, no, no—” His voice broke as he set the plate down harder than he meant to and spun on his heel.

He jogged down the hall, checking the bathroom—empty. The other spare room—empty. Heart climbing into his throat, he thundered down the stairs two at a time.

The back door was unlocked. Nick yanked it open and scanned the yard. Sometimes Charlie would be crouched by the garden, gently coaxing life out of the tomato plants, or standing at the tree line tossing scraps out for the deer.

Not today.

Nick stepped out into the morning air, eyes darting to the treeline, but the space was still. No Charlie. No movement at all.

Panic sharpened in his chest. He rushed back inside, his mind a blur. By the front door, he glanced automatically at the shoe rack—Charlie’s battered white Converse were gone.

And then the thought slammed into him so hard it stole his breath:

What if he’s just… gone?

Not see-you-later gone. Gone, like gone from my life forever.

Nick’s throat tightened. He wouldn’t know if Charlie was okay. Wouldn’t hear his dry one-liners or see him light up in the middle of an impassioned rant about how Hollywood had ruined yet another book adaptation. Wouldn’t hear that laugh that always caught him off guard or watch the way his eyes softened when he was comfortable and getting sleepy.

He couldn’t protect him forever—Nick knew that—but he thought he had more time. More mornings. More evenings. More small, ordinary moments to make sure Charlie was okay.

Nick’s gaze flicked to the bed. Charlie’s phone lay there, screen dark. Next to it sat Aegis, the little crocheted deer.

The idea that Charlie had left without those… that he could vanish that quickly… hurt in a way Nick wasn’t ready for.

By the time he realized he’d sunk down to the floor, the tears were already falling. His hands pressed over his mouth, breath hitching, and the thought looped in his mind like a cruel refrain: I thought I had more time. He never even knew that I—

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they stopped right in front of him. A pair of dirty white Converse came into view, toes scuffed and damp with morning dew.

Then arms—warm, familiar—slid around him, pulling him in.

“Nick,” Charlie’s voice was low, soothing, the way you’d talk to someone waking from a nightmare. “Hey. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Nick’s arms locked around him, pulling him close like he needed to confirm he was real. Like he might vanish if Nick didn’t hold on tight enough.

“I thought you left,” he choked out, voice cracking. “God, I’m so glad you’re here. I thought—”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie murmured, one hand cradling the back of Nick’s head. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t sleep, so I… I just went for a walk. Out in the woods behind the house. I sat under a tree and… I guess I fell asleep for a bit.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was gonna be home before you even woke up.”

Something in Nick’s chest loosened at Charlie’s casual, unconscious use of the word home.

Charlie pulled back just enough to search Nick’s face.

“Why’d you think I left?”

Nick huffed, half-laugh, half-bitter.

“You literally said you were going to.”

“Oh.” Charlie blinked. “Right. I… guess I did threaten that.” His mouth twisted in a guilty smile. “I’m really sorry, Nick. I just—God, I hate being told what to do. And I know you weren’t doing that, and I know you’re not like Ben, but… I’m scared. I’m really, really scared. And I don’t know what the right thing is.”

Now Charlie’s voice was breaking, tears pooling in his eyes.

Nick’s grip tightened, and then they were both crying, holding on to each other like it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“I’m fine—"

"No, you breathe—”

"I'll breathe when you breathe!" Nick tried to say through a wet laugh.

“I'm trying!” Charlie shot back, equally teary and breathless.

The absurdity of them both telling the other to relax while simultaneously hyperventilating made something bubble loose, and soon they were laughing through their tears, clinging tighter, a mixture of fear, relief, confusion, and a million other things they weren't sure they could even name.

The tea had gone lukewarm in their hands, but neither of them seemed to notice. They were tucked together on the couch, the only light in the room a thin spill of morning sun through the curtains. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it felt heavy in the way that comes after too much adrenaline, after too many emotions.

Charlie sat curled at one end, one knee pulled up, his mug cradled between his palms like it was holding him up instead of the other way around.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, barely above a whisper, like he was afraid the sound might break whatever fragile truce they’d found.

Nick turned toward him immediately.

“You don’t have to—”

“No.” Charlie’s eyes flicked up, sharp and desperate. “Please let me apologize for this, Nick. My reaction wasn’t fair to you.”

Nick frowned gently, leaning back against the arm of the couch so he could really look at him.

“It was fair. I know what you’re dealing with. I shouldn’t have added pressure, or guilt, or fear on top of that.”

Charlie gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Maybe. But I’ve worked so hard in therapy on—on communicating. Especially with you. And I didn’t even try to explain what I was feeling. I just… lashed out.”

Nick shook his head.

“It’s hard to be calm when your anxiety and trauma are triggered. I would never fault you for that.”

“Still…” Charlie’s grip on his mug tightened. “I feel bad for threatening to leave. For scaring you. I… didn’t even think it would affect you, if I'm honest.” Charlie's voice lowered at the last part.

Nick’s eyebrows drew together.

“What? Why wouldn’t it?”

Charlie hesitated.

“You’ve been kind enough to let me stay, but… I know I’m a lot to take on. Especially for someone who barely knows me. The nightmares. The panic attacks. The particular eating. My unstable moods. I figured maybe knowing I had an ‘out’ would be a relief, even if you were too nice to say so.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Charlie… none of those things change the fact that my life has been better since the day I met you. And... I’ll tell you that every day if I have to. You are not a burden. I don’t care how long you stay. I like having you around. As long as you want to be, that is...”

For a moment, Charlie just stared at him, something uncertain flickering in his eyes—like he wanted to believe it but didn’t quite know how. Nick had never lied to him before. So, maybe... Maybe he could believe him?

Charlie’s voice was quiet, almost shy.

“You make me feel safe. I… wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Nick’s chest tightened at the words, and before he could second-guess it, he set his mug on the coffee table and reached for him. Charlie went willingly, setting his own cup aside and letting Nick’s arms draw him close until his cheek was pressed to Nick’s chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat filling the space between them.

“You don’t have to make any big decisions right now,” Nick murmured, his hand resting at the back of Charlie’s head. “You can keep healing, do what feels right. And if that means disappearing to another country someday, I’ll support you. But please…” Nick’s voice softened to almost nothing. “Please say goodbye first. My heart can’t take not knowing.”

Charlie tilted his head just enough to meet his eyes. Something passed between them—raw and wordless—before Charlie gave a small smile and burrowed in again, breathing in the faint scent of Nick’s laundry soap and cologne.

“Okay. But for the record, I would never leave Aegis behind. That's my son.”

Nick let out a small laugh and held him a little tighter, not caring how long they stayed that way. Eventually, exhaustion crept in and the tension in their bodies melted. They drifted into sleep on the couch, legs tangled, the tea forgotten and cold.

Something shifted in the days that followed.

Maybe it was because they’d seen each other crack wide open. Maybe it was because they’d both learned—painfully—how much the thought of losing the other hurt. Whatever the reason, the air between them changed.

Charlie started helping in the kitchen almost every night. He claimed it was for his own good—that if he learned some of Nick’s meal prep tricks, he could keep himself on track when he was alone. But the truth was quieter, unspoken: he liked standing next to Nick, chopping vegetables while Nick stirred something on the stove, the occasional brush of elbows or bump of hips turning the most mundane tasks into something he looked forward to.

Nick, in turn, convinced him to join in his workouts—weights a few times a week, cardio on others. Charlie had grumbled at first, muttering about not wanting to “look like a gym bro,” but the truth was… it felt good. He could feel his body getting stronger alongside his mind. And, though neither would admit it out loud, there was a certain thrill in watching each other flushed and breathless, muscles straining under exertion. It was... very nice, indeed.

Charlie’s next session with Geoff came mid-week. He talked about the argument, about Nick’s quiet worry, about the panic in his eyes that morning Charlie hadn’t been there. Geoff listened, nodded, and then said a few things that settled in deep, in the way only Geoff could. He praised Nick’s suggestion that Charlie journal when his mind felt too full—and Charlie had been trying. The last page, however, looked embarrassingly like the scribbles of a teenage boy with a crush: loops and doodles, musing about the way Nick’s smile tilted adorably sideways, the specks of gold in his eyes, the carefulness of his hands when he poured tea. He shut the notebook quickly when he realized what he’d done.

He also couldn’t ignore the fact that he was feeling… more like himself. Slowly. There were moments that embarrassed him—reactions sharper than he intended, fear that bubbled up without warning—but Nick’s calm reassurances were getting inside his head. Not in a bad way. More like… they were becoming the voice that caught him when he stumbled. Ben's sharp words were being replaced by Nick and Geoff's softer, kinder ones.

And because of that, Charlie found himself with more patience for his own missteps. More grace. It was strange, but it was also a relief—like he’d been holding his breath for years and was finally letting just a little air in at a time.

But with this renewed sent if self, something else had been waking up in him.

Something he hadn’t expected.

With Ben, after the first year—maybe even before, if he was being honest—sex had stopped feeling like anything close to love or mutual pleasure. It had become another obligation, another way to keep the peace. An act of service, not connection.

Since Ben was the only person he’d ever been with, Charlie assumed maybe he just wasn’t wired for it the way other people were. Maybe he was somewhere on the asexual spectrum, like his friend Isaac. That would explain why it always felt so detached. Why he could hand himself over to men who didn’t care about him and feel nothing. Why it was easy to let it happen—because it meant nothing to him. And why, no matter what, he could never, ever finish. Not that any of them, Ben included, ever really tried.

But lately… lately he was questioning that assumption.

Because Nick was making him feel... things—desires—he didn’t think he was capable of. Even back in the hospital, when he barely knew him, Nick’s presence had thrown him off balance. He’d worked so hard to ignore it, to shove it down, but it had been there, buzzing under his skin. That moment in the shower, when his mind and body had betrayed him with thoughts of Nick, had been easy to dismiss at the time as some strange, guilt-soaked drug-induced fluke.

It wasn’t.

If anything, it had been the first spark in something that had only been building since. And no matter how much he tried to reason it away, he couldn’t deny it anymore.

There were so many moments, especially lately.

Like two days after Nick thought Charlie left.

It was supposed to be a simple workout. Nothing flashy—just a few sets of bench presses before switching to squats. But somewhere between the second and third set, Charlie caught himself staring.

Nick was spotting him, leaning over the bar, his hands hovering just below it, ready to catch the weight if Charlie faltered. His shirt clung to his shoulders, fabric stretching over muscle as he adjusted his stance. Charlie told himself to focus—on breathing, on keeping his form—but his gaze kept flicking upward, to the little crease between Nick’s brows, to the way his jaw flexed when he concentrated.

“Three more,” Nick said, voice low but firm.

Charlie gritted his teeth and pushed through them, pretending the heat in his chest was only from exertion. When he finished, Nick took the bar and racked it for him, then offered a hand to help him sit up.

Charlie didn’t need the help. Not really. But he took it anyway, and Nick’s palm was warm, calloused, fingers curling firmly around his.

“Good,” Nick said, giving him a small smile before moving around to add significantly more weight and take his turn. Charlie slid off the bench and stood behind him, ready to spot. He kept telling himself it was about safety—focus on helping—but the moment Nick gripped the bar and started his first rep, Charlie’s eyes betrayed him again.

The muscles in Nick’s chest and arms tightened with each press, his breath steady but deep. Sweat rolled down the side of his neck, disappearing under his collar. Charlie’s throat went dry, and he told himself he was just… monitoring his form. Strictly practical.

“You’re staring,” Nick said between breaths, not looking up.

Charlie’s heart stuttered.

“Duh. I’m spotting you.”

“Mhm.” Nick’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he pushed the bar up one more time, locking it into place before sitting up. “Just making sure.”

Charlie rolled his eyes and muttered something about inflated egos, but the tips of his ears were pink. And when Nick stood, brushing past him on his way to grab water, Charlie stayed exactly where he was, trying to remember how to breathe.

Or the day following that, in the kitchen.

It started with something harmless.

At least, that’s what Charlie told himself.

He was chopping vegetables at the counter while Nick stirred something on the stove. The air smelled like garlic and butter, warm and delicious, and the soft clink of the wooden spoon against the pan made the whole moment feel… peaceful.

Nick reached over him suddenly—one large arm bracing on the counter, the other taking the knife from Charlie’s hand before he could blink.

“Careful,” Nick murmured, his voice a low rumble right behind Charlie’s ear. “You’re curling your fingers wrong. You’ll slice the tip right off.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. Nick didn’t move back immediately—just adjusted Charlie’s hand in his own, guiding his fingers into the proper curve, his chest brushing Charlie’s shoulder every time he leaned closer to demonstrate.

“There,” Nick said, finally releasing him, but his fingers lingered a second too long. “Feel the difference?”

Charlie swallowed.

“Uh. Yeah. Totally.”

Except he hadn’t been looking at the vegetables at all—he’d been watching Nick’s forearm flex as he demonstrated, and wondering how warm that chest would feel pressed fully against his back.

Nick turned back to the stove, utterly unbothered, and Charlie tried to refocus on the cutting board. But his hand still tingled where Nick had touched it, and his mind was annoyingly stuck on the image of Nick’s arm braced over his shoulder like that again.

Then Nick leaned over to grab a jar from the top shelf, his shirt riding up just enough for Charlie to see a strip of bare skin at his waist, and it was over. He nearly sliced the zucchini in half the wrong way.

“You’re distracted again,” Nick said without turning around.

“I’m fine,” Charlie lied.

“Mhm.” Nick’s tone was the exact same as it had been in the gym. That quiet, knowing hum that said he’d noticed everything.

And Charlie hated—hated—how much he liked it.

After dinner, they’d fallen into an easy rhythm at the sink, Nick scrubbing while Charlie dried, the clink of dishes and hum of the overhead light filling the space.

“So,” Charlie said after a while, trying to sound offhand but failing just a little, “did you date anyone before Miley?”

Nick chuckled, eyes still on the suds.

“Not many. When I was thirteen, I asked my friend Tara to be my girlfriend. She said yes, we kissed once at a school dance, and then she promptly realized she was a lesbian and started dating Darcy instead. They’re my best friends to this day—live in California now. Started a little farm together with a petting zoo and pick your own fruits and berries.”

Charlie tilted his head.

“What’s it called?”

Nick grinned.

“Crop It Like It's Hot.”

Charlie barked out a laugh.

“That’s… amazing.”

“Yeah, they’re proud of it.” Nick rinsed a plate and passed it over. “Anyway, I didn’t date again until I was sixteen. My friend Imogen asked me out—we’d known each other forever. She’s actually who I lost my virginity to." He laughed, a bit awkwardly. "We were so comfortable it felt safe. But we realized pretty quickly we had zero chemistry in that area, so we broke up. Stayed friends, though.”

Charlie smirked.

“You seem to be good at that—staying friends.”

Nick shrugged.

“Helps when you date people who are already good friends, I guess. In college, I dated another girl, her name was Rosalie. She was sweet, but she was more of a partier than I was and I felt like I was holding her back, so I let her go. And then a guy named Nick... Yeah, no explanation needed, it was just too weird. Especially in bed." They both laughed, any then Nick made a face. "Calling out your own name? Never not strange. And then Miley. That’s it.”

Charlie hesitated, running the towel over a glass.

“So… uh… are they the only people you’ve, like… been with? You know. That way.”

Nick glanced sideways at him.

“Well, no. There were a good handful of hookups in between. Nights out, that kind of thing. You know.”

Charlie nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Ben’s the only person I’ve been with that didn’t… well… pay for it.” The words came out low, like he was admitting something shameful, even though Nick already knew his history.

Nick didn’t even blink. He just set the plate down, dried his hands, and wrapped an arm around Charlie’s shoulders, pulling him in for a quick squeeze.

“It’ll be nice, someday,” Charlie said quietly, “when I can actually choose, and… enjoy it.”

Nick’s voice was gentle but sure.

“You deserve that.”

They went back to the dishes in silence, the warmth of that brief hug lingering like steam in the air.

Chapter Text

Nick was sprawled on the couch, laptop warm against his legs, but he wasn’t really reading the words on the screen anymore. His mind had wandered back—again—to something Charlie had said a few nights ago, in that offhand way that he sometimes dropped lines that lingered in the air for days afterward.

It’ll be nice, someday, when I can actually choose, and enjoy it.

At the time, Nick had just nodded and told him he deserved that, not trusting himself to say more without tripping over the knot in his chest or saying the wrong thing. But now, alone, he turned it over in his head like examining a seashell. It wasn’t just about sex—he knew that. It was about safety. Autonomy. About Charlie deserving moments that were his, untouched by someone else’s agenda.

God, he really deserves that.

And then, before he could stop it, the thought slunk in like a stray cat, I could give him a good experience.

Nick actually blinked, sitting up a little.

“Whoa. Okay. Calm down,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face like maybe he could wipe the thought away.

Of course he was aware Charlie was gorgeous—how could he not be? Those stormy eyes, that sharp wit, the way his smile came with the sweetest dimples, and his hair fell in perfect ringlets around his face. Nick wasn’t going to lie to himself about that. The man was beautiful.

But attraction was one thing. Acting on it—especially now—was another. Charlie being stuck living with him was already a fragile enough setup; the last thing Nick wanted was for Charlie to feel pressured, or worse, like intimacy was some sort of expectation. That wasn’t how this worked. Not for him.

Still… in other circumstances?

In other circumstances, Charlie was one hundred percent his type. Nick could picture it without meaning to—the kind of night where they weren’t navigating careful rules, where he could take his time and show Charlie everything he’d been missing. Everything he deserved from a man.

He shook his head hard, trying to shove the image away, as he felt his body's reaction betraying him. This wasn’t the time. But the wanting hummed under his skin all the same, quiet and persistent.

The late afternoon sun burned off the last of the morning chill as Charlie sat cross-legged in the dirt, tugging stubborn weeds out from the base of a tomato plant, while Nick leaned against the raised bed with his arms folded, teasing him about how he should audition for a gardening magazine cover.

Charlie rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered even after the joke had passed. Nick's compliments were ever-present and flowed out naturally, as if he didn't even realize he was giving them. The collection of words kept Charlie warm in his colder moments.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, a little more serious now, brushing soil off his palms. “I don’t think I’m ready to face Tori. Or… anyone, really. In person. Not yet.”

Nick frowned softly.

“That’s okay, Char. You don’t have to push yourself before you’re ready.”

“It’s not just that,” Charlie went on, fiddling with a stray leaf. “I think I need to… I don’t know, find myself again first. Figure out who I even am now, before I try to step back into everyone else’s lives.”

Nick crouched down beside him so they were eye-level.

“I didn’t know you before… all of this. So I can’t say who you used to be. But from where I’m standing, you’re already doing a pretty good job. And if there’s any way I can help, you just have to say the word.”

Charlie’s lips quirked at that, half-grateful, half-embarrassed.

“I actually made a list, in the journal you bought me.”

Nick grinned.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Things I used to enjoy, and things I always wanted to do before… Ben. I thought maybe I could start there.”

“That’s a great idea." Nick enthused. "Where do you want to start?”

“Well…” Charlie tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ve picked up a few freelance editing jobs, which has nice for keeping my brain occupied, and making money you refuse to take." He shot Nick a glare, and Nick laughed.

"I told you, I want you to save it for your future."

"Yeah, yeah." Charlie smiled, softly, trying to pretend that Nick's selflessness didn't completely baffle him. "But what I always really loved was writing. My own stuff. I sent that manuscript to a publisher... He recommended, but nothing came of it.” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “Still, maybe I could try again. A collection of short stories, maybe. I had… a lot of time in that motel, trying not to spiral. Made up whole plots in my head.”

Nick’s face lit up.

“Charlie, that’s an amazing idea. You're so smart and his with words. You’d be incredible at that.”

Charlie ducked his head, a faint pink rising in his cheeks.

“And I used to love drumming. Not that I can do much about that right now. No drum set.”

“You play the drums?” Nick’s eyes widened. “That’s so cool!”

Charlie giggled at his enthusiasm.

“I could—” Nick started, then caught himself. “I mean, maybe I could—”

Charlie shook his head before he could finish.

“Nick. We’ve talked about this. Please don’t try to buy me things.”

Nick let out a little sigh, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. I won’t. But if there’s anything else I can do, anything at all, just… let me know.”

Charlie gave him a small, earnest smile.

“Mostly, I just want you to keep treating me like I’m normal. Like I’m not broken.”

Nick stepped closer before Charlie could second-guess himself, sliding his arms gently around him. His voice was soft but steady against Charlie’s ear.

“Easy. Because you’re not.”

Charlie exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders as he let himself sink into the embrace. A smile tugged at his lips, and he wrapped his arms around Nick’s waist, holding on just a little tighter, and standing just a little straighter, than before.

A week slipped by in something that almost resembled routine—their routine. Morning workouts where Nick pushed Charlie just enough but never too far, where Charlie started catching glimpses of muscle definition in the mirror. It startled him sometimes, remembering the boy from a few months ago who could hardly hold himself upright, hollow-eyed and brittle. Now he could deadlift a modest amount, jog a couple miles without stopping, laugh at his own flushed cheeks when Nick teased him.

Even the deer had noticed the shift. They’d begun venturing toward Nick too—but only if Charlie was nearby. Nick joked that Charlie was their translator, their stamp of approval. Charlie secretly liked the thought: the wild things trusted Nick because he did.

Then came his birthday.

Charlie hadn’t celebrated one properly in years. He’d told Nick about it once, late at night when they’d been talking in the living room, how his last two birthdays had slipped past him unnoticed in that motel room. How Ben had never even bothered to mention the date. The only birthdays that lived in his memory were from before—sleepovers, Mario Kart tournaments with his sister, movie marathons that ended in piles of blankets and empty popcorn bowls and giggling into the night.

He didn’t expect anything this year. He never did.

But that morning, he woke earlier than usual, tugged out of sleep by faint music drifting upstairs.

When he padded down to the kitchen, the sight waiting for him nearly undid him.

Nick, barefoot, hair a mess, pajamas low on his hips, was dancing around the kitchen to Taylor Swift. He was completely off-beat, shaking his butt exaggeratedly while flipping something in the skillet, singing loud and cheerfully off-key. Charlie leaned against the doorway, watching, affection blooming so big in his chest it almost hurt. What an adorable dork. He giggled before he could stop himself.

Nick startled, nearly dropping the spatula.

“Shit—! I thought you were still asleep.” His face flushed red, and he looked mortified, which only made Charlie laugh harder.

“I was,” Charlie said between laughs, pointing to the speaker on the counter. “But someone decided to put on a concert.”

Nick winced.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

Charlie shook his head, still grinning.

“Don’t apologize. That was… adorable.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, then seemed to remember something. He cleared his throat, awkward but earnest.

“Well, uh—happy birthday.” He crossed the kitchen and pulled Charlie into a hesitant hug.

Charlie melted into it anyway.

“Thank you.”

When Nick let go, he gestured to the counter.

“I made your favorite. Blueberry crepes, right?”

Charlie’s brows shot up.

“You—remembered that?”

Nick’s smile was shy but proud.

“Of course I did.”

Charlie sat down at the table, staring at the plate in front of him. He was genuinely touched. Ben had never done anything like this. Even back when Charlie had thought things were good, Ben had brushed off cooking as “too much effort” with Charlie’s so-called “food issues.” Dinner dates at expensive restaurants had been Ben’s default—showy, impersonal, something Charlie endured quietly because complaining would have been ungrateful.

But Nick… Nick had stood here at dawn making crepes, just to name Charlie feel special.

Before the ache of old memories could settle, Nick was suddenly in front of him, excitement sparking in his eyes.

“Okay, so—I have a whole day planned.”

Charlie’s stomach dipped with nerves.

“Nick…”

“Don’t worry,” Nick said quickly, catching the look. “It’s not anything big. Just… stuff you told me you liked.” He leaned on the counter, grinning. “First, we’re finally picking the blackberries out back, because they’re perfectly ripe now. Then we’re having a Mario Kart tournament. You and me, all day bragging rights on the line.”

Charlie’s lips twitched, face already softening.

“Then,” Nick continued, “lunch— from wherever you want. After that, I’m officially surrendering the afternoon to you picking a book. One of your favorites. You read, I’ll read, then we’ll talk about it.”

Charlie blinked at him, stunned.

“And dinner will be your favorite. Plus the cheesecake I made yesterday while you were showering, which I did not burn, after the second attempt, thankyouverymuch.”

Charlie laughed.

“And then,” Nick said dramatically, “we marathon movies until we pass out.”

For a moment, Charlie couldn’t speak. His throat felt too tight, his eyes hot. He finally managed, in a small voice, “That’s… perfect.” He pressed his hand against his chest like he could keep the ache in. “Like… actually perfect.”

Nick’s grin softened into something gentler.

“Good. I was hoping so.”

The match ended with a final, dramatic crash of Nick’s kart spinning out right before the finish line.

Charlie threw his hands up in victory, smiling wide.

“And once again, the champion reigns.”

Nick groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“You’re cheating. I swear you must have some sort of secret hack.”

Charlie leaned back against the couch cushions, smug.

“Mm, or maybe you’re just bad at this.”

Nick twisted to look at him, wide-eyed and half laughing.

“Excuse me? Bad? I’m just letting you win because it’s your birthday.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow.

“Right. And what was your excuse the other twenty times we’ve played?”

Nick paused, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“Uh… I was tired. Long day. Sprained my thumb. Poor hand-eye coordination.”

