Chapter 7
Nick Nelson knows this is a terrible, horrible, fucked-up idea.
Actually—scratch that.
He knew it was a bad idea before it even happened.
Before Harry clapped him on the back, grinning about crashing the party.
Before Derek slung an arm around his shoulder, already talking shit about "how fucking lame this is gonna be." Before they even stepped into this goddamn house, before Nick even put on the fucking pink hoodie—he knew.
He knew and he still let it happen.
And now?
Now, the reality of it is slamming into him like a goddamn freight train.
Because the moment they step inside, the entire atmosphere shifts.
Like a wave of uninvited, testosterone-fueled destruction, his rugby team swallows the space whole—loud, cocky voices booming through the pink-lit house, rough hands snatching drinks from the bar, greedy fingers grabbing at food like they haven’t eaten in days.
Nick doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Derek is already being an asshole, probably making some offhanded comment about the decorations or the sheer amount of pink in the room.
But when he does turn, his stomach immediately sinks to the floor.
Because there she is.
Imogen.
Standing in the middle of the chaos, eyes wide, expression shifting from excitement to pure confusion to—
Fuck.
Hurt.
She looks hurt.
And why wouldn’t she?
Because instead of just showing up like a normal fucking friend, instead of bartending like he promised, instead of giving her one single night without bullshit, he’s here.
With them.
With the guys who are already making themselves at home, already invading the space, already treating it like some fucking frat house rager instead of the birthday party she spent months planning.
They aren’t even wearing pink.
They don’t belong here.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, Nick feels like the biggest piece of shit alive.
The worst part?
This is all on him.
He let this happen.
He should’ve said no.
He should’ve done the one simple, decent thing—shown up alone, kept his promise, been a good fucking friend.
But he didn’t.
And now he’s ruining the only true friend he has left.
He’s used to making bad decisions—used to bottling up his feelings, dodging responsibility, brushing things off until they’re too big to ignore.
But this?
This isn’t just a fuck-up.
This is catastrophic.
Because Imogen is looking at him like she doesn’t even know him anymore.
Like she doesn’t even want to.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, what the hell is he supposed to do?
How does he even begin to explain himself?
A simple sorry isn’t nearly enough.
And worse than that?
He doesn’t want to say sorry.
Because saying sorry would mean admitting to the fact that he fucked up royally, and if there’s one thing Nick has never been good at, it’s owning up to his mistakes.
So instead, he tries something else.
Something cowardly.
Something stupid.
He lifts a hand, sends a small, sheepish wave in Imogen’s direction, hoping—praying—that maybe she’s had enough drinks to shrug it off, maybe she’ll just roll her eyes and let it slide.
But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t shrug it off.
She doesn’t laugh it away.
She flips him off.
Middle finger. Dead in the eye. No hesitation.
And then she’s storming towards him, grabbing him roughly by the sleeve of his Carhartt jacket, dragging him through the party like he’s a disobedient dog and she’s yanking his leash.
Nick barely has time to react before he’s being hauled into the kitchen, shoved against the counter, Imogen spinning around to face him, eyes blazing.
"What the fuck, Nick?"
Her voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the party like a knife.
"What the fuck is this?"
Nick sucks in a breath, trying to stall, trying to think of a way out, trying to—
"Imogen, it's… it's…" His mind scrambles, latching onto the first excuse it can find. "It’s a… surprise for your birthday party?"
Her expression darkens.
Nick immediately regrets opening his mouth.
"You know I didn’t want—Nick, this was supposed to be my night."
Her voice wavers, something sharp lurking underneath it.
Nick feels his stomach twist.
"You know how long I’ve been planning this." She exhales hard, shaking her head. "I was… I was really excited, you know? Just to be able to hang out with you. I wanted you to meet the rest of my friends. I wanted you to actually enjoy yourself with people who care about you. And now…"
She gestures wildly toward the door, toward the party that has so clearly been hijacked by Nick’s rugby friends, and Nick doesn’t know what to say.
Because she’s right.
She’s so fucking right.
And the worst part?
Nick can’t even tell her why he did it.
He can’t tell her that he didn’t want to deal with the teasing, the side-eyes, the questions from Harry and Derek.