Charlie snorted.

“So, basically, you’re saying you’re bad at it.”

Nick dropped his controller onto the couch and put a hand over his heart, pretending to be offended.

“Must you always be so brutal?"

Charlie rolled his eyes but he couldn’t keep from grinning, warmth bubbling in his chest at how easy this all felt.

“It's not my fault you're such a sore loser that I need to defend my honor.”

“Am not,” Nick said, bumping his shoulder lightly against Charlie’s. “I’m just… pacing myself. I’ll destroy you on the next round.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

The playful energy lingered between them, laughter trailing into something quieter, softer, as they sat there shoulder-to-shoulder.

A knock at the door broke the moment, and Nick hopped up to grab their food. Charlie watched him move, broad frame filling the doorway as he thanked the delivery driver. He looked so effortless, so comfortable — and for a second Charlie felt something twist in his chest at how natural it was, Nick being here with him.

They spread the food out on the coffee table, cartons and wrappers everywhere, and dug in. Nick cracked a joke about Charlie hoarding all the fries, and Charlie flicked one at him, earning a grin. They ate without any rush, talking about everything and nothing — books, music, stupid things Nick’s teammates had said, a random story about Tao getting way too competitive over board games.

When they’d finished and the wrappers were pushed aside, Charlie got up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and went to his bookshelf. His fingers trailed over the spines before he plucked one free and held it up.

“Emma?” Nick asked, tilting his head.

Charlie nodded.

“Yeah. Thought we could… take turns reading out loud?"

Nick laughed, shaking his head.

“Perfect choice. My reading voice is excellent. You’ll see.”

Charlie laughed and settled back down beside him, the book in his hands. He read the first few pages, trying to keep his voice steady, but his pulse sped up when he felt Nick’s eyes on him, listening closely. He normally hated being perceived, but Nick's gaze felt warm on his skin. When he finally passed the book over, his fingers brushed Nick’s — warm, rough from years of rugby.

Nick cleared his throat, and then began to read.

The shift was instant. His voice was low and rich, smooth in a way Charlie hadn’t been prepared for. Each word seemed to vibrate in the space between them, sinking under Charlie’s skin.

Charlie leaned his head against the back of the couch, watching him from the corner of his eye. Nick’s mouth shaped the words with such focus, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheekbones, and Charlie thought — not for the first time — that he could sit here and listen to Nick forever.

Nick paused to make a silly, exaggerated posh accent for one of the characters, and Charlie burst out laughing. Nick grinned at him, pleased, before slipping seamlessly back into the steady rhythm of the text.

The world outside their little bubble faded. There was just Nick’s voice, steady and deep, the sound of it pulling Charlie in closer and closer until he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull away.

And he didn’t want to.

Dinner had been its own little event. Nick had somehow pulled off Chinese food — not takeout, but actually cooked, every dish perfectly seasoned and plated. Charlie had tried to argue, “Nobody makes lo mein that good on the first attempt,” but Nick just shrugged, a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips. “Hidden talents” he said simply, as though that explained everything. He later admitted that he had been googling recipes for weeks because he knew Charlie loved it.

Then came the cheesecake. Nick had insisted on lighting candles and singing the full “Happy Birthday,” his deep voice earnest and slightly off-key, trembling a little with embarrassment. Charlie pressed his hands to his face, hiding a laugh that was half nerves, half overwhelming affection. When he leaned forward to blow out the candles, he made a silent wish — the kind you don’t tell anyone, the kind that is just yours. If he wished for Nick to be in his life forever, that was entirely between him and the flickering flames.

Now they were nestled together on the couch, extra cozy. Aegis was tucked against Charlie’s side, crocheted antlers brushing his arm. The room smelled faintly of cheesecake, of candle wax, and the lingering spices from dinner. Charlie had queued up Emma (1996), insisting it was the best version, and they must discuss the adaption after their read through, and Nick had given his mock solemn nod of agreement, eyes twinkling.

The film began, and Nick was instantly invested.

“Okay, but why is Knightley looking at her like that already? You can tell he’s gone for her. He’s doomed,” Nick said, leaning forward, animated.

“Shhh,” Charlie murmured, a smile tugging at his lips.

A few minutes later, Nick continued, “See, this is actually clever—they’re showing how self-absorbed Emma is without making her unlikable. That’s really hard to pull off.”

Charlie shook his head, suppressing a laugh.

“You know Tao would have thrown you out of the room by now. He hates commentary.”

Nick grinned, unbothered.

“Lucky for me, you don’t seem to mind my annoying habits.”

“I like it,” Charlie admitted softly, feeling a warmth curl through him that had nothing to do with the movie. He turned back to the screen, pretending not to notice how his chest fluttered.

By the time the credits rolled, Nick had offered a dozen sharp observations, at least three wildly exaggerated theories (“Maybe Mr. Woodhouse secretly orchestrated all of it, you don’t know!”), and Charlie’s cheeks actually ached from smiling.

When the end credits appeared, Charlie grabbed the remote.

“Okay. Next. Here we go...”

Nick’s eyes widened slightly.

“Oh no. What’s it gonna be?”

Charlie smirked, a little mischievous.

“The Descent."

Nick froze.

“…The cave one?”

“Mhm,” Charlie confirmed, tilting his head, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Nick tugged the blanket tighter around himself, voice low.

“Charlie… that movie looks so scary."

Charlie chuckled softly, amused.

“So you’ve never seen it?”

“Uh-uh. Too many monsters. Too much… dark. Nope.”

Charlie tried not to grin.

“We don’t have to watch it then.”

Nick shook his head, jaw set but gentle.

“No. It’s your birthday. We’re watching whatever you want.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, sensing Nick’s nerves.

“You’re sure?”

Nick adjusted the blanket with mock bravado.

“Completely. Totally fine. Zero problems here.”

Charlie pressed play. Almost immediately, Nick’s discomfort was visible. He sank lower into the couch, half-hidden beneath the blanket, eyes wide and squeaking loudly at every jump scare. Charlie laughed, soft and light, the sound threading around Nick and warming the space between them.

“Oh my god, you’re hopeless,” Charlie teased.

“Hey,” Nick protested, only the top half of his face visible above the blanket. “No making fun of me, young man.”

Charlie’s laughter bubbled out again, his chest unexpectedly light. He leaned closer.

“Come here. I’ll protect you.”

Nick’s brows shot up, but he didn’t resist as Charlie tugged gently at the blanket, pulling him closer. Soon, Nick was tucked against Charlie’s side, solid and warm, and Charlie draped the blanket over them both. Aegis sat quietly beside them, snug and undisturbed.

They stayed like that, shoulders pressed together, quiet laughter punctuating the occasional tense scene. Nick would flinch at the scariest moments, and Charlie would murmur reassurances, brushing a hand over his arm, marveling silently at the sparks he felt at the contact.

Gradually, the tension ebbed. The room dimmed around them, the flickering screen casting soft shadows. Nick’s head tilted, resting lightly against Charlie’s, and Charlie closed his eyes, heart full.

The movie played on, but it didn’t matter. They were wrapped up in each other, safe and warm. Their breaths synchronized, small chuckles fading into soft snores. Eventually, the world outside could wait, and they fell asleep tangled together, the movie still flickering silently in the background.

Charlie woke to warmth.

The first thing he noticed was the steady weight in his arms, solid and real, and the second was the faint scent of cedar and laundry detergent that clung to Nick’s shirt. His cheek was pressed against soft fabric, and his entire body felt cocooned, safe in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

It took him a moment to register: Nick was still there. Asleep, tucked against him, breathing slow and even.

Charlie’s arms tightened instinctively, holding him closer, and for a fleeting, dizzy second he allowed himself to just exist in it. The comfort. The gentleness. The impossible sweetness of having Nick in his arms.

His chest ached. He thought about how genuine Nick was—how nothing about him felt rehearsed or manipulative, how his kindness wasn’t barbed or transactional but simply… Nick. Real and unguarded.

And the ache sharpened into something bittersweet. Because people like Nick didn’t look twice at people like him. Not really. Charlie had already convinced himself of that truth: he would never find someone this amazing who saw him as anything more than a friend. Not in the long run. Not in the way he wished for late at night when he let himself imagine.

Still, he breathed Nick in, memorizing the moment, branding it into his heart. If all he got was this—Nick’s warmth, Nick’s quiet breathing, Nick in his arms for a little while—then at least he’d know what it was like.

Nick stirred softly, shifting against him. Charlie froze, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, Nick’s eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. He looked up at Nick's sleepy face—unguarded, soft, the morning light brushing over it.

And that was when it hit. Hard.

The feelings Charlie had been circling for weeks suddenly slammed into him, powerful and undeniable. Not just attraction—the tug he felt whenever Nick smiled, or the way his chest lit up when Nick teased him. Not just fun or ease, though that was part of it too. No—this was deeper. Nick’s kindness, his gentleness, the way he made Charlie feel safe and cared for in a way he never had before… all of it had woven together, quietly, until it formed something enormous. Something solid.

Charlie loved the way Nick made him laugh, the way he listened like every word mattered, the way he was both strong and gentle at once. It was different from anything he’d ever felt, even with Ben. Especially with Ben. This wasn’t a hunger born of desperation or fear. This was something real.

It paralyzed him for a beat, left him breathless under the weight of it.

And then Nick smiled. Sleepy, small, so tender it almost undid him.

“Hi.”

Charlie’s lips curved helplessly, his own voice came out quiet. Barely a breath.

“Hi.”

Nick shifted slightly, as if just realizing where they were tangled. His cheeks pinked, his voice sheepish.

“Sorry for crowding you.”

Charlie’s heart twisted.

“It’s okay. I didn’t mind.” His words came out soft, certain. “I was... Really comfortable.”

For a second, Nick just looked at him. Really looked—eyes lingering, warm and searching, as though trying to read something in Charlie’s face. Then he murmured, low and genuine, “I’m glad.”

The silence stretched, charged but gentle. Their gazes held longer than either seemed prepared for, until Nick finally cleared his throat and eased himself upright. Charlie’s arms felt suddenly empty, his skin cooling where Nick’s warmth had been.

Nick busied himself with gathering the empty popcorn bowl and the mugs from last night, retreating to the kitchen for a moment before returning to settle beside him again—still close, but not pressed together like before.

Charlie swallowed against the swell of longing and forced his voice steady.

“Thank you. For yesterday. It was honestly the best birthday I could’ve asked for.”

Nick glanced at him, something soft in his eyes.

“Good. In the future, I plan to top it.”

The words sent warmth rushing through Charlie, startling in its intensity. The casual way Nick said in the future, as if it was obvious he’d still be around for birthdays to come—it nearly unraveled him.

Charlie found himself smiling, lighthearted to cover the depth of what he felt.

“So, does that mean you expect me to go all out for your birthday now too?”

Nick smirked, winking as he leaned back.

“Absolutely. You’ve got a high bar to clear.”

Charlie laughed, his chest glowing with something bright and terrifyingly sweet. And under it all, beneath the playfulness and warmth, the truth pulsed steady in his heart.

He was falling for Nick. Hard.

Chapter Text

The gym was buzzing faintly with the rhythm of the workout playlist Charlie had curated for the two of them on Nick's Spotify, something upbeat with a pop-punk vibe. Charlie was on the mat, planking with surprisingly little effort, while Nick sat next to him with a set of dumbbells.

“Your form’s slipping,” Nick teased, smirking.

Charlie made a strangled sound.

“You’re just jealous I can hold it longer than you now.”

Nick raised his brows.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Obviously.”

Nick set the weights down, dropped into a plank beside him, and soon after Charlie’s arms were already trembling. Nick just grinned smugly, steady as a rock.

“I hate you,” Charlie wheezed.

“No, you don’t.” Nick’s voice was low, confident, maddeningly sure.

Charlie broke first, collapsing onto the mat and laughing breathlessly. Nick fell onto his back beside him a second later, both of them catching their breath, music still humming around them.

Then Nick’s phone buzzed from the bench across the room. He pushed himself up, still grinning, and padded over to grab it. But the smile faded the second he saw the name lighting up his screen.

Charlie, still sprawled out on the mat, tilted his head.

“What’s wrong?”

Nick hesitated, thumb hovering over the message.

“It’s… Miley.”

Charlie sat up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

Nick exhaled, tapping the notification open.

Miley (7:45am): I miss you. Our fight was silly. We should talk.

Nick chewed the inside of his cheek before typing back.

Nick (7:47am): I don’t think that’s a good idea. A clean break is probably better for both of us.

Almost immediately, she replied.

Miley (7:47am): You haven’t been posting anything lately. Except for team stuff and sponsor obligations. I’m worried about you.

Nick frowned, thumbs moving again.

Nick (7:48am): I’m fine. Just been busy.

Another ping:

Miley (7:48am): Busy with Charlie?

You two are always together. There’s something weird about it.

Nick’s jaw clenched.

Nick (7:49am): It’s not just Charlie.

I’ve been getting back into regular weight training, getting ready before the season starts. Plus the photo shoot trip. I don’t really owe you an explanation.

Miley (7:50am): You owe me a lot, actually.

You put your hands on me. 

Nick gripped his phone harder, breathing through his nose and trying to remember Charlie and his mom's reassurances.

Nick (7:50am): I know I put my hands on you. 

I'm glad you just stumbled and didn't get injured, and I am sorry. I never intended to hurt you.

But you don't respect my boundaries. I panicked. I was just trying to get you to back up a little. 

Miley (7:51am): I was just kissing you Nick. Don't be a drama queen about it. 

Nick was close to breaking his phone, his knuckles were white and his grip was causing his phone to creak a bit under his fingers. Charlie put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he felt some of the tension ease.

Her next came quick, sharp.

Miley (7:52am): You should feel lucky I still give you the time of day.

You're the one who messed everything up and I am still willing to try again.

This is your last chance to make things better with me.

Nick stared at the words for a long beat before replying.

Nick (7:53am): No thank you.

Maybe I'm not perfect but this was just as much your fault as mine.

We're just not compatible, Miley. I'm sorry.

Seconds later:

Miley (7:53am): Suit yourself.

Nick set the phone down on the ground a little harder than necessary.

Charlie had been watching his face the whole time.

“You okay?”

Nick forced a half-smile, shoulders tightening as though shaking something off.

“Yeah. Just… you know. Ex drama.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Nick said, though his tone was a little too quick, a little too light. He grabbed his towel, tossing it over his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve still got one more set of presses. Gotta keep you impressed with me.”

Charlie snorted, but the crease between his brows didn’t fade.

Nick lay back on the bench, hefting the weights like nothing had happened. But even as he counted his reps aloud in an exaggerated voice to make Charlie laugh, the echo of Miley’s words stuck with him. The way she’d implied things about Charlie. The way her last text had sounded more like a threat than a resignation.

He shook the thought away, forcing another grin for Charlie’s sake.

“Come on,” he said, sitting up, breathless from the set. “Your turn. Don’t wimp out on me now.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but the concern in them lingered.

Nick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Charlie rummage through the cupboards. He’d asked Sarah what her favorite dish was—like it was the most natural thing in the world that he should cook it—and when Sarah had said spaghetti Bolognese, Charlie had nodded so earnestly it made Nick’s chest ache.

Now Charlie stood at the counter with the recipe pulled up on his phone, brow furrowed in concentration. His curls were falling into his eyes, and every so often he’d push them back with a quick huff. At one point, his tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth as he squinted down at the measurements.

Nick felt something inside him go soft. So, so soft.

Charlie—this sweet, silly, beautiful soul—had been through more than most people could even begin to understand. Nick had only glimpsed the edges of it, but he knew enough. And yet here he was, still so gentle, so thoughtful, so intent on making Nick's precious mom happy.

Nick’s throat tightened as he thought about how much Sarah meant to him. She wasn’t just his mom—she was his anchor. The one who’d carried him through everything. And to see Charlie care about her, not just politely but with real intention… it was almost too much.

He thought, briefly, about Miley. About how she’d always seemed restless, impatient when Sarah joined them. Like she couldn’t wait to leave. She’d never asked about Sarah’s favorite meal, her hobbies, her social life, never leaned into that kind of intimacy. Nick’s chest filled with a pang, sharp and familiar. He realized he was doing it again—comparing Charlie to past partners. And Charlie wasn’t his partner. He wasn’t even someone Nick should be thinking about that way. They were just…

Just friends.

Nick forced in a slow breath, like that would steady the warmth that was slowly unraveling him inside. It didn't.

Charlie looked up suddenly, catching his eye.

“Do we have any more basil or just this mouse sized packet?” he asked, holding up the little packet from the fridge. His voice was casual, but his smile—bright, dimples deepening—nearly knocked the air out of Nick.

Nick swallowed hard, trying to play it off.

“Yeah. Uh, the drawer right in front has some more, I think ”

Charlie grinned, nodding, then went back to his rummaging. Nick let himself lean a little heavier into the counter, watching, feeling that dangerous tug in his chest.

God damnit 

The three of them sat at the dining table, plates still half-full, the smell of roasted vegetables and herbs lingering in the air. Sarah dabbed her lips with a napkin and smiled warmly across the table.

“This is absolutely delicious, Charlie,” she said. “You’ve got quite the hand in the kitchen.”

Charlie flushed, ducking his head a little but grinning.

“Thanks. I just followed a recipe I found but... I’ve actually been really enjoying cooking lately. It’s… I don’t know. Kind of calming.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Sarah replied. “I’ve got a ton of recipes I could share with you if you’d like. Old family ones, easy weeknight things, a few French ones my mother in law taught me when I was married to Nick's father.”

“I’d love that,” Charlie said, eyes lighting up. “Seriously.”

Nick just sat back, fork in hand, watching the easy back-and-forth, and that dangerous warmth in his chest just grew deeper and deeper.

Sarah poured them each more iced tea.

“So,” she asked, “how was your week?”

Charlie didn’t hesitate.

“It was amazing. Nick made my birthday so great—like, seriously, he went all out.” His face softened, his hands gesturing midair like he couldn’t quite capture how much it had meant. “It was the best one I can remember having... Maybe ever."

Sarah’s gaze flicked to her son, and she gave him a soft look that lingered just a little too long, too knowing. Nick felt the tips of his ears heat. He stabbed at his food, pretending not to notice, but his mom’s expression made his heart thump against his ribs.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Sarah said suddenly, reaching down beside her chair. “I actually have something for you, Charlie.”

Charlie blinked.

“Wait—what? For me?"

"Of course! For your birthday."

"Oh, Sarah, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s just a little something,” she said, waving away his protest. “Something I enjoy, and I thought you might too.”

She pulled a small gift bag from her tote and slid it across the table. Charlie tugged the tissue paper free, and when he saw what was inside, he burst out laughing.

“You got me… a sweary coloring book?” he said, flipping through pages where intricate mandalas framed words like fuck it and shit happens, and Charlie's personal favorite, Keep it cunty in beautiful cursive. His grin widened. “This is amazing.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Sarah said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Sometimes you need a little way to get out of your own head, and coloring really helps. Stress relief and all that.”

Charlie stood, impulsively leaning over to hug her.

“I love it. Thank you so much.”

Sarah hugged him back without hesitation, fondness soft in her smile.

Nick sat frozen, fork still in hand, watching them. Watching Charlie laugh into his mom’s shoulder like he belonged there. Watching his mom beam like she already adored him, which she definitely did.

And Nick thought—shit. Maybe bringing him here was actually a terrible idea. Because there was no way back from this feeling now.

Sarah had just left for her hospital shift, pulling Nick into a long hug and kissing his cheek before squeezing Charlie as well, with a fond smile. The house felt a little quieter once she left, though the warm afterglow of her visit lingered.

Charlie was standing at the sink, rinsing dishes, while Nick dried them beside him. The two of them were laughing, trading commentary about the ridiculous reality dating show they’d been bingeing together at night.

“I’m telling you,” Nick said, shaking his head, “there’s no way Marcus is really there for ‘true love.’ He gives off ‘here strictly for the Instagram followers’ energy.”

Charlie snorted.

“And what about Lila? She’s convinced the producers are trying to sabotage her entire journey. Like—girl, no one’s conspiring against you, you’re just terrible at conversation.”

Nick laughed, nearly dropping the plate he was drying.

“Savage.”

Charlie shrugged, grinning.

“Honest.”

For a moment, the kitchen was filled with the simple rhythm of rinsing and drying, the clink of plates and the occasional shared smile.

Then Nick’s voice softened.

“So… is cooking part of your list? Y’know, the one you mentioned—stuff you wanted to do to get back to yourself?”

Charlie paused, the sponge in his hand dripping suds into the sink. Then he smiled, small but certain, and nodded.

“Yeah. It is. I like it. Feels good to… make something. Take some control over meals. And, I think the next thing I want to try is finding my style again.”

Nick raised his brows, intrigued.

“Your style?”

“Mmhm,” Charlie said. “I really appreciate the clothes you and the hospital got me. Seriously. But… sweatpants and plain tees aren’t exactly me.”

Nick leaned against the counter, studying him with a playful grin.

“I bet you dress really cool normally. Like…with some edge. Maybe eyeliner. Very ‘lead drummer in a band’ vibes.”

Charlie laughed, ducking his head.

“Actually… you’re not wrong.”

“I knew it,” Nick said, triumphant. “See? Called it.”

He was using the smug attitude to cover up the instant flutter in his stomach at the idea of Charlie in eyeliner.

“Don’t give me too much credit,” Charlie said, smiling shyly. “I’m not actually that cool.”

“Disagree,” Nick said immediately, his voice warm.

Charlie glanced at him, amused.

“You know, you can tell a lot about someone by their style.”

“Oh yeah?” Nick leaned in a little. “What does mine say about me?”

Charlie hesitated, then his smile softened.

“That you’re safe. The boy-next-door type. Sporty, but not a show-off.”

Nick let out a laugh, though his ears went a little pink.

“That’s not fair. You already know me.”

Charlie chuckled.

“True… If I’d met you years ago, back in high school? Your style would’ve told me there was no way we’d be friends. You’d probably think I was just some weird gay nerd.”

Nick shook his head, adamant.

“No way. We totally would’ve been friends.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow.

“Come on. You were probably really popular. And I was… very much not.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Nick said, his voice quieter now, more certain. “I would’ve definitely noticed you. I would’ve wanted to be your friend.”

Charlie blinked at him, heart giving a quick, traitorous kick.

“You… would’ve noticed me?”

Nick met his gaze, steady and earnest.

“Yeah. I would’ve.”

The air between them shifted, something tender and charged humming quietly into the space. For a moment, they just stood there, gazes locked, the kitchen falling utterly still.

And then—bam bam bam. Loud knocking rattled the front door.

Charlie startled, his body going rigid, eyes wide with panic.

Nick immediately reached out, steadying him with a hand on his arm. His voice was calm, reassuring.

“It’s okay. Just stay here in the kitchen, alright? I’ll see what’s going on.”

Nick tugged the door open, still drying his hands. He froze when Otis, Christian, and Sai all stepped inside without waiting for him to invite them.

“Uh… guys?” Nick blinked, looking between them. “What’s going on? You never just… show up without warning."

Otis looked almost sheepish, though his expression was serious.

“Sorry, man. We figured it was better in person.”

Christian spotted Charlie in the kitchen doorway and lit up.

“Hey—sorry for barging in. I’m Christian.” He gave a little wave, smile genuine. “This is Otis and Sai. We’re teammates of Nick’s.”

Charlie hesitated, nervous energy written across his shoulders. But he managed a polite, if cautious, smile.

“Hi. Charlie.”

“They’re nice. Harmless,” Nick assured quickly, glancing back at him.

Christian grinned.

“Harmless? That makes us sound boring.”

But before Charlie could even attempt a chuckle, Otis cut in with a sharp edge.

“It’s not time to joke around.” He looked at Nick, steady and serious. “Have you seen Miley’s newest TikTok?”

Nick frowned.

“No. Why?”

Nick had stopped following Miley the day they broke up. Her videos weren't his usual type of content anyway and it was nice to get his algorithm back to mostly football, baking, Marvel, and puppies.

Sai stepped forward, hands in pockets.

“We didn’t want to text you about it. Figured it was better to make sure you’re okay in person.”

Nick’s jaw tightened slightly. He pulled out his own phone from his pocket and unlocked it. Charlie came up behind him, drawn by his tense silence, and peered over his shoulder as Nick scrolled to the TikTok.

On the screen, Miley sat in front of a ring light, face somber, a tissue dabbing at dry eyes. The caption hovered at the bottom read "Answering your questions ❤️ #truth #healing"

A bubble above her head displayed the comment that she was relying to from a previous video. "Why isn’t Nick in your videos anymore? Did you two split?”

Miley sighed dramatically, lowering her gaze.

“At first… Nick tricked me. I thought he was kind. I thought he cared.” She sniffled for effect. “But slowly… it changed. He became selfish. Cold. He treated me like I was a chore. He ruined my self-esteem. And when I tried to talk to him about it…” She trailed off, pausing with another staged sniffle. “…he got physical with me.”

Charlie stiffened behind Nick, eyes wide.

Miley’s voice lowered, as if confiding something raw.

“He shoved me. He put his hands on me. I… I didn’t feel safe anymore.” She shifted the camera angle to show a picture, taken on her phone, of her leg, a dark purple bruise spanning her thigh.

“This… this is what I lived with. And as much as I still love him, I had to break it off. For my own safety.”

Nick’s stomach lurched as the video cut to screenshots of their texts.

Miley’s message: "You owe me a lot, actually. You put your hands on me.”

Nick’s partial reply: "I know I put my hands on you.”

Another: “Maybe I’m not perfect but this was just as much your fault as mine.”

“What?!" The word ripped out of him, too loud, too raw. “No. No, that’s completely out of context!” His pulse raced, fists tightening around his own phone.

Everyone flinched, instinctively reaching toward him.

“Nick,” Charlie said quickly, voice steady, hands raised slightly in reassurance. “I was there. I know exactly how it went down.” His gaze was solid, unwavering.

Nick’s head snapped toward him, frustration spilling out unchecked.

“Yeah, and? The rest of the world doesn’t!”

The outburst hung in the air, sharp enough to make Charlie’s breath hitch.

And then Nick’s face crumpled. He exhaled hard, pressing a hand over his eyes.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Not you.”

Charlie shook his head gently.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Nick muttered, voice rough. “You don’t deserve that. It’s just—”

His phone rang, shrill and cutting, from the counter. Nick glanced at the screen, saw his agent’s name flashing. He clenched his jaw, then stalked toward the other room, muttering, “I’ve gotta take this.”

The kitchen and living room fell into a tense silence in his wake, everyone’s eyes tracking his retreat.

Charlie sat on the couch, Aegis tucked beside him, while Christian, Sai, and Otis lingered. For a few moments, no one said anything—there was just the faint hum of the ceiling fan.

Finally, Sai broke the silence.

“It really is nice to meet you, Charlie. Even if the circumstances suck.”

Charlie glanced up and managed a small smile.

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Nice to meet you all too ”

Christian leaned forward slightly.

“Nick talks a lot about you a lot.”

Charlie blinked.

“He does?”

Otis nodded, his tone serious but warm.

“Yeah. He says you’re really funny and smart. That he feels a lot less lonely now. Makes a big difference to him.”

Charlie felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

“That… that’s nice,” he admitted softly.

Christian grinned.

“And he said you were really pretty too.”

Sai shot Christian a sharp nudge with her knee.

“Shush!”

Otis held up a hand.

“Dumbass. Remember? He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

Christian waved his hands helplessly.

“Oops. Please forget I said that.”

Sai rolled his eyes.

“He didn’t just volunteer that information. We bugged him about it.”

Charlie laughed awkwardly, the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Uh… okay, noted.”

Before the teasing could go any further, Nick came into the room, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sank onto the couch beside Charlie. He sighed heavily.

“My agent, and coach… they froze my social media comments,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “They told me not to look at them—they’re… apparently pretty brutal. And they said not to respond, not to say anything yet. Not to contact Miley or any of her friends. They’re going to collect the information from my phone, write up a statement for me to post, and even set me up with some charity events in this… weird attempt to make me look good, I guess?” He paused, letting the frustration show. “I feel… pretty hopeless.”

Christian frowned.

“It’s stupid that anyone would believe that about you.”

Otis shook his head.

“Yeah. You’re so nice, Nick. It’s crazy that anyone could fall for—”

Nick held up a hand, cutting them off.

“No. I’m not mad at the fans. Or Miley’s followers. Or anyone taking her side. Abusers often seem nice. They seem kind, charming… that’s how they get away with it.”

Charlie’s chest tightened, a familiar ache pressing against his ribs. The memory of Ben surged unbidden—the charm, the smiles, the quiet control that had wrapped around him until it wasn’t safe anymore, but it had creeped up on him hidden behind sweet smiles and fake gestures. And here was Nick, in the middle of his own storm, still thinking of fairness and of the victim first. Charlie’s heart swelled with admiration.

“Everyone should believe Miley,” Nick continued, his voice low but steady. “Until I can prove myself innocent. It’s important to always believe the victim.”

Something inside Charlie shifted. His chest warmed, a sudden swell of respect, awe, and something tender that had been continuing to grow and take on a life of its own. Nick was so selfless, so unwavering in doing what was right, even when the world was being unfair to him. He felt a pang of emotion so strong he had to blink rapidly to keep it contained.

Sai’s eyes were soft, a quiet reassurance.

“The fact that you’re thinking like that… even now… shows how good you really are, Nick.”

Nick gave a small, tired smile.

“Thanks, guys. Really. Thank you for coming over… for being here for me.”

“Of course,” Otis said. “You’re one of our best friends. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Nick nodded, finally leaning back with a quiet exhale.

“I’ll be fine. I just… need to figure this out. And I need a nap.”

The guys nodded.

“We’ll head out,” Christian said, “but please text us when you can.”

Nick got up and hugged each of them warmly, lingering for a moment longer than expected, squeezing them as if to pass along his gratitude and reassurance. Charlie watched silently, heart swelling at how present and caring Nick was even while carrying so much.

“I will,” Nick promised.

Charlie reached over, lightly resting a hand on Nick’s arm.

“It’s okay. I’m here too.”

Nick looked at him, the weight of gratitude and exhaustion clear in his eyes.

“Thanks… and I’m sorry again for snapping earlier.”

Charlie squeezed his arm gently.

“It’s okay. I get it. You don’t need to apologize.”

Nick nodded, finally leaning back with a quiet exhale.

“I disagree but... Alright. Nap time, then.”

Charlie smiled softly and turned his attention to Aegis, muttering, “I think I’ll go color in the ‘stupid fucking cunt’ page in my coloring book. Suddenly have the urge.”

Nick let out a genuine, hearty laugh.

“Of course you do.”

Charlie stayed on the couch a moment longer, heart full and quietly amazed at the man settling in next to him—so genuine, so selfless, so careful to do the right thing. He let himself savor it, the quiet intimacy of watching Nick carry his weight and still protect the world’s truth.

Chapter Text

Red. Orange.

Press harder. Stay inside the lines.

Miley saying Nick hurt her.

Said Nick is abusive.

No. No. No.

Nick is kind. Gentle.

Always soft with me. Always careful.

But—what if I missed something?

What if she saw what I didn’t?

No—she lied. Lied about the shove.

I was there

Lied about the texts. Twisted them.

Nick isn’t a liar. Nick isn’t cruel.

Nick is good. Nick is good. Nick is good.

Nick isn’t Ben. Nick isn’t Ben. Nick isn’t Ben.

Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.

Fuck Miley.

Nick called me pretty.

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

Does he mean it?

Maybe he wants me too?

Maybe.

But not like Ben. Never like Ben.

Nick would never take. Nick doesn’t hurt.

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

Color faster. Lines blurring.

The page bright and messy but—still beautiful.

Messy... But still... Beautiful? 

A knock. Soft. Careful. Nick’s knock.

Blue bleeding into green.

Heavy strokes. Too heavy. Paper might rip.

Fuck Miley. Fuck her lies.

Bruise that wasn’t real.

Words bent until they snapped.

Nick’s words, not his.

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

Nick is good. Nick is so kind.

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

He called me pretty.

Sharp. Bright. Still beautiful.

Knock.

Charlie froze. Breath caught.

Another knock, gentle. Patient.

Charlie exhaled hard, dropping the colored pencil, and went to the door, opening it.

Nick stood there, red-rimmed eyes, exhausted and raw. He tried for a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Have you eaten yet?” Nick asked softly. “Or… can I make you dinner?”

Charlie shook his head, firm but gentle.

“No. You’re not making anything. I’m cooking for you.”

Nick started to protest—“Charlie, you don’t have to—”

But Charlie cut him off, voice sure.

“Your mom texted me a new recipe not long after she left earlier. I was gonna try it anyway.”

Nick blinked slowly, them nodded. Something warm flickered in his eyes. They headed downstairs together.

As they moved through the kitchen, Nick said quietly, “I just called my mom, actually. She offered to come by, help me through this. But… I told her not to worry. I’ll see her in a few days for dinner.”

Charlie paused, knife in hand, looking at him with wide disbelief.

“I just—can’t believe Miley would lie like that. Twist everything so grotesquely.”

Nick leaned against the counter, shoulders heavy.

“She might have just ruined my career. Even if I can get fans to believe the truth, no team is gonna want me now. Liability. Bad press. I’ll probably lose my contract.” His throat bobbed. “Honestly, I could retire now, maybe get a part time job or something, be comfortable enough. But—” his voice cracked, “I’m still in my twenties. I’m not ready to stop playing.”

Charlie set the knife down, stepping closer.

“Hey. Don’t stress about what-ifs right now. We’ll figure this out.”

Nick lifted his head, weary.

“We?”

Charlie’s gaze was steady, unwavering.

“Hell yeah, we. If you’re dealing with this, I’m dealing with this. I’m here. With you. For you.”

Nick stared at him for a moment, before his chest broke open with quiet gratitude. He pulled Charlie into a hug, holding on like he’s afraid to let go. Charlie’s hand moved in slow, broken circles across his back—steady, grounding.

Left, right. Left, right.

When Nick finally eased back, after perhaps holding on longer than strictly necessary, Charlie gave him a soft smile.

“Go find us a movie while I cook. This recipe’s pretty quick, won’t take long.”

Nick dragged himself to the couch and flopped down, heavy with exhaustion. Charlie came over a second later, placing Aegis in Nick’s arms.

“He helps,” Charlie says with a small grin.

Nick couldn’t help it—he laughed. A short, real laugh that softened the lines on his face. He hugged the plush deer close.

For the first time since that video, he felt a little lighter.

The week blurred into a constant stream of damage control. Phone calls, back-to-back Zoom meetings, half a dozen different people telling Nick what he had to do if he wanted to come out of this with his reputation intact. His agent talked strategy. His manager talked sponsorships. The club’s media department talked optics.

There were draft after draft of a press release for his Instagram—something short, sharp, apologetic without groveling, reminding people of who he really was, reminding people that he cared. Every time it landed in his inbox with new edits, he wanted to throw his phone against the wall.

On top of that, there were charity events lined up—he’d been asked to attend a mental health awareness fundraiser hosted by a local nonprofit, and another community youth sports clinic where he’d run drills with kids and smile for cameras. He wanted to do them—he believed in those causes—but the fact that they were packaged and scheduled as PR moves made his skin crawl.

And through it all, Nick felt… raw. Exposed. He’d spent his whole life trying to be good. To be kind. To love people the way he wished the world would love him back. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve to be dragged like this, reduced to hashtags and headlines.

Most nights, he ended up sitting on the floor of his living room after another endless call, his head in his hands, his chest tight with anger and embarrassment.

And every night, Charlie was there.

Sprawled on the couch beside him with a bag of his favorite sour cream and cheddar chips. Voice steady and warm, letting Nick rant and rage until he ran out of words. He was patient. He listened. He never once told Nick to calm down or “look on the bright side.” He just let him be. Let him feel.

Charlie’s hugs had changed, too. They lingered now. They were slower, heavier, like he understood that Nick wasn’t asking out loud for comfort—but he needed it. Every time, Charlie’s hand would rub those same broken circles into his back. Left, right, left, right. A rhythm that soothed more than Nick wanted to admit.

And lately, Charlie himself had been lingering more. Standing in the doorway longer than necessary when they said goodnight, his eyes a little softer, his voice a little lower. Sitting close, knees brushing when there was plenty of space on the couch. Present. Always present.

Nick wasn’t sure if it was just his own desperation twisting things, but in the middle of all the chaos, all the cameras, all the PR spin, that quiet, grounding presence was the only thing that felt real. And it like it was silently saying more.

The weekend stretched out lazily, the kind of Saturday where the sun hit just right through the windows and time felt like it could slow down. Nick and Charlie were sprawled on the living room floor, Scrabble tiles scattered across the board. Charlie was grinning, clearly winning, while Nick groaned and raked a hand through his hair.

“There’s no way I even have a chance against an actual author,” Nick said, pouting dramatically.

Charlie shook his head, ducking it with a shy smile.

“I’m not an author. I haven’t even been published.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“Yet.”

Charlie blinked, shyly smiling.

"Say it." Nick insisted.

"Nick—"

"Charlie." He teased. Charlie huffed.

"Fine. Yet."

Nick grinned wide and Charlie couldn't help but drop his playful petulance to smile back.

Nick’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a contact saved as Marc – Agent. He sighed and picked it up, raking a hand through his hair before answering.

“Salut, Marc,” Nick said, voice softening in a way Charlie hadn’t heard before. His words melted into fluid French, low and warm. "Oui, je comprends… Merci, tu as déjà préparé la déclaration pour Instagram ? D’accord. Envoie-la-moi par e-mail, je la lirai tout de suite."

Charlie blinked, half zoning out, trying not to look too obviously enthralled. He didn’t understand a single word of it, but Nick’s voice rolled smooth and deep, each syllable curling around him. God, it was unfair. He dragged his gaze back to the TV, cheeks heating.

Nick listened for another moment, murmured, "Parfait, merci beaucoup. On se parle demain. Bonne soirée." He hung up, tossing his phone gently back onto the table.

“That was my agent,” Nick explained, leaning into the sofa cushions with a sigh. “He’s just finished the final version of the statement for me to post on Instagram. I’ll check my email in a bit.”

Charlie arched a brow, fighting a smirk.

“Cool. Totally normal. Just… casually chatting in French about PR disasters.”

Nick laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, habit. Marc prefers French but it's rare he gets to actually use it here.”

Charlie hummed, playing it off like he wasn’t currently replaying Nick’s voice in his head on a loop.

“Yeah, well. Kinda show-offy, if you ask me.”

Nick grinned.

“Not my fault you don’t speak French."

Charlie wrinkled his nose.

“I took French my freshman year! I… remember how to say ‘Can I please borrow a pencil?’ That’s it." He laughed. "I probably should have paid more attention, but it's much more interesting coming from you than it ever was from Mademoiselle Benson.”

He shoved another piece of popcorn in his mouth to stop himself from blurting 'And by interesting, I mean you could ask me to commit war crimes in that voice and I’d say ‘oui.'

Nick leaned closer, voice soft, and Charlie felt his stomach flip as Nick said something else in French:

"C'est vraiment dommage, j'aurais tellement de jolies choses à te dire en français.

Si seulement je pouvais te montrer en anglais à quel point tu es absolument magnifique, et que si un jour j’avais la privilège d’avoir ton affection, je n’en abuserais jamais et je ne la prendrais jamais pour acquise."

Charlie froze. He didn’t understand a single word, but the intensity, the warmth, the subtle reverence in Nick’s voice made his knees go weak. His heart hammered, and his chest felt tight. He felt a wave of heat rush over him, every muscle tightening and relaxing all at once. One particular muscle was really misbehaving... 

He had to stand up quickly.

“Okay! I need to pee. I’ll be right back,” he managed, trying to gather himself.

Nick just leaned back against the couch, letting out a small, amused chuckle.

“Yeah… sure. I’ll be right here.”

As Charlie left, he couldn’t stop thinking about how effortlessly captivating Nick was, even in a language Charlie didn’t understand. The words themselves were a mystery, but the feeling behind them was unmistakable: warm, intimate, magnetic.

Charlie gripped the sink, water dripping down his cheeks as he stared at his own reflection.

What the hell is this man doing to me?

He’d barely survived listening to Nick speak a few sentences in French, and it had done something to him he couldn’t even name. His whole body was still buzzing, like every nerve was awake, like Nick’s voice had touched him in places no one’s hands ever had.

I’ve had more sexual stimulation just listening to him speak French than I’ve ever had with any man actually touching me.

His chest heaved with a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. He shook his head, turned the faucet off, and leaned in closer to the mirror.

Pull it together, Charlie.

One long breath, two, and then he was walking back into the living room, trying to look like he hadn’t just had a small existential crisis in the bathroom.

Nick was lowering his phone, sighing.

“That was my agent again. He set me up with a charity event in two days. Some kids’ hospital fundraiser.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Tomorrow morning I’m posting the statement on Instagram, and then it’s going to be event after event after event.”

Charlie nodded, sitting back down on the couch.

Nick blew out a heavy sigh.

“I wish you could come with me.”

The words hit Charlie like a physical blow. He blinked.

“Wouldn’t you be… embarrassed? Showing up with a… guy?”

And then panic surged in after a moment of processing what he'd just said. He waved his hands.

“Not that you’d be bringing me as like—a date—but people might think so, and—”

“Charlie,” Nick cut him off gently, firm but soft. His eyes were steady, warm. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed at all. I’m out to the team. My friends. My family. It’s not a secret that I’m bi. And if anyone did assume it was a date…” Nick’s mouth curved into a small smile. “…I think they’d be more jealous than anything.”

Charlie’s whole body clenched with something sharp and hot.

Ben would never have said that. Ben had never wanted to be seen with him. Ben, who told him he was too thin, too strange, too much. Ben, who had hidden him, who had chipped away at him until Charlie was small and pliable and believed no one else could possibly love him.

But here was Nick—Nick, who wasn’t embarrassed, Nick, who didn’t just tolerate him but made him feel like he was something worth showing the world.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Charlie launched forward. His hand braced against Nick’s chest, his lips pressed desperately to Nick’s in a kiss that was deep, hungry, reckless.

Nick stiffened for the barest second, shocked—but then he kissed back, warm and sure, his hand rising instinctively to steady Charlie’s shoulder. Soft lips, tiny gasps, warm hands. For a fleeting moment, it was everything.

And then—Nick pulled back. Breathless, eyes wide.

“Wait—Charlie—”

Reality crashed in.

Charlie’s stomach dropped like a stone. His eyes went wide in horror, and words tumbled out of him faster than he could stop them.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but I didn’t—I should have asked—I’m so embarrassed—I can’t believe I just—oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

“Charlie—” Nick tried, reaching out.

But Charlie was already stumbling backward, heart in his throat, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have—”

And before Nick could say anything more, Charlie turned and bolted, feet pounding up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed shut a moment later, leaving Nick sitting stunned and breathless on the couch, lips tingling where Charlie’s kiss still lingered.

Chapter Text

Charlie shut his bedroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a marathon. His face was burning. His lips still tingled from—

God. He buried his hands in his hair, tugging until his scalp stung. What the hell did I just do?

Nick had been so lovely. Sitting with him, laughing with him, letting him feel safe—and Charlie had ruined it. Completely, spectacularly ruined it. Because he couldn’t control himself for five minutes. Because the second he felt warmth and kindness, he had to go and throw himself at it like some desperate idiot.

His mind replayed the kiss in broken flashes, every angle of humiliation. The stunned look on Nick’s face. The way Charlie had mumbled an apology and bolted like a coward.

“You’re so fucking easy,” Ben’s voice hissed in his memory, sharp as broken glass. “Always ready to spread for anyone. Pathetic little whore.”

Charlie pressed his fists into his eyes until stars burst against the dark. His throat was raw, clogged with the weight of his sobs. Nick didn’t deserve this. Not when he was already drowning in stress, with Miley’s stupid video circulating, people whispering about him everywhere. Now, on top of all that, Nick had to deal with Charlie’s mess of stupid fucking inconvenient selfish feelings.

Nick would let him stay, because that’s who Nick was—sweet, considerate, too gentle to push him away outright. But inside, Charlie knew he’d already be working out how to let him down easy. How to break his heart without crushing him completely.

The thought sliced Charlie open. Everything was going to be different now. Awkward. Heavy. He's ruined everything they've built.

He pressed his face into his pillow, letting the tears soak the fabric.

“You’re such an idiot,” he muttered hoarsely. “Stupid, stupid, stupid—”

A sound cut through the air.

A knock.

Soft, hesitant, right against his door.

“Charlie?” Nick’s voice. Low, careful.

Charlie froze, every nerve buzzing like a live wire.

Nick stood outside Charlie’s door, his palm resting against the wood, waiting for a response. He could hear soft, muffled sniffling, the broken rhythm of Charlie’s sobs. It tore at something deep in his chest, sharper than anything Miley’s accusations or the press could inflict.

God, what was Charlie thinking in there? That he’d ruined everything? That Nick was angry? Or worse—that Charlie owed him something and had panicked after? Nick’s stomach twisted. The kiss had shocked him, sure, but not because it was unwelcome. If anything, it had been the opposite—he could still feel it lingering on his lips, sparking down to his bones. But he couldn’t stand the idea that Charlie was sitting in there drowning in shame.

Nick leaned his forehead gently against the door, closing his eyes. Whatever else he was feeling—confused, hopeful, terrified—it didn’t matter right now. Charlie needed to know it was going to be okay.

Then, through the quiet, he heard it.

A small, broken voice.

“...Come in.”

Nick exhaled, and opened the door slowly.

Charlie was curled on the bed, swallowed up in his blanket, only a tuft of hair poking out from underneath. Despite everything—despite the ache in his chest—Nick’s lips tugged into the smallest, helpless smile.

Cute. Too cute.

“Hey,” Nick said softly. “Can I sit?”

There was a pause. Then Charlie peeked out, eyes red and damp, cheeks blotchy. His voice was tiny.

“...Sure.”

Nick crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, close but not too close.

“Will you please look at me?”

Charlie sighed, tugged the blanket down to his chin. He looked utterly miserable. Nick’s chest clenched.

“So,” Nick said gently. “Um. You… kissed me?"

It wasn't meant to come out as question but maybe part of my him still couldn't believe it was real.

Immediately, Charlie’s face crumpled.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

“Hey.” Nick shook his head, cutting him off. “Please. No. It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. But maybe… we should talk.”

Charlie groaned and buried half his face again.

“Do we have to?”

That tugged an unexpected giggle out of Nick, light and warm.

“Yeah, I think we do.”

With great reluctance, Charlie sat up straighter. He stared at his hands where they fidgeted on top of the blanket.

“Why did you do it?” Nick asked softly.

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“Nope.” Nick cut in again, laughing this time. “You’re not allowed to say the s-word anymore.”

That got the tiniest twitch of a smile out of Charlie. Nick’s heart lifted at the sight.

Charlie drew a breath, still staring at his hands.

“I just… wanted to?”

The words hit Nick like a jolt. He leaned forward a little.

“Do you still feel like you owe me something?”

Charlie gave a little shrug.

“Well… yeah. I owe you everything. But... not like that. I just— I just wanted to.”

Nick’s heart stuttered. Wanted to. Did that mean—?

But then Charlie shook his head quickly, words tumbling out.

“But I should have asked, and I know you don’t feel that way about me, and I didn’t mean to make things awkward with my stupid feelings, you’ve been so lovely and understanding but I know I’m not the kind of person you would ever—”

“Charlie.”

Nick reached out and gently caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his face up. The effect was immediate—Charlie went silent, wide-eyed, trembling faintly.

“You just… wanted to kiss me?” Nick whispered. “You… like me?”

Charlie’s eyes darted away, shame burning across his cheeks. He looked like he might cry again. But then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Nick let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. Relief, joy, fear—all tangled up.

“Charlie, you’re so wrong about that. About thinking you’re not someone I could feel that way about.”

Charlie blinked at him, stunned.

“You’re kind,” Nick said, voice low and certain. “And smart. And funny. And so damn strong. And so, so beautiful, inside and out.”

The stunned look didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

Nick’s lips curved into the smallest, trembling smile.

"You're the exact kind of person I want to be with."

Charlie eyes widened with clear shock.

"You—I... I am?"

Nick leaned his forehead gently against Charlie's and took a deep, grounding breath.

"Mhm." Then he opened his eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now. If that’s okay.”

Charlie’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then, slowly, he nodded.

Nick tilted his head just enough to slot their lips together.

The kiss was nothing like the frantic press of lips before. This one was slow, deliberate, achingly gentle. Charlie’s lips were soft, hesitant at first, then melting into his. The world seemed to narrow down to just this—just the warmth of Charlie’s mouth, the quiet tremor of his breath, the way something gentle and raw pulsed between them. Longing. Relief. A sweetness that was almost unbearable.

When Nick finally pulled back, he kept his hand cupping Charlie’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free.

Charlie let out a shaky little laugh, eyes wet but shining.

“...Oh.”

Nick couldn’t help but laugh too, forehead resting briefly against his.

“Yeah… oh.”

Charlie curled deeper into Nick’s side on the couch, his hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea. Nick’s arm was slung across the back cushion, fingertips idly brushing Charlie’s shoulder, but his expression was tight.

“I’m so nervous about posting the statement,” Nick admitted, staring down into his cup.

Charlie tilted his head up, his voice gentle.

“That’s natural. You’re in a tough spot and there's no perfect way to go about any of this."

Nick turned his head, gaze lingering on Charlie’s lips before leaning in for the softest, quickest kiss. He immediately pulled back, sheepish.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t just assume I’m allowed to do that now.”

Charlie blinked at him, surprised, then blurted, “Oh, but you are. You very much are.”

Nick’s laugh was low and warm, his arms tightening around Charlie.

“Good. Because I’m not going to rush anything, or assume anything about us. But it feels… good. Knowing I’m not alone in this.”

Charlie ducked his head, cheeks burning.

“Same. And honestly? I’ve sort of been pining for you since before I even left the hospital.”

Nick’s lips curved into a slow smile.

"Oh really?" Nick tickled Charlie's ribs, making him giggle and squirm. "And here I was thinking all of that intense staring was just the pain killers making you spacey."

Charlie laughed.

“Spaced out? No. Very much zoned in, actually.”

Nick chuckled and pulled Charlie gently into his lap for a soft, lingering kiss, before snuggling into his shoulder.

“I’m glad we waited, though. You were in such a vulnerable place. I don’t think I would have let myself go there.”