He can’t tell her that he was too much of a coward to come here alone, too scared of what it would look like if he willingly spent the night in a pink-filled house, surrounded by people his teammates would call “losers.”
He can’t tell her that he’s been unraveling all week, falling apart, losing track of who he even is.
So instead, he just exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair.
"I know, I know, Imogen, I'm sorry, I—"
But she cuts him off.
"I don’t want any of your fucking excuses, Nick."
Her voice is quieter now, but somehow it cuts deeper.
"I just… I wanted my best friend here. And now you’ve fucked it all up."
She shakes her head, something sad and tired settling into her features, before muttering:
"I don’t even know who you are anymore, Nick."
And that?
That feels like a punch to the fucking gut.
Nick swallows thickly, heart pounding, words caught somewhere in his throat, but before he can even try to say something, she’s already turning away.
She doesn’t wait for his response.
She doesn’t want his response.
She just walks back into the chaos, immediately heading toward Sebastian, who is currently trying to set up fucking beer pong on the dining room table.
Nick watches as she grabs the cups out of his hands, snaps something at him, her movements sharp, frustrated, exhausted.
And Nick?
Nick just stands there.
Fucking useless.
Fucking lost.
He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, trying to breathe through the guilt, through the anger, through the deep, festering feeling of failure.
He needs to fix this.
He needs to get them out of here.
But how the fuck is he supposed to do that when he doesn’t even know where to start?
He shakes his head, trying to clear the mental fog, trying to find something—anything—to latch onto.
Bartender.
He can do that.
He knows drinks.
He loves drinks.
He can make drinks.
It’s simple, it’s mindless, it’s something he can do with his hands so he doesn’t have to think too hard about the fact that he just completely and utterly fucked over his only real friend.
Except.
Fuck.
He can’t just pretend nothing happened.
He can’t just stand here behind the counter, shaking drinks and pouring shots, acting like he didn’t just ruin everything.
Like he didn’t just walk in here with an entire army of chaos, like he didn’t just watch Imogen’s face fall, didn’t just hear her say she doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
Like he isn’t standing in the middle of a party that has already started spiraling into something it was never meant to be.
He clenches his jaw, gripping the counter.
What the fuck does he even do?
How does he fix this?
He’s so caught up in his own internal disaster that he doesn’t even see her approach.
Doesn’t even register her voice until—
“Fucking Nick Nelson?”
He jumps slightly, blinking as he turns—
And holy fuck, Tara fucking Jones is standing in front of him.
Tara Jones.
As in, Tara from the gym who turned lesbian because of his bad kissing skills at thirteen. That Tara Jones.... Oh fuck him!
"Wait—are you the bartender friend?" she asks, looking somewhere between skeptical and outright baffled.
Nick pauses, blinking rapidly.
"...Wait—you're friends with Imogen?"
Tara scoffs, crossing her arms. "Uh, yeah? We’ve been friends for ages, dude. How do you not know that?"
Oh. Fuck.
Nick scrambles for an answer, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh. Yes? Uhh… yeah, we’re childhood friends, umm—" He shakes his head quickly, trying to pivot. "Sorry, what would you like to—"
"Nick," Tara interrupts sharply, eyes narrowing. "Don’t you fucking act like you haven’t just caused such a scene."
Nick freezes.
Because shit.
She knows.
She knows he fucked up, knows Imogen is hurt, knows he’s the reason for it.
"I know Imogen may hide it well, but she’s fucking devastated," Tara continues, voice firm. "I mean, look at this place."
Nick glances around—and fuck, he hates that she’s right.
It’s not even ten minutes since the rugby lads arrived and already, the party doesn’t feel like the same space.The pink, glittery, comfortable energy is fading, replaced with something louder, rowdier, messier. People are shoving past each other, someone is already pouring cheap beer into a bowl of pink punch, and—
A crash echoes through the house.
Nick whips around just in time to see a lamp toppled over, shattered across the floor, a few of his teammates laughing drunkenly as someone stumbles backward.
Fuck.
"Nick," Tara snaps, pulling his attention back, "I don’t know if this was you or someone else, but fix this! Please! If you like Imogen, fucking fix this!"