Charlie groaned and covered his face with his hands.

“Yeah, I remember. I haven't forgotten the first time I threw myself at you.”

Nick tugged gently at his wrists until Charlie’s face was uncovered.

“Hey, no. No being embarrassed about that. It was a trauma response, and I knew that. It's okay."

Charlie took a shaky breath, then forced himself to nod, letting the moment soften. To escape the heaviness, he said, “Would you let me read the statement?”

Nick’s brow lifted.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

Nick handed over his phone, and Charlie scrolled through the draft. He read aloud:

“I know many of you have seen the recent video, and I understand the anger, disappointment, and confusion it has caused. It is important—always—to believe victims when they come forward. I would never dismiss that truth, and I will never fault anyone for their initial reactions.

 What I can say, and what I need you to hear from me directly, is this: I have never, and would never, harm anyone—least of all a partner. The allegations made against me are deeply untrue, and I intend to prove that.

 That proof will take time, and while that process unfolds, I ask you to continue to advocate for survivors, to keep your hearts open, and to stand for what’s right. I’ll be stepping back from social media, and from football for the time being, while we work through this.

 Thank you to those who’ve supported me, questioned me, and even doubted me—it means you care about the truth. I promise I will not take that lightly.”

Charlie’s throat felt tight when he finished. He set the phone down and shook his head.

“It’s good. It’s… really good. I just hate that you even have to do this. That you have to take time away from the sport you love.”

Nick leaned his head back against the couch, exhaling slowly.

“I hate it too. But honestly? I’m just grateful I wasn’t dropped from the team. And maybe being home a little longer isn’t the worst thing.” His gaze softened, sliding to Charlie with a look that made Charlie’s heart skip. “Not too tragic, really.”

Charlie flushed and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Nick’s lips.

Nick smiled against his mouth, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “Movie?”

Charlie nodded, setting his tea aside. They curled together more snugly on the couch as the opening credits rolled, the weight of the outside world held at bay—for just a little while.

Nick woke up with the weight of the morning heavy in his chest. He stretched his limbs, and sat up in bed, opening his Instagram, and uploading a screen shot of his statement. Thumb hovering for a long moment before finally pressing post. The statement was live. His words were out there now, for the world to dissect. Without letting himself think twice, he deleted the app and tossed his phone on the nightstand.

“Done,” he muttered to the empty room, running a hand over his face. It felt like both a relief and like a cliff dive.

He padded downstairs, the smell of butter and sugar already wafting through the air. In the kitchen, Charlie was at the stove, humming softly to himself as he flipped something golden-brown in a pan. French toast—decadent and comforting. Just what Nick needed this morning.

Nick stepped up behind him, sliding his arms around Charlie’s waist and pressing his chest against his back. He let his head fall onto Charlie’s shoulder, eyes closed, breathing him in. He smelled like mint body wash, and the coconut scented curl shampoo he'd bought with the money from his first freelance editing job. It made his curls extra springy and even that small bit of self care had made Charlie light up just a bit more. He couldn't wait for the new clothes he ordered to arrive and help him feel even more like himself again.

Charlie stilled, spatula hovering.

“What are you doing?”

Nick’s voice was muffled against his skin as he nuzzled into the curve of Charlie’s neck.

“Recharging.”

A shiver ran down Charlie’s spine at the warmth of the word. His throat tightened, because the thought that popped into his head was ridiculous—he makes me feel more loved than anyone ever has. He swallowed it back quickly, shaking his head at himself.

Too soon. Too silly.

.... But still true.

Nick eventually pulled away, snagging plates from the cabinet and setting the table. He busied himself with pouring coffee while Charlie finished the food.

“You post it?” Charlie asked carefully.

“Yeah.” Nick slid a mug toward him. “Deleted the app right after. I don’t think I can handle staring at comments and reactions. It’s out of my hands now.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself without being able to doom scroll TikTok or Instagram.”

Charlie chuckled, setting down the platter of French toast between them.

“Maybe, um, maybe you could use your free time for something else. Like… maybe teaching me how to crochet?”

Nick blinked, surprised.

“You want to learn to crochet?"

Charlie nodded, a little shy.

“I want to make a stuffy for my niece. She’s due in a couple months, and I think it’d be really sweet if her uncle made her something by hand.”

Nick’s whole face lit up, the stress in his shoulders easing.

“Charlie. That’s the sweetest idea ever.” He reached across the table, squeezing Charlie’s hand. “You’re going to be the best uncle. And yes—I will absolutely teach you.”

Charlie sat cross-legged on the couch, a ball of yarn resting in his lap. He frowned at the hook in his hand, holding it like it was a very complicated puzzle.

“This is… actually impossible. You make it look so easy!"

Nick grinned from his spot beside him, a half-finished scarf draped over his own knee.

“It’s not impossible. You’re just overthinking it. You’ve got good hands for this.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow.

“Good hands? Wow, is that your idea of flirting? Complimenting my dexterity?”

Nick laughed, cheeks flushing faintly.

“I meant—you’re careful. Precise. You’ll get it.” He leaned closer, watching Charlie’s tangled mess of yarn. “Okay, here. Let me show you again.”

Charlie groaned but held out the hook. Nick didn’t take it. Instead, he shifted closer until his thigh pressed against Charlie’s, their knees bumping. Then he covered Charlie’s hand with his own, guiding the hook through the loop.

“See? In, yarn over, pull through,” Nick murmured, his voice low with concentration.

Charlie’s heart was beating way too fast for how simple the motions were.

“You know, I don’t think crochet usually involves… handholding.”

Nick’s lips curved into a smile he didn’t look up from.

“Maybe not. But you’re a special case.” His thumb brushed lightly over Charlie’s knuckles as he looped the yarn.

Charlie swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Pretty sure you’re just looking for more excuses to touch me."

Nick finally glanced up at him, eyes warm and amused.

“Maybe I am.”

The loop came together—messy, but recognizably a stitch. Nick squeezed Charlie’s hand in triumph.

“There! You did it.”

Charlie looked at the stitch, then back at Nick, lips quirking.

“Wow. I’m basically an expert now. You’d better watch out, I’ll be crocheting entire sweaters by tomorrow.”

Nick laughed and let his hand linger just a little longer than necessary before pulling back.

“Sweaters might take a bit more practice. But I wouldn’t mind teaching you."

Charlie picked up the yarn again, trying not to grin too obviously.

“Guess you’re stuck with me then.”

Nick didn't look up from his stitching, but he gave a soft laugh and mumbled a quiet, "Hope so."

Nick stood in front of the mirror, tugging at his tie for the fourth time. He blew out a sharp breath, shoulders tense.

“God, I hate this part. What if I trip walking in? Or say something stupid? Or—”

“You’re not going to trip,” Charlie interrupted from the bed, where he was sprawled on his stomach, chin in his hand. “And if you do, people will think it’s charming and adorable. Because you’re you.”

Nick huffed a laugh, then frowned at his reflection again.

“It just feels like… a lot. Being out at something this public. Everyone watching.”

Charlie pushed himself up, padding over until he leaned against the end of the bedframe. His voice softened.

“It is a lot. But it'll be okay. Go, show your face, drop some money for the kids, drink a few overpriced cocktails, and then come back here. Straightforward. And then—” his mouth twitched into a grin— “you can give me snuggles, because I’ll be tragically lonely while you’re gone all evening.”

Nick’s laugh cracked through the nerves, warm and helpless. He turned from the mirror to look at him.

“Do you have any idea how adorable you are?”

Charlie immediately ducked his head, cheeks flushing pink.

“Shut up.”

Nick stepped closer, sliding a hand under Charlie’s chin to tilt his face back up. He kissed him, slow and gentle, lingering just long enough for his shoulders to drop a little. When he pulled back, he sighed.

“Promise me you’ll call or text if you need anything at all. Please.”

“I will,” Charlie said, eyes soft. “I’ve got a whole evening planned anyway. I’m going to practice my stitching and catch up on all the trash reality shows I missed while I was stuck at the motel.”

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, but not ‘Quest For Love’ That’s ours.”

Charlie gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest.

“How dare you even suggest I’d betray you like that. I would never.”

“Mhmm... If you call out Janelle's choice before she says it again, I'm going to have questions." Nick grinned, leaned in for one more kiss, and then reluctantly pulled away, reaching for his jacket.

Charlie folded his arms over his chest, smugly stating, "I just have excellent intuition."

Nick laughed.

"Right. Sure. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Charlie watched him go, warmth in his chest that carried him all the way to the sound of the door closing behind Nick.

The large room glimmered with too-bright chandeliers, polished silver trays weaving through the crowd of suits and sequins. Nick felt like he was standing in the middle of a perfume cloud—everyone smelled expensive, everyone laughed a bit too loud. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and tried not to fidget too much. His teammates were scattered through the room, each looking much more comfortable than he felt.

“Nick!”

A heavy hand slapped against his shoulder, nearly jolting him forward. He turned to see Harry Greene, grinning, holding a half-empty glass of champagne.

“Man, it’s really fucked up what Miley’s saying about you,” Harry said immediately, voice low enough to draw only a few curious looks. “Like—I saw her two days after you guys broke up, at some restaurant with her friends. She was wearing a skirt. No bruise, nowhere. Totally fine. It's such bull shit.”

Nick managed a quiet, “Thanks,” but the knot in his stomach tightened. Talking about it here, out in the open, made his skin crawl. He nodded as Harry barreled on.

“Her friends noticed me and Levi, asked for pictures—obviously we said yes, but I made sure to glare daggers at her the whole time. No one puts hands on someone without consent and gets treated normal afterward. Not on my watch.”

Nick blinked at him, genuinely touched despite the discomfort. He reached out and hugged Harry, brief but heartfelt.

“Thanks, man. Seriously.”

Harry pulled back, clapped his shoulder again, then spotted someone across the room.

“Oh hey—my buddy just walked in. You’ve got to meet him.” He waved over a young man with sharp cheekbones and a tailored suit, walking beside an older man with salt-and-pepper hair.

They approached with confident smiles. Harry gestured.

“Nick, this is Dr. Martin Hope and his son, Benjamin. Huge fans.”

Dr. Martin Hope extended his hand.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Nelson. We’ve admired your career. And of course, it’s wonderful seeing you here supporting the children’s hospital.”

Nick shook hands with both men, slipping easily into polite small talk about the event, the auction items, the importance of funding pediatric research.

Eventually, Harry was called away by another teammate, leaving Nick standing with the father and son. The older man’s expression shifted, voice dropping just slightly.

“Don’t worry too much about your... reputation,” Martin murmured, as though imparting advice. “Many men of influence find themselves in… similar positions. Sometimes you have to keep women in line. With enough money and charm, these things usually blow over.”

Benjamin chuckled under his breath, nodding along.

Nick’s stomach lurched. The champagne in his hand suddenly tasted bitter. He forced a stiff smile and started to edge away, but Benjamin stepped forward quickly, expression brightening.

“Actually—before you go. I run a foundation for homeless LGBTQ youth. We provide shelter, resources, education pathways. I think you’d be the perfect person to support us—a visible, openly bi athlete in the spotlight. Would you be interested in donating? Maybe even speaking at one of our events?”

Nick blinked, caught off guard, then softened. That was a cause that felt so personal to him. The offer cut through the sour taste left by Martin’s comment.

“That… sounds incredible. Yeah, of course. I’d love to help however I can.”

Benjamin grinned.

“Great. Let me get your number and email, I’ll send paperwork and some background materials. Maybe we can grab coffee to talk through details?”

“Sure,” Nick said, handing his phone over. “Happy to.”

After saving Benjamin’s contact, Nick excused himself with a polite nod and made his way toward the far corner of the ballroom, where his agent was deep in conversation. His head was buzzing—not from champagne, but from the strange whiplash of disgust and relief all within the same ten minutes.

Chapter Text

Charlie sat cross-legged on the couch, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated on looping yarn through his hook. The ball kept rolling away from him, but finally, he had something that vaguely resembled a yellow square. It was lopsided and wonky, but it was his wonky square. He grinned, holding it up triumphantly.

That was when his phone started vibrating across the coffee table. He snatched it up, smiling when he saw the name.

“Tori,” he said, answering quickly.

There was a beat of silence, and then a sigh.

“You okay?” Charlie asked gently.

“It still just… it's a lot. To actually hear your voice. Feels like I’m talking to a ghost,” Tori admitted.

Charlie’s smile softened, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Yeah, well,” he said quietly. “You kind of were, for a bit.”

Tori made a little sound—half sad, half relieved—and then asked, “So… how are you doing?”

Charlie let out a small laugh.

“Really good, actually. Picked up a few freelance editing jobs. And Nick’s been teaching me stuff—gardening, cooking, baking, and…” He held up his square as if she could see it. “…crochet.”

Tori snorted.

“This Nick sounds like a real overachiever.”

Charlie laughed with her.

“Yeah. He’s pretty great.”

They chatted for a while—Tori telling him about her doctor’s appointment. “The doctor just said 'Big baby',” she said flatly. “So... That’s going to be fun once labor starts and I have to push Michael's freakishly tall mutant baby out of me.”

Charlie winced and then chuckled.

“You might end up actually emoting during labor, you know.”

“Absolutely not,” Tori deadpanned. “I’ll just crush Michael’s hand until he does it for me. It's his genes that caused this. I am tiny.”

Charlie laughed harder at that.

Eventually, though, Tori’s voice gentled.

“When do you think you’ll be ready to tell everyone else? Mom, Dad… your friends?”

Charlie’s chest tightened. He stared at his lopsided square.

“…Soon,” he promised. “Really soon. I’ve been doing really good. And I want to give the other boy's family closure, too. They deserve that.”

“It’s just hard,” Tori admitted softly. “Talking to Mom and Dad like nothing’s wrong. Running into Isaac at the grocery store and not saying anything.”

Charlie smiled faintly at that. He could almost picture it—Isaac bumping into Tori with his nose buried so deep in a book he didn’t even look up. God, he wondered how many more books Isaac had gotten through since he’d last seen him. Hundreds, probably. Maybe close to a thousand.

Tori’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“You’re really sure living with this Nick is good for you?”

Charlie tried to swallow down the smile in his voice.

“Nick is… the best-case scenario of who could’ve found me, Tori. I promise.”

Tori sighed.

“Just please be safe.”

“I will,” Charlie promised. Then he glanced toward the window. “Hey, I need to go. My deer’s hungry.”

“…Your what?”

“My deer. Love you, text you later!” Charlie rushed out before hanging up.

He grabbed the older apples from the counter and stepped toward the window where his unofficial roommate was waiting. The deer watched him with wide, calm eyes. Charlie grinned and held out an apple. The animal crunched happily while Charlie stroked the velvet of its nose.

“I kissed him,” Charlie whispered, like he was confessing to a friend. “And it was perfect. Well… not the first time. The first time was a disaster. But the second time… and every time since… perfect.”

The deer’s warm breath brushed his cheek.

“You don’t think I’m too broken to handle this, do you?” Charlie murmured.

The deer nudged his face, insistent and gentle. Charlie leaned his head against it, whispering, “Thanks, buddy.”

Just then, the sound of the front door opening pulled him back. His heart skipped. He gave the deer a last fond pat before heading inside, moving toward the entryway to greet Nick.

By the time Nick stepped through the door, Charlie was already there waiting, and their “hi” turned into a long string of kisses that neither of them seemed especially eager to stop. When they finally broke apart, Charlie, grinning and pink-cheeked, nudged him toward the couch.

“Sit,” he ordered lightly. “I’ll make tea and you can tell me all about your big fancy event.”

Nick chuckled, undoing his tie as he settled into the cushions. By the time Charlie returned with two steaming mugs, Nick already looked more himself—his shoulders loose, his hair a little mussed.

They curled together on the couch, mugs in hand, and Nick began, “So… first of all, the food. I swear they served me something that was, like, ninety percent foam. And maybe a flower petal? Honestly, I'm not sure my body even recognized it as food.”

Charlie giggled into his tea.

“And everyone there,” Nick went on with a shake of his head, “half of them weren’t even talking about the hospital. It was all just… networking, posturing. I’ve never been a fan of that kind of wealth-on-display thing. But it wasn’t a disaster, at least.”

“That’s good,” Charlie said softly, watching him with warmth.

Nick nodded, then brightened.

“Oh! Harry introduced me to a friend of his and his dad. They were a little… off, honestly, kind of weird vibe. The dad seemed like kind of a creep. But the son runs a charity for homeless LGBTQ youth. He wants me to speak at one of their events. And that’s… actually kind of great.”

Charlie’s expression softened instantly.

“That does sound really good.” He let out a small, rueful laugh. “Hits a little close to home.”

Nick didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached across, lacing their fingers together, and brought Charlie’s hand up to press a tender kiss against his knuckles. Charlie’s chest squeezed at the gesture.

Nick cleared his throat.

“How was your evening?”

Charlie brightened.

“Good! I had some leftover Chinese for dinner, talked to Tori for a bit… fed the deer and—oh, wait, look!”

He set his tea down and practically bounced off the couch to grab the little lopsided square from the coffee table. Holding it up with both hands, he presented it to Nick like it was a masterpiece.

Nick’s eyes lit up instantly, the smile spreading across his face wide and genuine.

“Charlie, that’s amazing. Well done!"

“It’s lopsided and the stitching is a bit—” Charlie admitted, cheeks heating.

“It’s perfect,” Nick said firmly, cutting him off and tugging him back into his arms. He hugged him tight, warm and proud. “You did great.”

And Charlie felt so impossibly good. Like he was maybe worth being proud of.

After a little more time chatting on the couch, Nick stretched, kissed Charlie’s temple, and excused himself upstairs for a shower and a change into something more comfortable than a suit. Charlie lingered in the quiet for a bit, then padded upstairs himself, curling up at the desk with his journal.

He scribbled notes about the day—the deer, the crochet square, his chat with Tori, and the way Nick had been so proud of his tiny accomplishment. And then, carefully, he wrote a few things to remember to tell Geoff: the lingering guilt about Tori keeping secrets, his fears about leaving the house vs being stuck inside again forever, his progress in finding himself, and of course, all of the unbelievable developments between him and Nick.

When his pen finally stilled, he closed the journal with a sigh and stood, deciding on a glass of water before bed. He crossed to the door, turned the knob—

It didn’t open.

His stomach dropped. He tried again, a bit harder this time, but the handle stuck fast.

And suddenly he wasn’t in Nick’s house anymore. The air went sharp and cold and he was back in that room, weeks of hunger and dark pressing down on him, the sound of Ben’s voice echoing: pathetic, easy, disgusting. Not worth luxuries like heat and lights. The locked door, the silence—

Charlie’s chest seized. His breath came in ragged bursts he couldn’t control. He heard screaming and only when his throat burned did he realize it was him. He clawed at the handle, his body folding against the wood until his knees hit the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the walls pressing closer, the dark pressing closer—

“Charlie!”

The voice cut through. Gentle, panicked.

“Charlie, it’s me. It’s Nick. Char, can you hear me?”

The world swam back enough for him to feel hands on his shoulders, warm and steady. He was sobbing, gasping, but the words tore out anyway.

“Why—why did you lock me in the room?”

Nick’s voice was low and urgent, but careful.

“I didn’t, love, I didn’t. I would never. You’re safe. Look at me, just breathe with me, okay? In, out. In… out…”

Charlie’s chest stuttered but began to follow, the rhythm of Nick’s breathing pulling him along. After what felt like forever, the edges of panic softened just enough for him to whisper hoarsely, “Why couldn’t I open it? The door.”

Nick stood, tugged the door. It gave just a fraction, stuck fast again. Then with a harder yank, it popped open with a groan of wood. He turned back immediately, crouching to gather Charlie close.

“Oh, Char. I’m so sorry that scared you.” Nick stroked his damp hair back from his forehead. “It’s getting warmer out—the doors swell sometimes. Old house, old wood. You have to really yank them open. I should’ve warned you, I didn’t even think.”

Charlie sniffled hard, eyes burning.

“No, it’s okay. Really. It was… it was a silly thing to freak out about.”

Nick shook his head firmly, pulling him closer until Charlie all but melted into his lap.

“No. Not silly. Not at all.” He rocked him gently, pressing soft kisses into the crown of his head, patient and steady as Charlie clung to him.

After a long while, Nick whispered, “Lie down for me? I’ll get you some water, be right back.”

Charlie nodded, letting himself be guided toward the bed. Nick eased him onto the mattress with such care it made Charlie’s throat ache. As Nick stood, he left the door cracked open deliberately, the line of light spilling across the floor. Subtle reassurance.

And Charlie, trembling but calmer now, clutched the pillow to his chest and waited for him to come back.

Minutes later, Nick came back with a glass of water, sitting on the edge of the bed. Charlie pushed himself up against the pillows, hands still trembling faintly, and took the glass with a quiet thank you. The water soothed his raw throat, easing the sting of all the screaming. When the glass was empty, he set it on the nightstand, his fingers still curled tight around Nick’s hand.

Nick’s eyes searched his face.

“You okay?”

Charlie nodded, then shook his head faintly, then nodded again.

“I think so.” His voice was small, tentative. He chewed at his lip, then blurted, “You know I don’t actually think you’d—I mean—I know you’re nothing like Ben, I just—”

“I know,” Nick interrupted softly, squeezing his hand. “I know, Char. You don’t have to explain. It’s not your choice for your brain to do that. PTSD doesn’t ask permission. None of this is something you can just… control.”

The words landed like a blanket over raw skin—warm, grounding. They sat in quiet after that, the only sound their steadying breaths. Nick’s thumb traced over Charlie’s knuckles while Charlie’s other hand moved almost absently against Nick’s thigh, left-right, left-right, in a familiar pattern that made Nick glance down.

It wasn’t a circle. Not even close.

Charlie’s fingertip had been sketching the shape of a heart over and over, shaky but certain. He thought back to Charlie over the past month, his hand tracing the same shape on his back for comfort. Every time they hugged. Every time he stirred Nick's tea. He had been telling Nick—in his own way—this whole time. 

Nick’s lips curved despite himself, that ache of tenderness filling his chest. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Charlie’s temple. Charlie tilted into it, letting out a small, shuddery breath as though the touch itself helped him to feel steadier.

Nick pulled back just a fraction.

“I’ll let you get some sleep, yeah?”

But Charlie’s hand tightened around his, just a little desperate.

“Could you… maybe stay a little longer? Just until I fall asleep. I don’t really trust my head not to spiral right now.”

Nick’s heart clenched.

“Of course. Always.” He hesitated, then asked gently, “Do you mind if I climb in with you?”

Charlie lifted the blanket in answer, the invitation clear. Nick slipped in beside him, warm and solid, and guided Charlie to rest against his chest. Charlie went willingly, curling into the space. Nick had never held Charlie this way, and he marveled at how perfectly their bodies fit together. How right this all felt.

Both of them lay there, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breathing, the steady beat of Nick’s heart under Charlie’s ear.

Nick brushed a hand over Charlie’s hair and whispered soft fragments of comfort: You’re safe. You're strong. You’re doing so well. I’ve got you. Always.

Charlie’s body, taut and trembling before, slowly gave in to the warmth. His breaths evened, eyelids fluttering shut as Nick’s voice carried him gently into sleep.

Nick stayed still beneath him, protective and certain, and he stayed there all night.

The next morning, Nick and Charlie were still asleep in bed when the sharp sound of the front door unlocking and the alarm system shutting off jolted them both awake.

Nick blinked, disoriented and eyes strugglng to adjust in the still darkened room, while Charlie immediately sat up, panic flaring across his face.

“Stay here,” Nick whispered firmly, already scanning the room. He grabbed the nearest object—a lamp off the dresser—and held it above his head like a weapon as he crept toward the stairs.

He heard whispering below and his stomach sank. Whoever it was hadn’t even tried to be quiet. They weren't afraid at all and that somehow unsettled him even more. He tightened his grip on the lamp and stepped down one stair at a time. He was just about to round the corner into the kitchen when a voice shouted behind him from the living room—

“Nicky-Nacky!”

Nick yelped and nearly launched the lamp across the room. Spinning, his heart slamming in his chest, he found Darcy standing there grinning, with Tara casually perched on the couch behind them.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Nick gasped, clutching his chest. “What the hell are you doing here—and why are you breaking into my house at six in the morning?!”

Tara immediately raised both hands in surrender.

“Sorry! We still had your spare key from the last time we visited, and we thought… surprise breakfast?”

Nick just stared at them, caught between fury and disbelief. He lowered the lamp but didn’t put it down.

“You do realize,” he said, his voice sharp but low, “that I have a very traumatized man living with me right now—and you just scared the hell out of him.”

Both Darcy and Tara winced in unison.

“Oh my God,” Tara said quickly. “You’re right. We’re so sorry, Nick. We sent a message in the group chat last night—we just assumed you saw it.”

"Yeah, and we haven't been able to get messages since we left Syracuse. Reception is trash out here."

Nick groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“I opened your messages, but I was at a fancy event and trying to be polite. I skimmed but I didn’t actually read them.”

Darcy crossed their arms, unfazed.

“This is exactly why you need a dog. Much more intimidating than a lamp.”

Nick gave them a flat look.

Tara elbowed Darcy.

“Shut up. Nick, is Charlie okay? We need to apologize to him.”

"Yeah," Darcy nodded, grinning far too wide. "And see if he's as hot as you say he is."