Nick’s chest tightens, guilt gripping him hard.
"How?!" he asks, voice edging toward desperation.
"I don’t fucking know!" Tara shoots back. "You’re their captain!"
Before Nick can even process what to do with that information, he feels a light tap on his shoulder—
And he yelps.
Because he’s already on edge, already overwhelmed, already spiraling—
And now there’s someone else here, standing beside Tara, grinning at him like they just walked into a goddamn movie scene.
Nick blinks hard, taking them in—
Messy blonde hair. Pride bracelet. Pink button-up. A confidence that radiates like they own the fucking room.
Before he can even register who they are, they turn to Tara, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a dramatic kiss to her cheek.
"Ohhh, babe, is this the infamous Nick Nelson?"
Nick just blinks.
Tara rolls her eyes but smirks, clearly used to this kind of behavior. “Yeah, Darcy, this is Nick. Nick, this is my partner, Darcy. Darcy, this is the idiot I saw at the gym the other day.”
Oh.
Oh.
This is Tara’s partner.
Nick’s brain stutters for a second.
He had no idea she was dating someone like this.
Someone so sure of themselves, someone who looks at him like he’s an interesting specimen in a science experiment.
Darcy sticks out a hand, grinning. “What’s up, man? Heard a lot about you. Some of it’s not great, but hey, we’re all about second chances.”
Nick stares at the hand for a second too long before shaking it.
"Uh… yeah. Nice to meet you."
"Oh, don’t lie," Darcy laughs, slapping his shoulder. "You look like you’re about to shit yourself."
Nick winces. “I—uh—”
Tara interrupts, crossing her arms. “Darcy, he’s a little busy right now.”
Darcy tilts their head. “Busy?”
Tara gestures toward the absolute fucking chaos behind them.
Darcy follows her gaze, taking in the rugby lads loudly trashing the place, someone already passed out on the couch, a lamp shattered on the floor—
And then they look back at Nick, raising an eyebrow.
“Shit. Wait. Did you cause this?”
Nick groans, dragging a hand down his face.
Because holy fuck.
This night cannot get worse.
"You know, I..." Nick stumbles over his words, his pulse hammering in his ears, his breath uneven.
The weight of Tara and Darcy’s combined disappointment is crushing him, pressing into his chest like a stone.
"You don’t understand, okay? I... I had to."
Tara laughs. A humorless, sharp, biting sound. "As if you had to."
Nick scowls. "Yeah! I did! Because it was her fucking birthday party and Harry wanted to go to a party!"
Tara’s arms cross tighter over her chest, her glare cold as hell. "Then go to any of the hundred fucking frat or sorority parties happening right now, Nick. He didn’t have an invite here."
Nick exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "And it’s like—you know, I... I wanted to come here, okay?"
He doesn’t know why the fuck he’s admitting that, doesn’t know why those words spill out of him like a confession.
He doesn’t want to think about it too much.
Doesn’t want to admit that a part of him was looking forward to this.
Doesn’t want to admit that, for the first time in a while, he wanted to be in a space that wasn’t dominated by beer pong and shitty banter and guys like Derek who have no fucking filter.
But then he bumped into Harry—
And everything changed.
Nick clenches his jaw, voice tight with frustration.
"I couldn’t just tell him—I can’t lie."
Tara’s eyebrows shoot up. "You’re lying right now, dumbass."
Nick winces because fuck, she’s right.
"Fix this," she demands.
Nick throws his hands up. "I... How do you even want me to do that?! I don’t—"
"Just fucking figure it out." Tara’s voice is sharp, her patience razor-thin. "Please."
Nick’s hands ball into fists at his sides. "It’s not that fucking simple. What am I supposed to do? They’re not just going to leave."
Tara groans, exasperated. "I don’t fucking know!"
Darcy hums in thought before offering, "Just... I don’t know. Tell them there’s no alcohol or something."
Nick snorts bitterly. "Yeah, because they’re dumb enough to not realize—oh, there’s a fucking bar full of it."
Darcy shrugs. "It was just a thought, man."