Nick exhaled through his nose, still buzzing with adrenaline, and finally set the lamp on the floor. He raised his voice toward the stairs.

“Charlie—it’s safe. Not intruders. Just… chaotic, intrusive lesbians!"

Chapter Text

By late afternoon, the four of them were sprawled across Nick’s living room, laughter bouncing off the walls. Darcy was animatedly reenacting some chaos from the farm, complete with flapping arms and exaggerated bird noises. Tara had tears in her eyes as she tried to get through a story about a customer who had demanded a refund because “the eggs were covered in excrement.” she rolled her eyes. "She thought that because they were brown they got covered in chicken poop coming out. There were sooo many things I needed to explain to her."

Charlie laughed.

"Oh, the conspiracies I would have started throwing at her about chocolate milk...."

That sent all of them into another round of laughter. Darcy pointed at him. “I like this one,” they said.

Nick glanced at Charlie, warmth softening his features, and said simply, “Me too.”

Charlie’s smile flickered into something softer, lingering on Nick, before Darcy’s pointed look made him duck his head again, cheeks warm.

A knock at the door signaled the arrival of dinner, and soon the table was crowded with takeout boxes, the smell of stir-fried noodles and curry filling the air. Everyone dug in eagerly, passing containers back and forth.

Halfway through the meal, Darcy pulled out a bottle of wine from their bag with a flourish.

“Who wants some?” they asked, already reaching for glasses.

“Sure,” Charlie said quickly.

But Nick’s head snapped toward him.

“Charlie, wait—”

Charlie froze, the color draining from his face like he’d been caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

“Oh. Sorry. No thank you,” he mumbled, shoulders shrinking inward.

Nick immediately shook his head, reaching across to touch his hand.

“No, no, Charlie—I wasn’t saying no. You’re an adult. You can do whatever you want.”

Charlie hesitated, watching him carefully, like he was trying to figure out if it was really safe to believe him. He gave a small nod.

Nick softened his tone.

“I just wasn’t sure— is your body’s ready for that yet?"

Charlie sighed and set his fork down.

“The doctor actually cleared me for alcohol the same time they cleared me for caffeine. They just recommended I avoid it because they think I have a history of substance abuse.” His voice flattened slightly. “But I don’t. I drank plenty in high school. I was never an alcoholic. I don't have a problem I just...” he gave Nick a pained look before glancing quickly in the direction of Tara and Darcy, who were doing their best to pretend they weren't really listening, when though they definitely were.

Nick nodded, slow and thoughtful, absorbing the weight behind the words.

“Okay. That makes sense. Thanks for telling me.” Then he added, with a faint smile, “Well, I’ll pass on the wine tonight.”

“Lame,” Darcy muttered, filling their own glass and a second one for Charlie.

Nick rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The moment slipped away into laughter again as Tara set up Clue on the coffee table. The game turned out to be fiercely competitive, but by the end Charlie leaned back smugly, the clear victor, while Nick groaned and Darcy accused him of cheating.

Charlie just beamed, his grin wide and boyish.

By the time dinner had been cleared away, Darcy had convinced Charlie to split a second bottle of wine with them. Now, the two of them were swaying dramatically in the middle of the living room, belting along to Taylor Swift's Cruel Summer at the top of their lungs.

Charlie’s curls were bouncing as he spun, his cheeks pink and his grin unrestrained. Darcy twirled him like they were on a ballroom floor, nearly tripping over the rug, which only made them laugh harder.

On the sofa, Nick and Tara sat side by side, watching the chaos unfold. Tara’s lips twitched in amusement, and Nick couldn’t stop the soft smile tugging at his mouth. Charlie looked so free, so unguarded, like all the heaviness he usually carried had been lifted for the moment.

Nick’s chest tightened.

God, he’s beautiful. Especially when he’s this happy.

Tara leaned closer, dropping her voice so only Nick could hear.

“He’s really great,” she said, eyes warm. “I see why you’re letting him stay. You two… fit. I can tell.”

Nick glanced at her, caught off guard by the directness, then looked back at Charlie—red-faced, drunk, and absolutely beaming as Darcy shrieked the wrong lyrics into an invisible microphone. His lips quirked into something softer.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He’s… great. Funny. Smart. And he’s such a good listener. We never get bored when we’re together, even if we’re just… sitting in silence. Honestly, I can spend an evening just reading near him, and it somehow feels better than going out with friends.” His throat bobbed, words slipping before he could stop them. “I just love—”

He caught himself, swallowing hard, heart stuttering. He forced a casual correction.

“—I just love being around him.”

Tara’s brow arched, her mouth curving into a knowing smirk.

“Mm-hm. Any updates you’ve been conveniently leaving out, Nicholas?”

Nick gave her a shy smile and the smallest shrug. That was all it took—Tara’s jaw dropped, and she slapped his arm with a gasp.

“Nick Nelson!” she hissed.

“Shhh,” Nick hissed back, panicked, glancing toward Charlie—thankfully too busy trying to harmonize with Darcy to notice. “I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable if it gets turned into a big thing.”

Tara gave him a long, pointed look.

“So, what—you want me to lie to my beloved big-mouth partner when they inevitably ask about you two me later?”

“Not lie,” Nick whispered with a helpless laugh. “Just… withhold information until I know what Charlie’s comfortable with. It’s literally been a couple of days. I don’t even know where it’s going yet.” He paused, the truth flickering in his chest.

Though I know where I want it to go…

But it was too much to admit out loud. Not yet.

Tara sighed, throwing up her hands.

“Fine. I won’t say anything. But you know Darcy—if they decide to play matchmaker, you’re screwed. Even I can't stop them.”

Nick rolled his eyes, but before he could answer, Charlie looked over. His dimpled smile lit up the room, eyes locking with Nick’s like no one else existed. Nick’s breath caught.

In that instant, all he could think was how much he wanted Charlie to always look this free, this joyful. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure Charlie felt safe enough to keep smiling like that forever.

That night, as everyone was finally winding down, Nick paused in the hallway, realizing the awkward truth: Charlie was living in the guest room tht Tara and Darcy usually stayed in. And the other spare room? Stuffed full of old boxes—seasonal clothes and decorations, forgotten keepsakes, dusty bits of his childhood.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck.

“Uh. So. Sleeping arrangements are a bit… tricky.”

Tara waved it off.

“It’s fine, Nick. We’ve slept in way worse places. Remember that one night junior year? After that disastrous pub crawl? We woke up on the roof of Michaelson Hall with three boxes of pizza surrounding us."

Nick laughed, covering his face.

“God, don’t remind me. I ate some of that pizza and threw up for the days straight.”

“Oh, I remember,” Tara laughed. “Point is, iving room floor is nothing.”

But Nick frowned, still uneasy.

“No, no. It’s okay. You two can take my bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

Darcy raised their brows mischievously, leaning against the doorframe.

“Or—and hear me out—Charlie could just sleep in your bed. We’ll take his room. If he doesn't mind us in his bed. Problem solved.”

Nick blinked, caught between wanting to snap at them and wanting to spare Charlie from any embarrassment. His throat tightened a little, but when he glanced at Charlie, he was smiling.

“That actually sounds good to me,” Charlie said softly, clearly tipsy but genuine.

Nick’s heart gave a small, traitorous flip.

“Right. Uh—yeah. Okay then.” He forced a little laugh and stepped aside.

Tara, already tugging Darcy toward the guest room, kissed Nick on the cheek. Darcy followed suit, then promptly planted a kiss on Charlie’s cheek too.

“You,” Darcy declared with all the gravity of a royal decree, “are officially our new best friend.”

Nick put a hand to his chest, feigning offense.

“Excuse me? I thought I was the best friend here.”

Darcy smirked.

“Retired title. Sorry, pal.”

Tara rolled her eyes, muttering apologies, but Darcy wasn’t done. They winked at Charlie and sang out, “Have fun sharing a bed, boys! Hope you don't mind, Nick runs... hot.” before Tara yanked them firmly down the hall.

Charlie giggled, cheeks pink, the alcohol making him a little looser, a little freer. Nick gave him a helpless look, but couldn’t help smiling back.

He pushed the bedroom door open and flicked on the soft lamp by the dresser. He gave Charlie a small, sheepish smile as he pulled open a drawer.

“Do you want to borrow some pajamas? I’ve got a few pairs of—”

His words died.

Charlie was standing there already, shirt tugged over his head and discarded somewhere on the floor. What remained was a thin white tee clinging faintly to his chest, and his black boxer briefs—tight enough that Nick’s gaze darted south before his brain caught up. His throat went desert dry. The impressive outline pressed boldly against the fabric made every rational thought scatter into a million pieces.

Charlie smirked knowingly, stepping closer with a kind of liquid confidence.

“No thanks,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “I’d much rather wear nothing.”

Before Nick could process, Charlie’s mouth was on his—hot, hungry, demanding. Nick inhaled sharply, but he melted into it, their lips crashing together in a kiss so heated it short-circuited his brain. His hands gripped Charlie’s waist without thinking, and his body betrayed him, hardening instantly at the undeniable press of Charlie’s erection against his through the thin fabric of his joggers.

Charlie tugged insistently at him, urging him toward the bed without ever breaking the kiss, and Nick’s head spun with arousal. This was deeper, more consuming than anything they’d shared before, every nerve alive with want.

And then—Charlie stumbled a bit and let out a giggle.

Nick’s body snapped back to reality, cold with realization. Charlie had been drinking. Not just a sip or two—multiple glasses. He was flushed, loose, tipsy enough that the edges of his words were faintly slurred.

Nick gently pulled back, breathing hard, fighting to calm his own very physical reaction.

“Wait—Charlie.” He cupped his face, steady but firm. “We need to slow down. You're drunk.”

Charlie whined softly, chasing his mouth again.

“I’m not that drunk. Please, Nick. I think about this all the time. I won’t regret it, promise.” His lips found Nick’s again, sweet and desperate.

Nick broke the kiss a second time, swallowing, grounding himself.

“Charlie… no. Please. Not tonight.”

The shift in Charlie’s face was immediate—confusion, then hurt. His brow furrowed.

“Do you think I’m not smart enough to know what I want?”

Nick shook his head instantly.

“God, no. That’s not it. It’s just—you’ve been drinking. I don’t want the first time we do anything like this to be blurred by alcohol.”

Charlie’s jaw tensed. His voice got sharper, defensive.

“Everyone has sex when they’re drunk! After a night out. After dinner parties. That's normal. So, that's not the issue. What is it? You think I’m too thin? Or—” His voice broke. “Or you don’t want to see my scars again? You think I’m gross?”

“Charlie.” Nick’s chest squeezed painfully. He grabbed his hands, desperate to ground him. “No. No, no, no. I would never think that.”

Tears welled, spilling fast down Charlie’s cheeks.

“Then why don’t you want me, Nick?” His voice cracked, small and raw, and Nick felt like his heart had been pulled out of his chest.

Nick pulled him in, wrapping him tightly against his chest, stroking a hand over his hair.

“That’s not it, love. It’s the opposite. I want you so much it hurts. But I want to make sure when it happens, you’re sober. Clear. So you can remember every second, every feeling. Because the last thing I would ever want is for you to wake up and wonder if it was real consent, or if I took advantage. I care too much about you to risk that.”

Charlie trembled against him, whispering, “But I don’t think I can do it sober. I’m too anxious. The alcohol makes it easier to get out of my head.”

Nick hugged him tighter.

“And that’s exactly why we need to wait. Wanting it and being ready for it aren’t always the same. You’ve been through so much, Charlie. And yeah, I want you. God, I want you. But I want all of you. Not just your body—I want your trust, your comfort. I want you to feel safe with me. This isn’t just physical for me. You mean more than that.”

Charlie sniffled, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I really do want to, though. You’re—stupidly, distractingly hot.”

Nick couldn’t help it—he laughed, forehead pressing to Charlie’s.

Charlie smiled faintly through the tears.

“I just… I’ve never actually done anything sober. Except with Ben, and that wasn’t really… it wasn’t ever for me. It was just… him demanding. Me doing what he wanted, when he wanted. After a while I was just a robot. And he never reciprocated. Ever.”

Nick froze, stunned.

“Never?”

Charlie’s shrug was heartbreakingly small.

“He said… giving oral and bottoming were ‘too gay.’ Said he wasn’t gay. So it was always just… me. For him. And, well... the others. It's kind of all I know.”

Nick’s chest burned with a fury he swallowed down for Charlie’s sake.

“Charlie…” He cupped his cheek, voice steady, reverent. “When the time comes—when you’re ready—I promise I’ll show you exactly how you should be treated. I’ll worship your body. You’ll be in full control. Anything you want, however you want it.”

Charlie’s lips curved into a cheeky smile.

“If you want to slow things down, saying stuff like that isn’t the way to do it.”

Nick laughed, kissing him softly, lingering but gentle this time.

“Okay. Water and Advil before you crash. Hangover prevention 101. Don’t move.”

Charlie pouted but let him go, snuggling under the covers with a little sigh.

Nick padded downstairs, his head a whirlwind of emotions—desire still sparking hot through him, but tangled with tenderness, protectiveness, a gnawing ache for what Charlie had endured, and a certainty of how much he wanted to give him better.

When he returned, glass of water and pills in hand, Charlie was already fast asleep, curled small and soft against the blankets. Nick set the items on the nightstand and slipped in beside him. Instinctively, Charlie shifted, tucking himself against Nick’s chest, their bodies fitting like they were made to.

Nick wrapped an arm around him, burying his nose in Charlie’s hair.

One day, he thought, pressing a kiss to his temple. One day, when you’re ready. And when that day comes, I’ll make sure you never doubt what you mean to me.

With Charlie warm in his arms, Nick finally let himself drift to sleep.

Charlie woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains, stabbing faintly at his eyes. His head throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses that made him groan, but the discomfort was softened by something else—someone else.

Warm arms were wrapped firmly around his back, holding him close against a broad chest. The steady rise and fall of Nick’s breathing against his cheek was soothing, grounding. Charlie blinked blearily and realized where he was. Nick’s bed. Nick’s arms.

For a moment, he just breathed him in, letting the faint, clean scent of Nick’s skin calm the pounding in his head. A soft, content sigh slipped out of him before the memory of last night returned with a pang.

The way he’d kissed Nick. Pressed against him. Practically begged Nick to fuck him. And Nick had said no. Again.

Charlie bit his lip, his cheeks heating. Mostly, he believed Nick—it wasn’t rejection, it was caution. Respect. Care. And now, sober and clear-headed, Charlie could admit: it was the right call. The responsible one. The kind one. Nick was always careful. Always respectful. Always thinking about Charlie first.

And Charlie… really loved that about him. Maybe he loved most things about him. Maybe he just really loved… 

Charlie shook his head gently, as if he could shake the thought loose before it took root. Still, he couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped, Nick’s name whispering unspoken in his chest, over and over, following the rhythm of his heartbeat

But even as he told himself Nick had been right to stop them, the want was still there. Stronger, if anything. He wasn't used to this feeling and he so badly wanted to explore it. He wanted to feel Nick’s skin against his. To trace the lines of his abs with his tongue. To hear the sounds Nick made when Charlie touched him. He knew Nick would be responsive—Nick felt everything so deeply. The thought made him stir, heat coiling low in his stomach, his body betraying him as he hardened under the covers.

Panicked, Charlie shifted his hips subtly away. Nick didn’t need to wake up to him grinding up against him for the second time in less than twelve hours. God, it was ridiculous—the way he both craved Nick constantly and also felt like he couldn’t initiate without alcohol dulling his nerves.

Nick stirred beneath him, blinking awake. When his eyes focused, he smiled down at Charlie with a softness that nearly undid him.

“Good morning, Char,” Nick murmured, his voice rough with sleep—gravelly, deep, devastating. He leaned down and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to Charlie’s lips.

Charlie’s heart flipped, and he melted into it, returning the kiss with a drowsy smile.

“Morning yourself,” he whispered, before burrowing deeper into Nick’s chest, needing the shelter of him.

Nick’s arms tightened around him.

“How’re you feeling?”

Charlie tilted his head back with mock drama, and just groaned. Nick laughed, the sound rumbling through Charlie’s body where they touched, and Charlie thought he might never get over the way Nick’s laugh made him feel so much lighter.

“You fell asleep before I could get you the water and aspirin,” Nick said, brushing his thumb over Charlie’s arm. “But you should have them now.”

Charlie whined but pushed himself up, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Nick handed him the glass, and he downed it quickly, swallowing the pills with a grimace before flopping back.

“Maybe I’ll take a quick shower,” Charlie muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “That usually helps.”

Nick’s mouth quirked in a grin.

“Good idea. In the meantime, I’m gonna have Darcy make you their special hangover recipe.”

Charlie squinted suspiciously.

“Special hangover recipe? …What’s in it?”

Nick’s nose scrunched adorably.

“Mmm… maybe better not to ask.”

Charlie groaned again, this time more dramatically.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I promise it’s not that bad.” Nick grinned, brushing Charlie’s knee.

Charlie rolled his eyes but smiled, shaking his head as he padded toward the bathroom. His body ached, his head pounded, but his heart—his heart felt dangerously, stupidly full.

Chapter Text

The barely risen sun slanted across Nick’s garden, catching on the dew still clinging to the leaves. Tara crouched near a bed of tomatoes, gesturing animatedly as Nick leaned on the handle of a spade and Charlie sat cross-legged on the grass beside her. Darcy was a few feet away, poking at the zucchini plants and mumbling something about not understanding the appeal of a penis.

“You’ve got good soil here,” Tara said, brushing dirt from her hands. “But if you rotate your beds each year, you’ll avoid a lot of the common pests. Keeps the soil happy too.”

Nick nodded, already mentally making notes.

“Rotate. Got it.”

Darcy perked up suddenly, eyes glittering.

“You know what else you need? Bees.”

Nick blinked.

“Bees?”

“Bees,” Tara echoed dryly, already smiling. “Darcy's really taken to beekeeping. Thinks of them as her friends.”

“They are my friends,” Darcy said indignantly, standing and brushing grass off their jeans. “I used to name them all. But it got hard to tell them apart, so eventually they all became Jeffrey. Except the biggest, fluffiest one—he was Sir Buzz Aldrin. Because I feel like an astronaut in my beekeeper suit and he's my little astronaut companion.”

Charlie let out a chuckle.

“That’s pretty cute.”

Nick shook his head, grinning.

“You’re not seriously suggesting I become a beekeeper.”

“Why not?” Darcy spread their arms dramatically. “Honey, pollination, tiny fuzzy pals—what’s not to love?”

Charlie let out a thoughtful hum.

“Elle could never visit here if you did. She’s allergic. Like, keeps an EpiPen on her at all times allergic.”

“Elle?” Tara asked, tilting her head curiously.

Charlie’s smile faltered. He picked at a blade of grass between his fingers.

“One of my best friends. Or… she was. For a long time.” His voice dropped quieter. “You’d love her.”

Tara glanced at Darcy, who reached over and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder before asking gently, “I'm sure we would.”

Charlie swallowed.

“There’s also Tao. And Isaac.” He smiled faintly, soft around the edges. “I miss them. But… I sort of pushed them out of my life. And now they think I’m literally dead, so…” He gave a helpless shrug and a slightly bitter laugh. “I guess it’s complicated.”

Darcy, unable to resist, said, “You should start messaging them—pretend it’s from beyond the grave. ‘Hey, it’s me, Ghost Charlie. Boo.’”

“Darcy,” Tara hissed, elbowing them hard. "Sorry, Charlie they—"

But Charlie surprised them both by letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t apologize. I’ve… actually thought about it. Not the ghost part. Just… messaging them. Explaining.”

“You should,” Tara said warmly, resting her chin on her hand. “They’d be so relieved to know you’re okay.”

Darcy nodded, more serious now.

“They deserve to know you’re alive. And you deserve your friends back.”

Charlie’s throat worked as he tried to swallow past the lump rising there. He nodded slowly.

“I’ll… think about it.”

Nick, who had been silent through most of it, leaned the spade against the fence and sank into the grass beside Charlie. He nudged their knees together, just enough for Charlie to feel the warmth of him. Charlie glanced at him, and Nick gave him a soft smile that said everything without words: No matter what happens, I've got you.

Nick glanced at his phone and sighed, brushing dirt from his hands as Tara and Darcy straightened up from the garden beds.

“I’m sorry, guys—I’ve got to run out in a bit. I’m meeting this guy for coffee.”

Darcy pulled a face.

“What, ditching us already?”

Nick laughed.

“Apparently. He texted a few minutes ago. He’s super busy and booked solid for weeks, but someone just cancelled on him, so this is my one chance. It’d be good to talk through that speech I’m supposed to give at the charity event next month and find out some details.”

Darcy waved a hand.

“It’s fine. Charlie’s better company anyway.”

Charlie laughed and Nick put a hand over his chest, mock-offended.

“You know, one of these days you’re actually going to hurt my feelings.”

“Unlikely,” Tara said, leaning over to kiss his cheek before Darcy could make it worse. “Go have fun. And bring us back lunch from that Mediterranean place, yeah—you know the one.”

Nick rolled his eyes but smiled.

“Of course. Because clearly I live to serve you.”

"You do." Darcy smiled.

He went to grab his keys, and when he opened the front door, Charlie followed him into the hallway. Nick turned to him, suddenly softer, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

“You’ll be okay here with just Tara and Darcy?”

Charlie’s smile was shy.

“Yeah. I feel… really comfortable with them. They remind me of my high school friends. It’s nice, just hanging out with people again.”

Something warm flared in Nick’s chest. He bent his head and kissed Charlie’s forehead, lingering for a moment.

“Good. Have fun. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Charlie nodded, still smiling as Nick stepped outside. He stayed in the doorway a moment longer, watching Nick walk toward his car. Nick glanced back and waved and Charlie threw an awkward little wave back before closing the door.

The café was nicer than Nick expected—sleek wood tables, gold light fixtures, the kind of place that charged nearly six dollars for a cappuccino. Not his usual haunt. He preferred the cozy shop near the stadium, where the barista knew his order and no one wore suits. Still, the coffee was good. Stronger than he was used to, but he requested extra pumps of vanilla to make up for it.

Across the table sat Benjamin. Perfect posture, tailored jacket, hair so neatly styled Nick couldn’t imagine it ever falling out of place. Compared to him, Nick felt underdressed in jeans and a plain tee, like he’d wandered in off the football field. He fought the urge to tug at his shirt and reminded himself that this wasn’t a job interview.

“Thanks for making the time,” Benjamin said smoothly, his voice polished in the way people’s voices get when they talk to donors. “I know your schedule must be chaos lately.”

Nick gave a polite smile.

“Yeah, a bit. But I wanted to hear more about your charity. It sounds… important.”

Ben launched in with practiced ease, hands folded neatly on the table.

“We provide housing and supplies for unhoused LGBTQ youth, offer them therapy, and help them develop skills and connections to make a living. Too many of these kids are thrown out by their families with nothing. We give them a chance to rebuild.”

Nick nodded, genuine warmth rising in his chest.

“That’s… honestly so amazing. Those kids need someone in their corner.”

Ben smiled, clearly pleased, and tilted his head.

“Tell me a bit about your own experience. Coming out, I mean. How was it for you?”

Nick hesitated, then shrugged.

“I realized pretty young. My mum was great about it—really supportive. My brother was a dick, but… well, he’s a dick about everything, so no surprises there. My dad just kind of… didn’t acknowledge it. Like most things in my life, honestly.” He gave a small, sheepish laugh.

“Still,” Ben said, his eyes narrowing in something like admiration, “sounds like you had it easier than most. I didn’t come out until college. I was deep in the closet until I met someone. My first boyfriend.” He paused, lowering his voice slightly. “His home life was pretty rough. He was the one who inspired me to do this work. I even helped him out for a while, but… he passed away.”

Nick’s chest tightened.

“Oh. Wow. I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s awful.”

Ben inclined his head, soaking up the sympathy.

“Thank you. It was a long time ago, but… I still think of him. He struggled a lot and used substances to ease the pain. They ended up destroying him. That's why representation matters, you know? That’s why having you come speak to these kids would mean so much. To show them that the world can love and accept them.”

Nick smiled, touched.

“That means a lot. I’d be honored. But… you’re aware the world’s not exactly on my side right now?”

Ben waved a hand, dismissive.

“That’ll blow over. These things always do. And if not—well, I have friends in media. I could spin a few stories, make your ex look even worse. The narrative is flexible.”

Nick sat back, unsettled.

“I… no. Thank you, but I don’t want to sink to her level. I’m not going to lie about anyone.”

Ben’s lips curved into a smirk, his tone tinged with condescending amusement more than real admiration.

“You really are a good guy, aren’t you?”

Nick shrugged, uncomfortable.

The conversation drifted, and then Ben’s eyes lingered a beat too long, his voice dropping.

“And pretty nice to look at as well, if you don't mind me saying.”

Nick blinked, startled.

“Oh—I… um. Thank you. That’s flattering. But I have a—um, I'm seeing someone.” He stumbled on the words, realizing he couldn’t say boyfriend yet. Not when he and Charlie hadn’t put a label on it.

“Unfortunate,” Ben said smoothly, though his smile didn’t falter. He stood, extending his hand. “Well. Business before pleasure. Email me the details and send over your speech for approval. We’ll polish it up.”

Nick rose and shook his hand.

“Yeah. Of course. Thank you again, for the opportunity."

As they walked toward the door, Ben asked casually, “Do you have far to go?”

“Not really,” Nick said. “Just about an hour north.”

Ben’s brows lifted.

“Near Lowell Camp Ground, then?”

Nick frowned slightly.

“Yeah… about five minutes from my house, actually.”

Ben’s smile widened in a way Nick didn’t like.

“No kidding. We used to camp there all the time when I was a kid. Pretty middle of nowhere.”

Nick shrugged. 

"Yeah, I like the quiet. Fell in love with one of the old Victorians on Lakeview and I'm not sure I could ever leave it now."

They parted in the car park, Ben sliding into his polished black sedan, Nick into his beat-up hatchback. Nick sat for a moment before starting the engine, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. The conversation had been fine. Polite. Productive.

So why did he feel like he needed a shower?

He shook the thought off, started the car, and headed to grab the Mediterranean lunch Tara had demanded.

Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed, absently fiddling with the hem of his sleeve while Tara and Darcy entertained themselves by tossing popcorn back and forth across the room, trying to see how many kernels they could land in each other’s mouths. Darcy cackled when one bounced off Tara’s forehead.

Tara shot them a look and then turned back to Charlie, her tone gentler.

“So… how’re you doing with everything, Charlie?”

Charlie hesitated, his first instinct to deflect with something sarcastic. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Pretty good, actually.” The words came out awkward. He wasn't sure if they were true. They felt true, at the moment. But who knows about tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next...

And it still felt strange, knowing these two already knew so much about him. About the ugly pieces of his past. When he’d first arrived at Nick’s, he’d told Nick he didn’t care who knew what—because, honestly, he hadn’t really expected to stick around. It hadn’t mattered. But now… it was different.

He realized, however, that he was actually okay with it. Tara and Darcy hadn’t once made him feel judged. They didn't seem to care what he'd done or who he'd been. They hadn’t treated him like he was fragile or broken. He was just Charlie.

“I mean,” he added, “therapy’s helped a lot.”

Darcy threw a piece of popcorn high into the air, missed it entirely, and said, “Bet your therapy dog probably helps too.”

Charlie blinked.

“My what?”

Tara groaned, shoving Darcy’s shoulder.

“They mean Nick. He’s always been compared to a golden retriever. Even now, chasing the ball down the field, his floppy blonde hair bouncing around—”

"The way his tongue flops out to the side when hev catches the ball!" Darcy added.

Charlie laughed.

“That’s… absolutely fitting.” Then, softer, almost shyly, “But, yeah... He's—he's helped a lot, actually.”

Tara and Darcy exchanged a look, their smiles suspiciously knowing.

Charlie narrowed his eyes.

“Shut up.”

They both burst out giggling.

“You’re so smitten,” Darcy teased.

Charlie groaned, burying his face in his hands, though his cheeks burned with warmth he couldn’t quite hide.

Tara leaned forward, her voice affectionate.

“We can’t blame you. Nick really is the best. But… you should know, he hasn’t had many great relationships. When he cares, he goes all in. And most of the time, he doesn’t get that same energy back.” She gave him a small, meaningful smile. “You seem to really care for him. It’s refreshing to see.”

Charlie looked down, fiddling with a loose thread on the duvet. His chest tightened, but not in a bad way. More in that terrifying, heart-about-to-burst way he was slowly getting used to.

A sudden ring of the doorbell made him flinch, his pulse spiking.

“Hey,” Tara murmured immediately, reaching across the bed to touch his hand. “Hold on, it’s okay. I’ll check.”

As she headed out, Darcy launched into an absurd story about the time they tried to wrestle a goat into a bath on the farm. Their delivery was animated and over-the-top, complete with sound effects, and Charlie realized they were doing it on purpose. Keeping him distracted. Easing the edge off his anxiety. He felt a flicker of gratitude so strong it made his throat tight.

Moments later, Tara returned, holding a large cardboard box in her arms.

“It’s for you,” she said, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Charlie stared at it, surprised.

“For me?”

Nick came in juggling takeout bags, barely managing to nudge the door shut with his hip.

“Lunch is here—”

He didn’t even get to finish before Darcy swooped in like a hawk, snatching the bags and sweeping them off toward the kitchen.

“Hey!” Nick laughed, baffled, but before he could follow, Tara’s hands clamped gently over his eyes.

“What the—Tara? What’s happening?”

“Shhh,” Tara whispered, stifling her giggle.

Darcy’s voice floated from the kitchen.

“Just let your cute little roommate do his thing. He’s been practicing.”

“Practicing?”

He was half-laughing, half-concerned, as Tara and Darcy guided him—still blindfolded by Tara’s hands—into the living room. His heart picked up.

“You guys... Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely,” Darcy called.

"To be fair, this might actually kill you." Tara added with a giggle.

Then, Tara’s hands lifted from his face, and the room came back into focus. She and Darcy exchanged a mischievous glance.

“We’ll, uh, be upstairs,” Tara said, tugging Darcy along.

Nick turned—and froze.

Charlie stepped out from the hallway, shoulders squared, but nervous energy all over him. His outfit hit Nick like a punch to the chest: tight black skinnies with ripped knees, a vintage band tee clinging to his frame, new yellow Converse that were cooler than anything Nick had ever worn in his life, and just enough eyeliner to sharpen the blue of his eyes.

Nick’s brain short-circuited.

Holy shit.

Charlie smiled shyly, took a deep breath, and launched into something rehearsed.

“Hi. I’m Charlie. Charles Francis Spring.” His voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath. “I’m twenty-three years old, I enjoy playing the drums, Mario Kart, reading and writing, and I’m freakishly good at math. I don’t like being cold, and I have a complicated relationship with food, my mother, and things made of velvet.” He wrinkled his nose. “Love the vibe. Hate the texture.”

Nick couldn’t help laughing softly, his chest aching at how precious he was.

Charlie’s expression gentled.

“I’ve been through some traumatic things. But I’m still me. And I really want you to be with me while I figure out the rest of who I am now.”

Nick didn’t even realize he was moving until he had Charlie scooped up, spun in a circle, Charlie’s giggles bubbling against his neck as Nick rained frantic kisses over his cheeks and temples. He set him back down only to hold him tighter.

“You look... So good." Nick said breathlessly. “And I will happily be by your side every step of the way. Forward… and any little stumbles back.” He paused, his pulse hammering, then added carefully, “As your… boyfriend, maybe?”

Charlie’s breath hitched, but then he smiled so brightly it nearly knocked Nick flat.

“I was kinda hoping so.”

Right on cue, a squeal rang out from the staircase. Nick turned just in time to see Tara and Darcy peeking through the banister, clutching each other like kids watching a rom-com.

“Go away!” Charlie called, laughing through his blush.

The two bolted, their squeals echoing up the stairs, leaving Nick and Charlie shaking their heads. They turned back to each other, still grinning, and Nick kissed him again—softer this time, but no less dizzying.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like butter and cinnamon, sunlight spilling through the windows while Tara and Darcy fussed over the stove. Darcy was pouring pancake batter with a little flourish like they were auditioning for a cooking show, adding chocolate chips in overly elaborate patterns. After spending far too long on a distinctly phallic one, Tara steered them back on track with a patient laugh. Nick and Charlie sat at the little table, sipping coffee while plates were gradually filled and passed around.

Once they’d all dug in, conversation turned—inevitably—to the thing hovering around Nick like a shadow.

“It’s honestly so disgusting,” Tara said, shaking her head as she cut into her pancake. “Miley knows exactly what she did, and instead of owning up to it, she twisted the story so people would pity her. She attacked you physically and now she's attacking your character, for what?”

“Clout." Darcy nodded solemly. "Classic vindictive main character syndrome move,” Darcy added, stabbing at their eggs with a little too much force. “She got to ruin Nick’s reputation and play the victim. Gossip and sympathy clicks.”

Nick gave a weary half-smile and shrugged.

“Yeah. She wanted control of the narrative, and she got it. And I've done all I can."

“But it shouldn’t even be a narrative,” Tara pressed, frustration in her tone. “People should know the truth. What happened to you was real, and awful, and she just—” Tara stopped herself, exhaling hard. “It makes me so angry for you.”

Charlie had been quiet through all of this, pushing crumbs around his plate. The words stacked heavier and heavier in his chest until he finally let them out.

“I wish I could just tell the world what I saw,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “What she really did to you. The way it actually happened.”

Nick’s head snapped toward him. “Charlie…”

But Charlie’s jaw was set.

“Even before what she did that day—Nick, she was so awful to you. I didn't feel like I had the right to comment but the way she belittled you. Infantilized you. Made you feel like a prop—” His throat closed, voice cracking. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Hey.” Nick reached across the table, but Charlie pulled back. His voice dropped to a tremor.

“I need to stop being such a coward. I should stand up for you.”

Nick’s brows knit together.

“You’re not a coward. You’re being safe. That’s all. It’s okay.”

But Charlie shook his head, words tumbling faster now, like he couldn’t hold them in.

“No. You need me to be brave. Jesse and his family need me to be brave. My parents need me to be brave. And here I am—five months later—just hiding away, leeching off you. Being selfish.”

Darcy’s fork clattered down.

“Whoa, no. No, Charlie, stop right there. You are not selfish.”

“You’re not a leech either,” Tara said gently. “You’re healing. That takes time. You deserve that time.”

Nick’s voice softened, aching.

“You’ve been through hell, Charlie. Taking care of yourself before taking on everything else isn’t cowardice. It's necessary.”

"Yeah," Darcy added, "you know that saying. Can't bring the boys to the yard if you're out of milkshakes."

Nick snorted quietly, but Charlie wasn't even listening anymore, he just wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head. The spiral was already tightening in his chest, crushing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His chair scraped back. “I just… I’ll be in my room.”

He slipped away before anyone could stop him, leaving three pairs of worried eyes at the table, pancakes growing cold.

Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles pressed hard into his knees, head bowed like he could somehow push the chaos in his skull down into silence. But it only got louder.

They always won. The abusers. The liars. The ones who knew how to smile in that charming way, let a few tears slip at the perfect moment, make their lies sound like gospel truth. And people believed them. Every time. Because the monsters wore prettier costumes than their victims. Miley had everyone wrapped around her little finger, just like Ben had. Just like every manipulative bastard Charlie had ever met.

And he—he was doing nothing.

Nick had been there when he was broken. Nick had picked him up, piece by piece, held him steady until he could breathe again. And now Nick needed him, Jesse needed him. They needed him to stand up, needed him to fight, and what was Charlie doing? Hiding. Pretending. Still letting the world think he was a corpse while his parents lit candles for a son who wasn’t gone.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, like he could force the breath back in. It felt like he was suffocating.

Why couldn’t he sacrifice for Nick the way Nick had sacrificed for him? Why couldn’t he just do it—say something, anything, instead of choking on his own cowardice?

Charlie shoved himself to his feet before he could talk himself out of it, a spark of wild, reckless defiance coursing through him. He went to the desk, his hands trembling so hard the mouse slipped under his palm. He clicked open Instagram, the brightness of the screen stabbing his eyes.

His fingers flew, frantic, messy.

Isaac. Elle. Tao.

One by one be sent the same message.

I’m alive. Ben faked my death. I’m okay. I’m staying with someone who’s helping me get back on my feet since January. Please don't hate me. Please don’t freak out.

His heart slammed like a fist against his ribs. He didn’t let himself reread it, didn’t let himself hesitate. He hit send. Send. Send.

The little whooshs sound felt like a gunshots. Final. Irrevocable.

Before the dots of any replies could appear, before he could see their names light up, before he could take it back, he clicked out of the browser so rapidly the screen froze for a moment. His chest was heaving, his whole body vibrating with adrenaline. He stumbled back, collapsed onto the bed.

“Oh god.” His throat closed around the words. His lungs refused to work. The walls felt like they were inching closer, squeezing him, crushing him. He clutched at the sheets, digging his nails in until they burned.

What had he just done?

Now they knew. Isaac. Elle. Tao. They would know. It was out there, in their hands, in their phones, slowly spilling back into the world.

The air ripped from his lungs, shallow and fast, his vision narrowing to pinpricks. His hands shook violently, tingling, useless. His chest hurt, a band tightening and tightening until he thought something inside him might snap.

He curled onto his side, gasping, nails dragging down his arms, tears spilling hot and messy into the pillow. His body was a live wire of panic and guilt and the horrible certainty that he wasn't going to be able to exist in the world again and ever feel any kind of safety. Not with Ben still out there. Not with his connections and his power.

And still, under the terror, was a tiny, traitorous pulse of relief.

He’d finally said it.

He’d finally told them.

Even if it ruined him all over again.

There was a soft knock on the door, hesitant, almost apologetic.

“Charlie? It’s me.”

Charlie couldn’t stop the sobs rattling out of his chest. He tried to press his face into the pillow to quiet them, but his body betrayed him, shuddering and shaking.

The door opened a crack. Nick’s voice came, low and careful.

“Can I come in?”

Charlie didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, but the mattress dipped anyway. A warm presence sat beside him. Nick’s hand hovered in the air.

“Can I touch your back?”

Charlie gave the smallest nod, his throat raw.

Nick’s palm settled against him, rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades.

“Good… just breathe with me, Char. In through your nose… nice and slow. Out through your mouth. You’re safe. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

Charlie tried, chest hitching, the breaths breaking, but he tried.

“That’s it,” Nick murmured. “Feel the bed under you. Feel my hand on your back. Count four in, four out. With me, yeah?”

For a few minutes, all that existed was Nick’s voice and the weight of his hand. Slowly, painfully, Charlie’s breaths stretched a little longer, a little deeper.

But then the words ripped out of him, panicked, urgent.

“No, no—it’s not okay. I—I told them.”

Nick’s hand stilled.

“Told who what?”

“My friends,” Charlie gasped, wiping at his eyes with trembling fingers. “Isaac, Elle, Tao. I messaged them—I told them I’m alive. And Tori too. I—I told her to tell my parents and I don’t even remember sending it but—look—” He fumbled for his phone, shoving the screen toward Nick with Tori’s reply glowing back at them. 'Okay. I’ll tell them. I promise. I’ve got you. It'll be okay.'

Nick took the phone, set it carefully aside, and caught Charlie’s shaking hand in both of his.

“Okay. Okay, love. Deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. They know you’re safe. That’s a good thing. They love you, Charlie. It's good to have more support.”

Charlie shook his head violently.

“No. I ruined everything. I was safe here. I was safe with you.” His voice cracked, more tears spilling. “But—I had to. You’ve given me everything, and I’ve done nothing for you. You need me and I can’t even—”

Nick squeezed his hand tight, grounding him again.

“Charlie. Stop. Is that why you reached out to them? Because you thought you weren’t helping me enough?”

Charlie gave a broken laugh, pressing his forehead into Nick’s chest.

“If I can just… tell people I’m alive, I can tell them what Miley did, then I’m not useless. I can message Jesse's family and they can get closure. Then I can—God, Nick, maybe I can finally do something right. If I can’t take down my own abuser, I can at least help you take down yours. I can at least help his other victims.”

Nick’s heart clenched, hearing the guilt and desperation laced through every word. He tilted Charlie’s chin gently, pressing a kiss to his damp knuckles.

“You don’t have to take down anyone to prove your worth to me. You’ve already saved me in more ways than I can explain. But if you really want to help, we’ll do it safely, okay? Writing a statement as a witness is a brilliant idea. Anonymous. No names, no risk. That way you’re helping, but you’re not in danger. You can have your family message Jesse's aunt. Nothing needs to be public, Char.”

Charlie blinked up at him, lips parted, tears still clinging to his lashes.

“Anonymous?”

“Yes.” Nick smoothed a hand through his curls. “Because I want you safe more than anything. We can do this together, love."

Love love love.

Charlie sniffled, nodding, shoulders finally sagging as though the fight in his chest was running out. He curled tighter into Nick’s side.

“I just… I want to do my part.”

Nick kissed the top of his head.

“That's because you have a good heart. I'll help you.”

When Charlie finally came downstairs, his curls were damp from splashing water on his face, his eyes still red-rimmed but calmer. Nick stayed close at his side, but let him take the first step into the kitchen.

Tara and Darcy looked up instantly from where they were sitting at the table, mugs of tea between them.

“Hey,” Charlie said, voice soft. “Um… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For earlier. For… spiraling. That was embarrassing.”

Tara’s expression softened immediately.

“Charlie, don’t you dare apologize. You’re allowed to feel things. You’ve been through hell. We’re not keeping score.”

Darcy leaned back.

"I once saw Nick drunkenly break down, snot and all, because his roommate ate the last of his pizza rolls."

Tara lifted her eyebrows and nodded while Nick shrugged in confirmation.

Charlie blinked at them, surprised, and then let out a small, involuntary laugh. Darcy grinned like they’d just won a prize.

“There it is. That’s my boy.”

Before he could retreat back into himself, Tara stood and wrapped him in a hug. Darcy joined in, their arms looping around both of them so it was just one warm bundle of affection. Charlie froze for a second, then let himself sink into it, his throat tight with gratitude.

When they all pulled back, he said, a little hesitant, “I… messaged my friends. Told them I’m alive.”

Tara’s face lit up.

“Charlie, that’s amazing!”

Darcy pointed a finger at him like a mock lecture.

“Do you know how brave that is? You’re giving them back the chance to love you again. That’s huge.”

Charlie chewed on his lip, some of the fear ebbing with the replacement of knowing he could see his friends again. Have coffee and share book recommendations with Isaac. Go shopping with Elle. Argue film styles with Tao.

“I guess… yeah. It feels terrifying. But also kind of… good?”

“It should,” Tara said warmly. “You’re taking the next step back into yourself. That is definitely both of those things."

Nick slid an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and added, “He wants to write a witness statement about Miley. Anonymously.”

Darcy let out a gasp.

“That's a great idea."

Tara’s eyes softened as she reached across the table for Charlie’s hand.

“That’s brave, Charlie."

Charlie’s chest loosened a fraction more. Between Nick’s steady warmth at his side and Tara and Darcy’s unwavering encouragement, he felt—finally—like he wasn’t just a broken burden. He was useful. He could do something.

“Okay,” he said quietly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe it is a good thing.”

Nick kissed his temple.

“Definitely a good thing.”

Charlie sat on the desk chair, one leg tucked underneath him. The cursor blinked at him from the blank document, daring him to start. His chest was still sore from the earlier panic, his body wrung out and sluggish, but his mind buzzed restlessly.

The words came haltingly, fingers trembling as he tried to shape his experience into something steady, factual. Every few sentences he stopped, backspaced, re-wrote. It was harder than he expected—forcing his memories of watching Nick and Miley into cold, flat language. Stripping the pain down until it was just evidence. He wanted to do this for Nick. He needed to do it.

Half an hour passed before his phone lit up beside him. He ignored it at first, then sighed and glanced over.

Tori (2:02pm): Mum and Dad want to see you. They're sort of freaking out.

Another text popped up right after.

Also, your friends are blowing up my phone. Message them back before they riot.

Charlie closed his eyes, a sharp ache pressing behind them. He exhaled shakily, rubbed at his face, then picked up his phone.

With a resigned sigh, he unlocked it and opened Instagram.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s socked feet carried him back and forth across the rug in Nick’s living room, his hands wringing each other raw. His pulse hadn’t slowed all morning.

He kept replaying the night before in his head—the way his notifications had exploded when he opened Instagram. Message requests stacked on top of each other, spilling like water he couldn’t dam. Isaac, Tao, Elle… each of them had sent what felt like fifty messages, maybe more.

Tao’s were the hardest to read: a jagged, whiplash mess of anger and grief and disbelief. 'If this is some kind of sick prank, I swear to God.' Then, a heartbeat later: 'Please tell me it’s really you. Please.'

Elle’s were softer, overflowing with relief and worry. 'I can’t believe it. I missed you so much. I don’t care what happened, I just need to know you’re okay.' Every line dripped with desperation and love.

Isaac’s were steady, though they made Charlie ache just as much. 'I never fully believed you were gone. It felt wrong, like I was stuck in denial and couldn’t get out. Maybe it was intuition, instead. But if this is you—if it’s really you—you have to know how much we thought of you. We decorated your grave every year. Three birthdays in a row. We watched your favorite films sometimes on movie nights. Even Tao didn’t complain. You never left us, not really.'

Charlie had answered, clumsy and rushed, but before they could fall into catching up, they’d made him promise to give them the address. 'We’re driving to you. Right now.'

Elle, ever practical, had insisted they sleep first, but they’d texted him after dawn, once they had his number, 'Leaving at 7. We’ll be there around lunch.'

That was four hours ago. And now, it was nearly lunchtime.

Nick’s voice drifted in from the kitchen where he was chopping vegetables, far calmer than Charlie felt. Charlie’s chest tightened.

“I’m so nervous,” he blurted out, spinning in another tight circle. “Like, what if they—what if they’re angry? Tao will definitely be angry. And I mean—I should warn you, Tao comes off kind of… rude sometimes, especially when he’s emotional. He doesn’t mean it, he just—he just—”

Nick’s head appeared in the doorway, an easy wave of his hand brushing off the worry.

“Charlie. It’s fine. I’m not worried about Tao. I was actually planning to make myself scarce anyway. You deserve the space to catch up with your friends.”

Charlie froze mid-pace, staring at him.

That—God. That was so the opposite of Ben. Ben had hated when Charlie spent time with his friends. He’d gone out of his way to make sure it barely ever happened, until Charlie was completely wrapped around his finger. Dependent. Alone.

The realization hit like a punch in the ribs, and before Charlie could second-guess it, he crossed the room in two strides and threw his arms around Nick. Hugging him so tightly it felt desperate, like he needed Nick to physically know what it meant, even if he couldn’t get the words out.

“Hey,” Nick murmured, hugging him back with a squeeze, grounding, steady.

Charlie buried his face against Nick’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the gulf between past and present, by gratitude so sharp it hurt.

And then—

The doorbell rang.

The chime split through the room, sharp and jarring.

Charlie froze where he stood, arms still wrapped around Nick, breath caught in his chest. His legs refused to move, like his feet had been cemented to the rug.

Nick pulled back just enough to look at him, concern flickering in his amber eyes.

“Do you want me to get it?” he asked gently.

Charlie couldn’t even nod. He just stood there, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

Nick gave him a soft, reassuring squeeze before heading for the door. The muffled sound of the handle turning sent another shockwave through Charlie’s chest.

And then—

“Who the hell are you? Where’s Charlie?” Tao’s voice, sharp and frantic, cut through like lightning.

“Charlie!” Elle’s voice followed, trembling but bright, desperate.

Something inside him cracked open. The sound of her calling his name—it was like warmth rushing into his bloodstream, thawing the ice that had locked him still.

Charlie stumbled forward, out of the living room and into the hall, just as Nick stepped back, holding the door wide.

Elle’s eyes found him first. The moment they did, tears burst free, and Charlie felt his own vision blur instantly, hot streaks rolling down his cheeks. Tao and Isaac both looked like they’d forgotten how to breathe, their faces breaking apart as if the weight of so many years had finally collapsed in on them.

And then they all collided—Elle flinging herself into his arms, Tao clutching at his shoulders, Isaac gripping him like he might slip away again. Charlie buried himself in the tangle of them, sobbing as their tears mixed with his own. It was messy and desperate and loud and everything he’d been holding inside of him.

Nick lingered at the edge of the reunion for only a moment, watching with the smallest, fondest smile before stepping back.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, finishing up lunch,” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the crying. “If you need me.”

Charlie clung tighter to his friends, chest heaving, as Nick slipped away to give them their moment.

They stood there sobbing in each other’s arms for what felt like forever, all of them too overwhelmed to speak. Charlie didn’t know how long they stayed tangled together, but eventually Nick’s careful voice broke through the haze.

“Lunch is ready,” he said gently from the doorway, as if afraid to startle them.

Charlie sniffled, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand as he pulled back from the embrace.

“Thanks, Nick.” His voice cracked, but there was gratitude threaded through it. He turned to his friends, still clutching Elle’s hand like a lifeline. She hadn’t let go since the second she got near him, her grip tight and trembling, like if she blinked too long he might vanish.

Charlie led them toward the kitchen, his chest squeezing when he saw what Nick had laid out: platters of sandwiches, bowls of fruit and crisps, cut-up veggies with dip, and even a pitcher of homemade lemonade. It wasn’t just lunch—it was effort, kindness, thought. For people who were complete strangers to him.

A lump caught in Charlie’s throat.

“Uh—right,” he said, suddenly realizing he hadn’t introduced anyone. “This is Nick, my—” He hesitated, warmth rushing to his cheeks. He wasn't sure he was ready to tell his friends that Nick was his boyfriend just yet. He was sure they were already weary enough without adding a surprise romance on top of it all. “Nick. And these are Tao, Elle, and Isaac. My best friends.”

Elle was the first to speak, her voice still shaky but laced with sincerity.

“Thank you. For… for helping him.” She squeezed Charlie’s hand tighter and offered Nick a small, grateful smile.

Isaac followed with a nod and a handshake.

“Good to meet you.” His smile was subdued but genuine, a steady contrast to Elle’s trembling relief.

Tao, on the other hand, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Nick.

“So what do you get out of this deal?”

Charlie’s head snapped toward him.

“Tao—”

Elle gasped.

“Tao, no! Not now.”

But Tao wasn’t backing down. His voice cracked as he pushed on.

“The last time we didn’t ask enough questions, Charlie died. Or—or we thought he did. I’m not doing that again. I’m not just going to sit here and smile and not demand answers. Not again.”

Charlie felt defensive rise sharp and hot in his chest, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear the thought of a fight happening now. Not when they’d only just gotten each other back. He opened his mouth, but Nick spoke first.

“It’s okay,” Nick said softly, his tone calm, almost disarming. “I get it. You love him. You’ve been through hell. You have every right to be protective.”

Charlie’s throat tightened at how effortlessly Nick defused the moment.

“Tao,” Charlie said quietly, meeting his friend’s eyes, “I’m okay. I swear. He’s not—he’s not like that. You can trust me.”

Tao’s glare didn’t disappear, but it faltered just enough for his arms to uncross.

Nick, sensing the moment, grabbed a plate and began piling food onto it.

“I’ll give you guys some space,” he said, his voice still warm and even.

Charlie frowned.

“You’re not staying to eat with us?”

Nick shook his head.

“No, Char. You need time with your friends right now. But you can come get me if you need anything, okay?” He leaned in and kissed Charlie’s cheek, gentle but certain, before heading toward the stairs with his plate.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Elle smirked and raised an eyebrow knowingly.

Tao looked both offended and shocked, his jaw dropping open like he was short-circuiting.

Isaac just chuckled under his breath, amused in that quiet, grounded way only Isaac could be.

Charlie rolled his eyes, his face still burning.

“I—I guess I have a lot to catch you guys up on.”

They gathered around the kitchen table, though no one touched the food right away. Elle still hadn’t let go of Charlie’s hand, her thumb rubbing little circles against his skin like she could anchor him there. Tao sat stiffly across from him, arms crossed again, his jaw tight. Isaac looked steadier, but his bookish calm had cracks running through it—his gaze didn’t leave Charlie’s face.

Charlie exhaled shakily.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” Isaac said softly. “Whatever you can manage.”

Charlie nodded, chewing on his lip. He told them about how when he and Ben had started dating, even with their warnings that Ben was using him, be knew they were right, to a point, but he didn't believe that he deserved any better. With his mental health, his issues with food, his erratic moods, he thought he had to take whatever he could get. He told them how Ben had slowly chipped away at his confidence, his friendships, his independence. How Ben’s manipulations had been so subtle at first he didn’t notice until he was isolated, convinced he couldn’t survive without him. He admitted how cruel Ben had been, the insults, the punishments, the way he twisted everything until Charlie believed he was always at fault.

By the time he got to the “accident,” and the motel, and the way Ben had gaslit him into thinking he owed him everything he had, Elle was sobbing, her hand clutching his like a lifeline.

“He told the world I was dead,” Charlie whispered, his throat thick. “He staged everything. And I… I was too broken to see what was happening. I let him use me. I thought maybe it was better if I was gone and maybe it's all I was good for.”

Tao made a strangled sound, half a sob, half a growl.

“That—absolute monster. He—he doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air. I swear, if I ever see him again—”

“Tao,” Elle choked, her tears streaming.

“No, Elle, don’t you dare tell me to calm down,” Tao snapped, slamming his fist against the table. “He tortured him. He killed him without actually killing him. He stole him from us for years. How are we just supposed to sit here and listen to this without—"

“Tao—” Charlie’s voice broke.

But Isaac leaned forward, his own eyes glassy though his voice was measured.

“He’s right to be angry. I’m angry too. What Ben did was unforgivable." He turned his glance to their seething friend, "But Tao, Charlie doesn’t need us screaming right now. He needs us here.”

Elle finally tore her eyes from Charlie long enough to glare at Tao through her tears.

“Isaac’s right. This isn’t about your anger, Tao. This is about Charlie. He’s alive, he’s here, and he’s—he’s telling us the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. So maybe we just listen?”

Tao deflated, collapsing back into his chair. He ran both hands through his hair and muttered, “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t believe it. He made us think you were gone, Charlie. Do you even know what that did to us?”

Charlie’s eyes filled.

“I know. I know, and I hate myself for letting it happen. For letting him win. For not being strong enough to—”

“Don’t,” Elle cut him off fiercely, her voice trembling but firm. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. You were abused, Charlie. Manipulated. But you’re still here. You fought your way back. That’s strength.”

Isaac nodded.

“Exactly. You didn’t let him win—you survived him. And now you’re out.”

Charlie’s chest ached as their words sank in, but guilt still churned.

“I should’ve found a way to reach out sooner. To let you know—”

“We would’ve come for you in a heartbeat,” Tao said, his voice thick, though his anger had softened into grief. “God, if I’d known…”

Elle squeezed his hand so tightly it hurt.

“But that’s not your fault. Ben’s the villain here. Not you.”

Charlie swallowed hard, overwhelmed. Despite his own guilt, he knew when he looked up that he didn’t see judgment in their eyes. Just heartbreak, love, and fury on his behalf.

He let out a shaky laugh, the tiniest crack in the heaviness.

“Wow. You guys missed me a little, huh?"

The friends all let out huffs of laughter through tears, Tao shoving his arm playfully. 

"Yeah, maybe a bit."

Charlie laughed wetly, wiping at his eyes. Somehow, the four of them together felt exactly the same as it always had—raw, chaotic, sometimes too much—but it was also everything he’d been missing.

“I’ve got so much to tell you,” he whispered.

Elle leaned her forehead against his.

“And we’re not going anywhere.”

Charlie wiped at his eyes, the heaviness still sitting in his chest, but he found himself speaking again.

“I wouldn’t even be here without Nick. He—he gave me a place to live. Clothes when mine were destroyed. He—” his lips quirked faintly, “—he crocheted me a deer, just because. His name is Aegis."

"Like the shield." Isaac stated knowingly. 

"Exactly. When Nick gave him to me, I think it was the first moment I truly understood how good he really is. Nick—He’s…warm. He’s comfort. He’s—he’s the reason I feel safe again. The reason I can even talk to you guys right now. I didn’t speak for almost a year because I was so traumatized.”

Elle’s grip on his hand tightened, tears welling again. Tao’s expression cracked, all his sharp edges softening. Isaac’s gaze flickered with a quiet sadness.

Then Tao’s eyes narrowed again, though not with anger this time—more protective scrutiny.

“Charlie,” he said slowly, “you’re making it sound like Nick is more than just your landlord-slash-golden-retriever roommate. Which—judging by the kiss I just saw? Yeah, there’s obviously something more here.”

Charlie ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly.

Tao leaned forward, frown deepening.

“But…are you sure that’s a good idea? To be romantically involved with the guy you’re completely dependent on? After everything with Ben—don’t you think that’s dangerous?”

The words landed heavy, and Charlie felt his throat close. He shifted in his seat, staring down at his plate, his voice gone quiet.

Elle, noticing his retreat, jumped in gently.

“Tao’s not wrong to worry. And for the record, I like everything I’ve heard about Nick. He sounds—wonderful. But it is a little concerning, Charlie. You’ve been through hell. We just don’t want you to get tangled up in another situation where you can’t get out.”

Charlie lifted his head then, his eyes shining, his voice steady despite the tremble underneath.

“Nick isn’t like Ben. He’s been nothing but encouraging—about my health, about my safety, about my independence. He makes sure I take care of myself. He’s even been helping me work out—getting stronger again, in every way. He doesn’t want me relying on him forever. He wants me to stand on my own.”

Isaac cracked a smile, leaning back in his chair.

“Working out, huh? I wasn’t gonna say anything about the sexy muscles I noticed, but…” He let the thought hang, mischievous glint in his eyes.

Charlie laughed—an unsteady but genuine sound—and Elle let out a wet giggle through her tears. Even Tao rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“And…” Charlie hesitated, then forced himself to continue. “Nick never tried anything. Not once. It was me who—who started everything romantic. And he—God, he was almost annoyingly thorough about making sure I was certain. That I wasn’t just…confused, or desperate for comfort. He checked and double-checked. He’s been careful with me in a way no one else ever has.”

That seemed to ease the tension at the table. Elle’s shoulders lowered. Tao still frowned, but the edge was gone. Isaac gave him a soft nod, approval in his gaze.

Elle squeezed his hand again.

“Okay. That makes me feel a lot better, Charlie.”

“Me too,” Tao admitted grudgingly. “Still keeping an eye out, though.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Charlie said, managing a faint smile.

There was a pause, and then Tao asked, “So…have you talked to your parents yet? Are you going to get Ben arrested? And—how the hell did he fake your death if you’re sitting right here?”

Charlie took a deep breath, the questions pressing down on him. His stomach gave a little twist, reminding him of his schedule. He glanced at the food.

“Can we…eat first? Please? I’ve got to stay on my nutrition plan and I'm still not good about... Talking about heavy things while eating.”

Elle, who had been there for the worst of Charlie's eating disorder in high school, nodded instantly.

“Of course.”

Isaac reached for the platter and began serving without a word. Tao didn’t argue.

They’d migrated to the living room after lunch, everyone curling up on couches and armchairs with the kind of ease that only came from years of friendship. The heavy tears had dried, replaced with lighter chatter. Tao was halfway through retelling his proposal story, arms sweeping through the air as if he were his own movie director.

“It was cinematic,” Tao declared, chest puffed. “Like, straight-up Oscar-worthy.”

Elle rolled her eyes affectionately.

“It was dramatic, I’ll give him that. But it was also sweet.” She leaned into Tao’s side, smiling softly before her expression shifted. “Speaking of huge life events… when is Tori due?”

Charlie laughed.

“Literally any day now. She thought about coming here herself, but she’s… well, nine months pregnant. You can imagine.”

The room filled with laughter, Tao snorting the loudest. Charlie felt warmth seep into his chest—it was good, hearing them laugh again, laughing with them.

The moment was interrupted when Nick appeared in the doorway, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.

Elle waved him off.

“Not a problem at all. Do you want to join us?”

Isaac smirked, setting his book aside.

“Yes, please. We’d love to get to know you a bit. Right, Tao?” he punctuated the end with a wide grin in Tao's direction.

Tao shot him a look but muttered, “Sure.”

Nick chuckled softly.

“Thanks. I’d love to, but I just have to take care of something real quick.” He turned to Charlie, his voice softening. “My agent called—he approves of your statement. It’ll be posted tonight, if you’re still okay with that.”

Charlie nodded.

“Yeah, that’s good. I… I hope it helps.”

Nick gave him a reassuring smile and told the group he's be right back, before heading back upstairs.

As soon as he was gone, Elle turned wide-eyed to Charlie.

“Wait. Agent?”

Charlie exhaled.

“Right. Um… yeah. He’s, uh… kind of the quarterback for the Stags.”

Isaac snapped his fingers.

“Knew he looked familiar. I don’t even follow football, but his face is everywhere.”

Tao’s jaw dropped.

“Wait, wait, wait. Do you mean the guy—the one who’s all over the internet right now for abusing his ex-girlfriend?!”

Charlie’s head shot up.

“No! Tao, it’s not like that.” His voice was sharp, protective. “That’s not what happened. He—he didn’t do anything like that. Miley set him up. I was there. I know the truth.”

Tao leaned back, uneasy, arms crossed.

“Charlie… even if that’s true, it looks bad. Really bad.”

“That’s what the statement’s about,” Charlie said quickly. “I wrote it because I saw what actually happened. Nick didn’t touch her like that. He didn’t hurt anyone. He’s not—” His voice wavered, but he forced the words out. “He’s not Ben.”

Elle’s brows knit together, worry flickering across her face.

“No, Charlie, of course not, but... is it safe? For you, I mean. What if Ben sees your student? What if he comes after you?”

Charlie shook his head.

“It’s anonymous. And Ben never cared about football. He wouldn’t even think to look.”

Tao still looked unconvinced, frowning at his knees.

“Neither do I, but I still knew about the drama. It’s everywhere. Putting yourself in danger for some guy is—.”

Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and Tao stiffened, cheeks coloring as Nick reappeared.

Elle started to apologize, but Nick held up a hand. His voice was calm, though there was a weight to it.

“I know how it all looks. I know it’s… Suspicious. And I can’t blame you for worrying. But I hope… maybe… you’ll give me the chance to prove I’m not what the headlines say. And I would never put Charlie in danger."

There was a beat of silence. Then Elle spoke softly, meeting his gaze.

“Of course we will.”

The living room smelled like melted cheese and garlic bread, boxes of pizza spread out over the coffee table. Everyone was lounging in a comfortable sprawl—Elle with her legs tucked under her, Tao sitting cross-legged on the floor as he waved his hands dramatically at Isaac, who was calmly refuting him with a smirk.

“Absolutely not,” Isaac said, deadpan. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Yes it is!” Tao shot back. “Elle, back me up here. That camera was secured.”

Elle laughed into her soda.

“It was. You definitely secured it... With shoelaces."

Tao groaned, burying his face in his hands as everyone burst into laughter.

"I was fifteen and trying to be resourceful!"

Charlie laughed the hardest, head tipping back, his cheeks flushed with joy. Nick watched from beside him, his chest aching with something so sharp and bright he thought it might split him open. Seeing Charlie like this—laughing freely, surrounded by the people who knew him best—was more than happiness. It was like watching sunlight crack through a window after months of gray.

Unable to stop himself, Nick slid an arm around Charlie’s shoulders, tugging him close until Charlie leaned against him without hesitation. Nick pressed his face into Charlie’s neck, breathing him in, smiling against his skin.

“How are you doing?” Nick murmured softly, his voice low enough for only Charlie to hear.

Charlie turned his head slightly, their foreheads brushing. His eyes were bright, damp at the corners, but his smile was unshakable.

“Amazing,” he whispered. “It feels like everything, having them back. I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.” He squeezed Nick’s hand where it rested against his chest. “Thank you. For letting them come. For… all of this.”

Nick swallowed, emotion catching thick in his throat.

“Charlie, I’d let them all move in if it meant you’d keep smiling like this.”

Charlie’s lips parted, then curved into a soft, shy grin before he leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss wasn’t long, but it was tender—sweet in a way that made Nick’s pulse thunder. When they pulled apart, the room had gone suspiciously quiet.

Then Tao cleared his throat loudly.

“Ugh. Disgusting. Can’t you wait until we leave?”

Elle nudged him with her foot.

“Shut up, Tao, you’re smiling”

“I’m not smiling,” Tao protested, his mouth twitching upward anyway. "I'm just gassy."

Everyone laughed and Isaac smirked, flipping a page in his book.

Charlie groaned, face burning as he buried himself against Nick’s shoulder, while Nick laughed—deep, warm, and so full of love it seemed to fill the room.

It was late when the night began to wind down. Empty pizza boxes stacked on the counter, the remnants of laughter still buzzing like warmth in the air. Nick leaned against the arm of the couch, watching Charlie glow brighter than he’d seen in months.

“You know,” Nick said, glancing between Tao, Elle, and Isaac, “you don’t have to get a hotel. There’s room here if you’d rather stay.”

Elle gave him a grateful smile but shook her head.

“That’s so kind, Nick, really. But I just got back yesterday morning from a two week exhibition in Paris, and it’s been an emotional day.” She nudged Tao’s shoulder, her grin turning cheeky. “We… need some alone time.”

She waggled her eyebrows exaggeratedly, and Charlie burst out laughing, his head tipping back. Nick, however, flushed scarlet, stammering, “Oh—right, of course—”

Isaac closed his book with a soft thump.

“And I’ll be in the room next to theirs with my noise-canceling headphones. And my book.” He gave a sly little smile. “You’ll see us again at breakfast, cupcake.” he patted Nick on the cheek.

Goodbyes took far too long. Elle clung to Charlie like she might never let go, Tao hugged him so tight he could hardly breathe, and Isaac rested his chin briefly on Charlie’s shoulder in a way that said more than words. Elle and Isaac even hugged Nick, thanking him softly, while Tao extended a hand and gave Nick a wary-but-accepting shake, accompanied by the smallest of nods.

Then they were gone.

Charlie practically vibrated with joy as he shut the door.

“Nick, that was amazing. God, it was so good to see them. And even though I had to say… some pretty heavy, triggering stuff, I didn’t spiral! Not once! Therapy is really doing something... I feel—” He spread his hands out like he could measure the weight in the air. “I feel light. Powerful. Like I finally got something back I thought I’d lost forever.”

Nick’s chest ached with pride and tenderness. He stepped closer.

“Your friends are incredible, Char. And watching you with them? Seeing you laugh like that?” His voice went low, reverent. “It was beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Charlie froze, overwhelmed by the sheer affection flooding through him, and then he couldn’t hold it in anymore—he surged forward, kissing Nick with more intensity than he ever had before.

Nick staggered back a step, startled, but then melted into it, his arms wrapping tight around Charlie’s waist. The kiss deepened quickly, mouths parting, teeth grazing. Nick tasted pizza, soda, and something entirely him—something he wanted more of, endlessly.

Charlie pressed closer, pushing until their bodies aligned fully, his hands clutching desperately at Nick’s shirt. Their hips rocked together, subtle at first, then needier, rougher. Heat pooled low in Charlie’s stomach as he felt the unmistakable hardness pressing against him, friction sparking and catching like fire. He gasped into Nick’s mouth, chasing it.

Nick groaned, the sound guttural, and then abruptly pulled back just a fraction, his forehead still pressed to Charlie’s.

“Shit, Char—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Charlie’s breath came fast, his lips swollen.

“Please don’t apologize.”

Nick’s thumb stroked over his cheekbone, his eyes searching.

“I just… I don’t ever want you to feel pressured. Or rushed. Not after everything.”

Charlie exhaled sharply, half laugh, half exasperation.

“Nick.” His voice shook, but it was firm. “I really do appreciate how respectful you’ve been. But… I’ve never—” He faltered, then pushed through. “I’ve never felt safe enough to ask for what I want. Not with anyone. Not until you.” His eyes shone, vulnerable but certain. “And what I want right now is you. In any way I can have you. Please.”

Nick’s breath hitched, his pupils blown wide with arousal. He bent, pressing his lips to Charlie’s ear.

“God, Charlie… I want you too.” His voice was ragged. “But if we’re doing this… it’s going to be for you. Only you. I’m going to give you everything you’ve been missing.”

Charlie shuddered, a low groan escaping as Nick’s mouth trailed hot, open kisses down his neck, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. Each mark felt deliberate, claiming—but not like ownership. Like devotion. And to Charlie’s surprise, he wanted it. Needed it. Wanted Nick to overwrite every scar Ben had left with something that was entirely his.

“Nick,” he gasped, tilting his head back, gripping at his shoulders.

Nick growled softly against his skin, kissing lower, down to his collarbone, sucking a bruise into the pale flesh. Charlie’s knees nearly buckled.

Nick pulled back, chest heaving, his voice husky.

“Come upstairs with me.”

Charlie nodded, dizzy with want.

Nick laced their fingers together, leading him gently, reverently, up to his bedroom.

The air in the room felt thick, heavy with heat and anticipation. Charlie’s heart raced as Nick pressed close, their bodies already humming with desire. Charlie’s hands moved almost instinctively, tugging at the hem of Nick’s shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice shaking, and Nick’s lips ghosted over his neck in response, kissing, licking, and nipping in all the right places.

Nick’s hands were equally deliberate, sliding under Charlie’s band tee, grazing the skin of his chest and shoulders, making him arch and shiver. They took their time, peeling away each layer with slow, careful motions, fingers lingering, exploring. Charlie helped, unbuttoning Nick’s jeans, sliding his hands over the firm planes of his abdomen, feeling the heat radiate from every inch of him.

Nick mirrored him, letting his hands roam Charlie’s body, tracing the curve of his spine, the line of his ribs, teasing over the waistband of his jeans. Their breathing became ragged, uneven, as sweat began to glisten on their skin, the scent of each other intoxicating.

“You’re so… so, beautiful.” Nick whispered, voice low and throaty, and Charlie pressed closer, letting himself melt against him.

Charlie’s hands roamed over Nick’s broad shoulders, down the strong, lean lines of his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle as he marveled at the way Nick’s body moved beneath his touch. Nick’s lips never left him, worshipping every inch he could reach, alternating between soft, teasing kisses and harder, urgent nips, making Charlie arch and squirm underneath him.

They undressed each other slowly, savoring each moment, each touch, each gasp. The heat between them built steadily, sweat slicking their skin, muscles pressing together, friction that sent shivers through both of them. Charlie pressed his forehead to Nick’s, breath mingling, hands roaming freely over the taut, sweaty planes of Nick’s torso, and Nick’s hands mirrored him, exploring, teasing, worshipping.

Nick leaned in, mouth once again tracing down Charlie’s neck to the collarbone, leaving a trail of kisses that made Charlie shiver violently, hips instinctively pressing closer. Charlie groaned, gripping Nick’s shoulders, feeling the tension coil tighter with every brush of lips, every flick of tongue. Their bodies were slick with sweat now, moving together like they were perfectly attuned, a rhythm of desire and reverence.

Charlie whispered, “I… I want—more,” and Nick’s response was instant, urgent but still worshipful, as he kissed him deeply, sliding his hands lower, exploring and teasing, making Charlie shiver, gasp, and arch. Every kiss, every touch, every motion built the tension unbearably, every nerve alight with need. It was the best kind of torturous build up.

The push and pull continued—Nick’s mouth worshipping, hands roaming, Charlie’s fingers tracing, teasing, grabbing, pressing—each motion escalating, leaving them breathless, slick, and desperate, learning the contours, the heat, the weight of each other, moving together with a sweaty, intoxicating rhythm that made the room feel like it was on fire.

Nick’s hands lingered on Charlie’s hips as he leaned in, pressing soft, lingering kisses along his chest, tracing the lines, following rise and fall. Charlie shivered under him, running his fingers through Nick’s hair, holding him close, feeling the heat of his breath against him.

Slowly, deliberately, Nick moved down further, lips brushing over Charlie’s stomach, kissing, nipping, and teasing along every curve, every line. His hands slid over Charlie’s thighs, tracing, exploring, memorizing the feel of him. Charlie arched instinctively, breath hitching, heartbeat thundering in his chest.

“N-Nick…” he murmured, voice trembling, and Nick only smiled against his skin, taking his time, savoring the way Charlie shivered and squirmed under him.

Nick’s lips drifted lower, and Charlie’s hands gripped his shoulders tighter, running along Nick’s back, feeling the taut muscles move beneath his touch. Every brush of Nick’s mouth made a spark of pleasure shoot through him, every soft suck, every flick of tongue, every teasing press of lips building a slow, steady heat that pooled deep inside him.

Charlie moaned, his hips pressing up involuntarily, wanting more. Nick responded to every motion, every gasp, worshipping him with patient reverence, letting Charlie set the pace while still taking the lead in his own subtle, intimate way. His hands moved to hold Charlie’s thighs, steadying him, keeping him grounded as he continued his slow descent, trailing kisses, licks, and gentle nips.

When Nick finally reached the place Charlie had been aching for, he paused, looking up with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“You ready?” he murmured against him. Charlie gasped, nodding, gripping Nick’s shoulders and pulling him closer.

“Yes… please…”

Nick started with slow, careful motions, using his mouth and tongue to worship Charlie, sending waves of heat rolling through him. His fingers tangled in Nick’s hair, tugging slightly as he tried to hold back moans that threatened to spill uncontrollably.

"Please, don't hold back. Let me hear you."

Charlie had never been allowed to let go in this way. Never encouraged to feel and express his own pleasure. He struggled at first but by the time Nick sped up, taking Charlie far down into the back of his throat over and over, he had completely forgotten how to be quiet, and every gasp, moan, and utterance of Nick's name only seemed to spur him on and further his enthusiasm.

“Nick… I’m—” he gasped, warning him that he was close.

Nick only looked up, eyes filled with heat and care, he pulled off for a moment and whispered, “I’ve got you, Char,” before continuing, taking him fully, swallowing every inch, showing reverent devotion and pleasure in every motion. Charlie’s breath hitched, body tensing, muscles trembling with pleasure, but he couldn’t pull away—Nick’s touch, his worship, was grounding him, filling him with need and trust all at once.

Charlie’s hands roamed Nick’s body, over his back, down his sides, exploring, holding, pressing, connecting in a rhythm with Nick’s mouth that was both intimate and overwhelming. The intensity built steadily, every motion, every lick, every suck driving Charlie higher, the sweat slicking their skin and adding to the heat of the moment.

Charlie’s hips bucked slightly as he neared the edge, and he warned again, voice shaky and breathless. Nick didn’t pull back, didn’t slow—he only deepened, swallowing and worshipping, following Charlie’s rhythm and need, holding him close with his hands as he drove him to release. Charlie cried out, gripping Nick, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion, every nerve alight with heat and longing.

When it finally slowed, Nick pulled back just enough to let Charlie catch his breath, lips ghosting along his skin, tracing soft kisses from stomach to chest, to neck, whispering, “You’re safe. You're appreciated. You matter. Always.” Charlie melted against him, feeling utterly cared for, worshipped, and safe even in the raw intensity of the moment.

They stayed like that, pressed together, hearts pounding, sweat-slicked bodies entwined, breathing heavily, hands exploring, savoring, grounding each other in a mix of lust, trust, and tenderness that was both overwhelming and perfect.

Minutes later, te blankets were twisted around them, tangled yet comforting, cocooning them in their own little world. Charlie’s breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling as he waited for it to steady, body tingling lightly, and Nick’s arms stayed firmly around him, holding him close, warm, protective.

Nick leaned in, brushing a loose curl behind Charlie’s ear and pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

“Was that… okay?” he murmured, voice low and tender.

Charlie let out a light laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“It was… amazing,” he whispered, voice soft but full of awe. He nuzzled into Nick’s chest for a moment before confessing quietly, “No one’s ever… done that for me before. I was starting to think I just… couldn’t enjoy sex.”

Nick didn’t respond with words. He simply held him closer, lips ghosting over Charlie’s hair, breathing in the warmth and weight of him. The silence was full of connection, comforting and steadying, and Charlie felt it, let it seep into his bones.

A sudden pang of guilt tugged at him, and he lifted his head, eyes half-lidded, voice hesitant.

“I can… do you next,” he offered.

Nick shook his head gently, tugging him back down, chest to chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing the top of Charlie’s head. “I wanted to make you feel good.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed slightly.

“But that's not fair,” he said softly, pouting. “You should get to feel good too.”

Nick chuckled quietly, warm and indulgent.

“The thing that would make me feel good, right now,” he admitted, voice low and affectionate, “is snuggles.”

Charlie laughed, a little breathless, a little shy, and pressed his forehead against Nick’s chest.

“Silly little sapling,” he teased.

Nick smiled into his curls, happy, utterly content.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, voice warm and sure, “I am a silly little sapling.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Charlie’s nose, tugging him closer into the curve of his chest, letting him melt against him.

The room felt impossibly still, safe, and intimate. Nick’s arms stayed wrapped securely around him, every brush of skin and every heartbeat a quiet promise. He couldn’t help the truth that was swelling inside him—the way his chest felt impossibly full of affection and love—So much love. But he kept it to himself for now, letting the moment be about Charlie.

Instead, he buried his face in Charlie’s curls and murmured softly, “You’re my favorite person.”

Charlie’s eyes fluttered closed, sleepiness pulling at his words.

“You’re my favorite person too,” he mumbled, voice drowsy but full of warmth.

And with that, they drifted off together, bodies tangled beneath the blankets, hearts beating in quiet sync, utterly content and safe in the presence of one another, cocooned in a cocoon of care, love, and intimacy.

Chapter Text

I am writing this statement as someone who personally witnessed the altercation between Nick Nelson and Miley Lindsay.

On the day in question, I observed Miley approach Nick in an aggressive manner. She entered his personal space and placed her hands on him in a way that was clearly unwanted. Nick responded only by placing his hands against her shoulders and pushing her backwards, in order to create space between them. The push was neither violent nor excessive. Miley stumbled back slightly but was not harmed. At no point did Nick intend to cause her injury.

In fact, despite being the one who had his boundaries crossed, Nick immediately apologized afterwards. This apology came not because he had done anything wrong, but because he is the kind of person who tries to keep peace in every situation, even when he is the one being mistreated.

It’s important to note that this incident was not isolated. I have personally witnessed Miley being verbally demeaning and emotionally manipulative towards Nick on multiple occasions. Her behavior has included belittling him in front of others, dismissing his feelings, and making comments designed to undermine his confidence.

In addition to my account of events, I also have access to the text conversation between Nick and Miley that provides the full context of their dynamic and of this incident specifically. Attached is the unedited conversation in its entirety, so there is no question about what was said or the circumstances under which it was said.

It is my firm belief that Nick acted with restraint and composure in a situation where many others would not have. He was placed in an uncomfortable and unwanted position, and his response was a measured attempt to protect his own boundaries. The narrative that portrays him as aggressive is both false and deeply unfair.

Nick deserves to be seen for who he truly is: kind, respectful, and patient. The truth of what happened, and the truth of Miley’s repeated mistreatment of him, should be acknowledged.

Signed,

Anonymous Witness

The smell of coffee from Nick's fancy new espresso machine lingered warmly in the kitchen. Nick had insisted that he had always wanted one, and that Charlie mentioning how much he missed the elaborate drinks from his and Isaac's coffee dates recently was just a reminder, not the reason for the purchase. As much as Charlie insisted Nick not buy him anything, he reasoned with himself that once he was out on his own, the machine would continue to live in Nick's kitchen, so it wasn't his, and he felt free to enjoy Nick's not-so-subtle attempts at making Charlie happy.

The coffee scent was mingling with the scent of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. Charlie sat at the breakfast table with Tao and Isaac, plates half-empty in front of them, while Elle scrolled on her phone. Across the table, Nick had just settled down with his own plate, shoulders loose from the quiet satisfaction of cooking for everyone.

Elle suddenly looked up, her eyes soft as she set her phone down.

“Charlie… that statement was really well done,” she said gently. “It was clear, measured, and you made sure the truth came through without it sounding defensive or messy.”

Charlie blinked, a little embarrassed by the praise, but grateful.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Tao shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He glanced at Nick, then back down at his plate.

“I’m… I’m sorry you had to deal with all that,” he said awkwardly.

Nick gave a tight, almost practiced smile.

“It’s okay. Honestly, lots of other people go through much worse.”

Charlie felt his chest twist—he recognized the way Nick brushed off his own pain because he’d done the same countless times. He opened his mouth to stop him from minimizing it, but Elle got there first.

“No,” she said firmly, her voice steadier than Charlie’s might have been. “Just because someone else has it worse doesn’t make what happened to you any less wrong. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Nick looked down, swallowing, and then nodded.

Isaac, who had been quiet until then, set his fork down.

“She’s right. You matter too.” He said it simply, a fact that needed no embellishment.

Charlie felt something expand inside him. Warmth. Pride. Love. Watching his friends—friends who had barely tolerated Nick's existence yesterday morning—sit here validating him, protecting him, made Charlie’s heart ache in the best way. For the first time, he let himself fully imagine what it would be like if Nick truly became part of his world. If their lives weren’t split into his world with Nick and his world from before, but just… one. Would his parents like Nick? Would Tori? He pictured his sister’s sharp, measuring gaze and couldn’t decide whether she’d thank him or intensely interrogate him. Probably both.

He didn’t realize how far he’d drifted into his own head until Isaac’s voice pulled him back.

“No, Tao, you can’t just say romcoms are inherently shallow,” Isaac was arguing, eyebrow raised. “There’s depth in humor. They explore relationships just as much as dramas do.”

“They’re formulaic,” Tao countered dramatically, gesturing with his toast. “Half the time you know the ending from the trailer!”

“They’re comforting,” Nick said, leaning in with a grin. “What’s wrong with that? Everyone needs stories that simply make them feel good.”

Charlie blinked, unsure of how the conversation even got here, then laughed softly, watching them bicker like they’d known each other for years. He caught Elle’s eye across the table, and she rolled her eyes at the same time he did. They shared a smile, quiet and conspiratorial, before she slipped her hand beneath the table and squeezed his.

Charlie swallowed, suddenly overcome, his eyes prickling.

“I’ve really missed this,” he said softly to her.

Elle squeezed tighter.

“We’ve really missed you,” she said, just as soft.

The boys kept on arguing about genre snobbery in the background, Tao waving his hands dramatically, Nick laughing, Isaac unbothered and smug, clearly enjoying winding Tao up a little. And Charlie sat there, Elle’s hand grounding him.

By late afternoon, bags were gathered by the door, coats shrugged on, and the weight of goodbye settled in. Charlie stood between Elle, Tao, and Isaac, feeling like he was being tugged apart at the seams.

“You’ll text, right?” Elle asked, voice careful. “Not just today. Every day or two. We need to know you’re okay.”

“Promise,” Charlie said, though his throat was tight.

Tao crossed his arms, eyes flicking to Nick with an intensity that was only half-playful.

“And just so we’re clear, we know where you live now, Nelson. If Charlie doesn’t respond for more than a week—” he leaned in, “—we will come looking for you both.”

The words earned a laugh, but the air in the room thickened. The humor was a veneer; Nick felt the truth underneath it. He nodded solemnly.

“I get it. Promise."

Elle shifted her bag higher on her shoulder and glanced back at Charlie, hesitant.

“Are you… are you coming home soon? Now that your parents know you’re alive...”

Charlie’s stomach flipped. He chewed at his lip before answering.

“I don’t know if I’m ready yet. Ben knows where they live, and I don’t feel safe enough to be on my own right now. We still need to figure out if that boy in the car was Jesse. It’s… it’s a lot. I need to work that out before adding more on top.”

All three nodded, soft understanding in their eyes.

Isaac stepped forward first, wrapping Charlie in a long, grounding hug.

“If you ever want to visit, or need somewhere to stay, James and I have a very comfy spare room,” he said against his ear. Pulling back, he added cheekily, “Although it’s probably not as warm and... muscly as where you’ve been sleeping.”

Charlie snorted, while Nick’s face went crimson.

Then came the goodbyes in earnest. Elle clung to Charlie, whispering, “We love you. Don’t you dare forget it.” Tao’s hug was stiff at first but turned bone-crushing by the end. Isaac pressed a quick kiss to Nick’s cheek, catching him completely off guard.

“If anything happens to Charlie,” Isaac said with mock gravity, “no one will suspect the quiet bookworm.”

Nick let out a nervous laugh, though he looked genuinely rattled.

“Noted,” he managed.

Isaac’s grin softened as he turned back to Charlie.

“And remember—send me that story you’ve been working on. I’ll give it a read. I'm going to make you take advantage of having a best friend in publishing now.”

Charlie’s eyes stung. He nodded quickly, tucking his face down before the tears could spill. The hugs that followed were tighter, longer, tear-streaked. And then the door closed behind them, leaving silence in their wake.

The rest of the afternoon drifted by lazily. After Elle, Tao, and Isaac left, the house felt strangely quiet, but not necessarily in a bad way—more like it had exhaled. As if it let the chaos of the visit go but held on to the warmth. Nick and Charlie went out to the garden for a bit, pulling weeds side by side, laughing at how muddy their shoes got. But then the sky opened up, rain falling in thick silver sheets, and they ducked back inside.

After quick showers to wash away the mud, they made tea—Nick fussing with the kettle and Charlie teasing him about how he added milk, like he thought he was British or something—and then curled up on the couch together, books in hand, while the rain tapped softly against the windows. Charlie nestled against Nick’s chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath his ear, and felt more at peace than he had in… ever, maybe.

Of course, he knew the hard things were still waiting. His parents needed to be contacted. Jesse’s family needed answers. They still had to confirm who was in the grave, and Ben was still out there somewhere, casting a shadow Charlie couldn’t quite escape. And eventually, there would be the long, complicated, anxiety inducing process of figuring out how to re-enter society after years of absence.

But not now. Not here. Right now, he’d spent the day with his best friends. He was curled up with his amazing, perfect boyfriend, rain on the windows, tea cooling on the table, and a good book in his lap. For this little bubble of time, he didn’t want to think about anything else.

He glanced up at Nick, and his mind wandered back to the night before. How Nick had made him feel so completely cared for, like he was something precious to be cherished—not used and discarded. How Nick seemed to prioritize Charlie’s pleasure even more than his own. Charlie hadn’t known that was possible.

He thought he hated sex, thought trauma had burned away any chance of finding joy in it. But it turned out the problem wasn’t sex itself. It was never feeling like an equal. It was never feeling wanted outside of the act, never feeling like it meant something. With Nick, it meant everything.

He wondered idly what else he thought he hated but might actually enjoy in the right circumstances. Camping, maybe, if Nick was there keeping the fire going and the tent from collapsing. Grocery shopping, if Nick was pushing the cart and chatting about recipes and things he'd like to bake. Even—he smirked—karaoke, which he’d always avoided like the plague, but could probably survive if Nick was the one dragging him up on stage.

Charlie realized too late that he’d been staring.

Nick blinked at him over the edge of his book, cheeks flushing.

“What?” he giggled.

"What?" Charlie replied, dumbly.

“You’re staring.”

“Huh?” Charlie shook himself, then laughed. “Oh. I was just… thinking about last night. And how I wanted to thank you. For… you know. Caring so much about making me feel good.”

Nick closed his book and set it aside, his expression softening.

“I always want you to feel good,” he said simply. “And you don’t need to thank me. That’s the bare minimum when you care about someone.”

The words hummed through Charlie, warm and dangerous. Saying you care about someone wasn’t the same as saying you love them, but hearing it from Nick still lit up his chest like a lantern. He thought about how much he loved Nick, the truth of it sharp and undeniable—then shook the thought away before it could slip out.

“Still,” he said quietly, “it means a lot to me. Even so.”

Nick’s lips curved into a smile as he leaned in, brushing their noses together in the gentlest nuzzle. Then he kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of the kind of emotion words couldn’t hold. Charlie kissed him back the same way, both of them pouring everything they felt into the connection, letting it say what they weren’t ready to speak aloud.

Nick’s hands slid down Charlie’s sides, pulling him closer until Charlie shifted, climbing into his lap like it was the only place he belonged. The kiss deepened, a bit sloppy and desperate, and when Charlie rocked down against him, Nick let out a low moan that made Charlie’s skin prickle. He did it again just to hear that sound, then a third time, grinning against Nick’s mouth at how hard he already felt.

Charlie slipped his hand between them, palm pressing over Nick’s hardness through the fabric, and gasped at the sheer size of him.

“God, you’re… you’re so big,” he panted, half in awe, half teasing. Nick’s head tipped back, breath ragged, as Charlie rubbed him over his clothes, loving how Nick shuddered under his touch.

Charlie tugged at the hem of Nick's shirt, and Nick took the hint, leaving back to pull out up and over his head without hesitation. Slowly, clothes came off piece by piece, kisses breaking only long enough to tug a shirt over a head or shove jeans down legs, until they were both stripped to nothing but boxer briefs. The air cooled Charlie’s still damp skin, and suddenly the confidence in his movements faltered. He froze, breath hitching as his arms instinctively crossed over his torso.

Nick noticed immediately.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, steady. “Char, what’s wrong?”

Charlie shook his head quickly, eyes dropping.

“Baby.” Nick’s hand cupped his chin gently, coaxing him to look up. “Please. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Charlie’s throat worked as he admitted, voice small, “I just… I still feel kind of ugly like this. With my shirt off. Because of my scars.”

For a beat Nick only looked at him, gaze burning so warm it made Charlie’s chest ache. Then, firmly but softly, “Charlie. You’re beautiful. Every scar, every mark." He placed a small kiss to Charlie's shoulder. "They don't take anything away from you, they don't make me see you any differently, they're just part of your story.”

Charlie’s breath stuttered, then he surged forward, kissing Nick harder than before, gratitude and want spilling out all at once.

Between kisses, his words tumbled out, rushed and shaky.

“Do you… do you want to go... Further?”

Nick froze, eyes wide.

"Do you mean—?"

"Yeah."

Nick kissed Charlie's forehead, then cupped his face, running his thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Charlie. Only if you want to.”

“I do,” Charlie whispered, sure in the way his body ached for him. "I want everything with you, Nick."

For a moment Nick looked at though he might burst into tears, before he blinked them away and nodded, assuredly. His hands slid under Charlie’s thighs, lifting him up with ease. Charlie squeaked, arms flying around his shoulders, then burst into giggles when Nick muttered something about “supplies upstairs.”

Nick carried him up, dropping him onto the bed with another kiss before covering him with his body. They pressed together, rutting, heat building, until Nick pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, “Do you want to top or bottom?”

Charlie blinked, startled.

“I just assumed you’d… want to top. Because, you know, you’re bisexual and so—” He broke off, wincing. “God, that’s probably rude, isn’t it?”

Nick brushed a kiss across his temple.

“It’s okay. It's a common assumption. But no—” his smile turned wicked, “I’m very much verse.”

Charlie stared at him, looking mildly embarrassed.

“Every man I’ve been with said bottoming was ‘too gay.’. That bisexual men don't want that.”

Nick’s expression darkened, not at Charlie, but at the message.

“They’re full of shit. Preferences don’t follow a rulebook like that.”

Charlie nodded thoughtfully, as if he'd already suspected that might be, and then his lips curved in a nervous smile.

“I’ve… never topped before. Obviously.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Nick said instantly. “But if you’d like to, I’d be more than happy to oblige.” His grin went crooked, cheeky. “Might even say I’m behind the idea.”

Charlie laughed, smacking his arm.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot, though.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest spread.

“I actually… I really like the idea of having a first with you. I’m just not sure I’ll be any good at it.”

Nick’s gaze softened, reverent and steady.

“Charlie, it’s you. Anything you do will feel good to me.”

Their mouths found each other again, locked together, kisses hot and breathless, and soon Charlie reached over and fumbled with the foil packet on the nightstand. His hands shook as he tore it open, nerves and want tangling in his chest. He was just about to roll the condom on when Nick’s hand shot out, gently covering his wrist.

“Wait,” Nick panted, cheeks flushed.

Charlie froze, panic sparking.

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

Nick shook his head quickly, pulling him into another kiss, reassuring.

“No. Nothing wrong. Just—” He laughed softly, a little breathless, running a hand down Charlie’s side. “I mean—I wasn’t exactly expecting this tonight, so I’m not prepped yet. I didn't do it in the shower or anything.”

Charlie blinked, confused.

“Prepped?”

Nick gave him a wry smile.

“You’ll need to open me up first. Or, if you’d rather… I can do it myself and you can just watch.” His tone was casual, teasing, but his eyes were steady, gauging Charlie’s reaction.

Charlie flushed, brows knitting.

“Open you up?”

“Yeah... You know,” Nick murmured, brows knitting together before brushing his lips over Charlie’s jaw. “Stretch a bit? So it doesn’t hurt as much when you enter.”

Charlie’s entire body went still.

“I—You... I didn’t know you were supposed to do that.”

Nick leaned back, startled.

“Wait. Has—? No one’s ever done that for you?”

Charlie dropped his head, ashamed. His curls fell forward as he shook it.

“No.”

Nick’s mouth fell open.

“But… Charlie— that must have—” He stopped, face twisting in horror. “That had to have hurt.”

Charlie’s voice was quiet, embarrassed.

“I mean... Yeah. It did. I thought it was supposed to. Like… pain and some bleeding was just normal?”

Nick swore under his breath, then immediately pulled Charlie into a tight hug, wrapping him up like he could shield him from every bad memory.

“Jesus Christ, no. No, baby. It’s not supposed to be like that.” He pressed a kiss to Charlie’s temple, voice fierce and tender all at once. “I’m so sorry that’s what you were taught to accept.”

Charlie clung to him, throat tight, the shame loosening just a little under Nick’s steady hold.

Nick leaned back enough to look him in the eye, his hands still warm on Charlie’s back.

“No wonder you—" he shook his head, not finishing his thought. "Some day, when you're ready, I'll show you what it's meant to feel like. For now... Just let me talk you through this, okay? We’ll take it slow.”

Charlie nodded, still pink-cheeked.

Charlie’s hands trembled, as Nick handed over the lube, but not from nerves alone—it was the weight of the moment. Nick talked him through each step, and he followed as best be could, allowing himself to enjoy the slick glide of his fingers as they were engulfed by Nick's warmth, the soft sounds Nick made against his lips, the way Nick held on to him and pushed back onto his fingers like there was no place he’d rather be—it all felt impossibly fragile and sacred. And so, so hot. Like, holy shit.

When he finally reached once again for the condom, his chest felt tight. He rolled it down with clumsy, slick fingers, heart pounding in his throat. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something irreversible—terrifying, exhilarating, tender all at once.

Nick didn’t rush him. He just lay back, relaxed but open, hand reaching out to hold Charlie’s, thumb stroking gently across his skin. That tiny touch said more than words. You’re safe, I want this, I want you.

Charlie lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against Nick, and his breath hitched hard. His whole body wanted to push forward, but the weight of what he was about to do held him still for a moment longer. He glanced up, searching Nick’s face, needing permission one last time.

Nick’s eyes softened, warm and steady, and he gave the smallest nod.

“It’s okay, love."

Love. Love. Love.

Charlie exhaled shakily and began to push forward, inch by inch.

The first sensation made him gasp aloud—the tightness, the heat, the way Nick’s body seemed to draw him in. He froze instantly, terrified of hurting him.

“Nick—”

“I’m good,” Nick breathed, squeezing his hand, grounding him. “You’re okay. You did so well getting me ready. We've got this.”

Charlie forced himself to move slowly, every muscle taut with concentration, with awe. His chest felt hot, tight, like he couldn’t contain it all. This wasn’t just pleasure—it was intimacy in its rawest form. The kind of connection he’d always assumed wasn’t meant for him.

And as more of him slid inside, as Nick’s body yielded to him, something cracked open inside Charlie. He realized with brutal clarity, No one’s ever let me have this. No one’s ever cared enough to give me this, to be this vulnerable with me, to really see me like this.

Tears stung his eyes.

“Hey,” Nick murmured, tugging him down for a kiss before Charlie could spiral. Their mouths met softly, Nick’s lips steady against his trembling ones, until Charlie could breathe again. “Are you okay? Is this too much?"

"No, no. It's good. So good. I'm just—it's just a lot."

Nick gently guided Charlie into another soft kiss, and Charlie whimpered into it, overwhelmed in the best way, and pushed in the last little bit, until he was fully buried inside. The sensation of being fully connected to Nick in this way hit him like a tidal wave. His hips stilled, forehead falling to Nick’s shoulder as he panted.

It was too much and not enough. He felt surrounded, held, consumed, but also impossibly one with the man below him. For the first time in his life, sex wasn’t about getting it over with—it was about closeness. About finally being wanted, fully, entirely. It was about love. For him, at least.

Nick held his face, brushing away the dampness at the corner of his eye with his thumb.

“Charlie…” His voice was so full of warmth it made Charlie’s throat ache.

Charlie kissed him desperately, deep and messy, and began to move. At first it was slow—deliberate. Charlie moved with painstaking care, every shift checked against the way Nick’s eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered. But the more Nick kissed him, urging him closer, the more the caution gave way to urgency, spurred on by how responsive Nick was. Those low, needy moans went straight through him, unraveling every bit of self-doubt he’d carried, he slowly picked up and found a steady rhythm.

“Charlie,” Nick groaned, tilting his head back as Charlie pressed deeper. The sound was wrecked, desperate, and it made Charlie shiver. He kissed down Nick’s throat, tasting salt, feeling the wild hammer of his pulse against his lips.

He couldn't bring himself to stop kissing Nick the entire time, his lips, his neck, every inch of skin he could reach, trying to pour every unspoken thing into it—the gratitude, the disbelief, the aching need. After much less time then he would have preferred, wishing he could stay in this moment forever but unable to hold back once he felt the warmth building low inside of him, he squeezed his eyes shut and felt his legs begin to tremble slightly.

"Nick, I can't— I'm about to—"

"It's okay, Charlie. I'm almost there too. Let go. It's okay."

Nick's reassurance was all he needed. He saw white behind his eyelids, heard his own voice break open in a moan that was half-sob, as he was overtaken by seemingly endless waves of pleasure—more intense than anything he'd felt before. His reaction must have done it for Nick because when he finally came back into view, he was covered in his own spend and looked as though he's fully melted into the mattress.They both let out a long, shuddering breath when he finally stilled inside him, joined in every way two people could be.

Charlie pulled back just enough to whisper, voice breaking, “I—I what to pretend that was my first time."

Nick’s smile was sad, but real, as he pulled Charlie fully into him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tightly, ignoring the mess been them.

Afterwards, they stayed tangled together, sweaty and trembling, breathing each other’s air. Charlie had fully collapsed against Nick’s chest, listening to the frantic thrum of his heartbeat slowly calm beneath his ear. Neither of them spoke again for a long while—there were only kisses, lazy and unhurried, and small smiles traded in the quiet.

Eventually, Nick gently shifted out from under him. Charlie made a weak noise of protest, reaching for him, but Nick leaned down to kiss his temple.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He padded off to the bathroom, the floor creaking faintly under his steps. A moment later, Charlie heard the sink run, then Nick returned, shirtless and flushed and carrying a hand towel, his smile sheepish but so tender Charlie’s chest ached.

Nick came back to the bed and knelt beside Charlie, the towel warm and damp from the sink. His touch was gentle, careful in a way that made Charlie’s throat tighten again.

When he was done, Nick tossed the towel into the corner, then slid beneath the blanket and pulled Charlie into his arms. The heat of his body was immediate, the solid weight of him grounding. Charlie curled instinctively into his chest, Nick’s heartbeat steady against his ear, the blanket cocooning them in warmth.

For a long moment they just breathed together, wrapped up and safe. Charlie felt dizzy with how much he loved him—how much he wanted to say it, to whisper it into the quiet so Nick would finally know. His mouth almost shaped the words without his permission. I love you. I love you. I love you. It was right there, perched on the edge of his tongue.

Nick’s fingers combed lazily through his curls.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Charlie swallowed, blinking against the rush of tears that threatened.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Better than okay.”

And he almost said it. He almost tipped over into that terrifying, liberating space. His lips parted, breath catching.

Then a shrill buzz shattered the stillness.

Nick’s phone lit up on the nightstand, vibrating insistently. Charlie startled, sitting up automatically to reach for it. His fingers brushed the screen to hand it over—and the name glowing on the display froze him in place, all the warmth in his chest draining out at once.

His blood ran cold.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s chest constricted so tight he thought his ribs might splinter.

No air—

No air.

Not enough—

His throat sealed itself shut while his vision tunneled.

Benjamin Hope