Nick rubs a hand over his face, overwhelmed. "I don’t know what to do." He exhales sharply, then finally sets his shoulders, his gut churning as he turns away. "But I’ll—look, I’ll figure it out. Hang on, okay?"
He walks away before they can say anything else. Fix this. Fix this. He finds Sebastian, Otis, and Derek near the dinning room, loud, laughing, perfectly content to be the walking disasters they are.
Nick plants himself in front of them, heart hammering.
"Hey," he starts, trying to sound casual, trying to act like this isn’t a fucking disaster. "I mean, you know, this party really ain’t that fun. I think it was more of like a girl’s sleepover or something? I don’t know, maybe I got the wrong invitation or like the wrong day. Why don’t we go somewhere else?"
Derek snorts, grabbing another drink off the counter. "Fuck that, man. There’s food and free booze here. We’re staying."
Nick’s stomach knots tighter.
"No, really." His voice edges toward pleading. "I really think we should go."
Derek narrows his eyes, looking him up and down. "Why? Is there something you wanna tell us, Nick?"
Nick freezes.
"Seems like you’re the only one that got the memo. So what’s that all about?"
Nick swallows hard, something heavy lodging itself in his throat.
He doesn’t know how to answer that.
Because what does he say?
That he messed up? That he actually wanted to be here? That he’s starting to hate the very people he surrounds himself with?
His heart pounds violently against his ribs, panic clawing at his throat.
So he does the only thing he can think to do.
He tells the fuckingtruth.
"Look, I fucking—I messed up, okay?" His voice comes out strained, frustrated, desperate. "This is my friend’s birthday party. And I fucked this up. You guys weren’t invited. I don’t even know how I was fucking invited. Please. Just—fucking leave."
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—
Otis shrugs. "Yeah, Nick, if you want us to go, then I guess we can go, right?"
But Derek?
Derek doesn’t move.
He just stares.
And then he laughs.
Low. Sharp. Mocking.
"No, fuck that."
Nick’s blood runs cold.
"Nick, you’ve ruined not one, but two nights of us having a good time."
Derek’s voice is too calm, too collected, too dangerous.
Nick knows what’s coming before it even happens.
"And you probably don’t even remember, but last night, you were so fucking shit-faced, you were out protecting a fucking fag."
Nick’s stomach plummets.
His head spins.
His ears start ringing.
And for a split second—
The whole fucking world goes still.
His voice is quieter this time, but firmer.
"Don’t... don’t use that word."
Derek tilts his head, grin sharpening. "Why? Last I checked, you used it last night."
Nick’s breath catches.
"...What?"
"Yeah," Derek smirks, amused by whatever horror is probably flashing across Nick’s face. "You were fucking gone, man. Absolutely wasted. Guess it just slipped out, huh?"
Nick feels nauseous.
He doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t remember saying it.
But he doesn’t not remember saying it.
And that—
That is somehow so much worse.
"Derek, please." His voice cracks slightly, something raw and unsteady threading through his tone. "I don’t want to fight."
Derek’s smirk only grows.
"Oh? But I do."
And just like that—
Nick Nelson is about to get his ass beat in the middle of a pink-lit birthday party.
---
What the actual fuck is going on?
Charlie wishes he knew.
Actually, no. Scratch that. He wishes he didn’t have to know.
He wishes he could still be on the fucking dance floor, twirling under the pink lights, living his best life covered in sparkles, feeling like a goddamn fairy prince—instead of standing here, frozen, surrounded by a sea of rugby lads who have absolutely no fucking business being here.
Because why the hell are there so many of them?
They’re in the living room. The kitchen. The dining room. The hallway. Hell, Charlie swears he just saw some of them on the stairs.
He’s never seen this many straight men gathered in one place outside of a sports field, and it’s terrifying.
And, like—why?
Why are they here?
Why are his worst fucking enemies standing in the middle of Imogen’s carefully curated, glitter-filled, pink-themed birthday party like they belong here?
Imogen is not friends with the rugby team.
That’s just a fact.
So unless the cheerleaders suddenly lost their collective minds and invited a bunch of protein-fueled chaos demons without consulting the birthday girl—
Something else is happening.
Something Charlie does not have all the pieces for.
And Charlie hates that.
He hates not knowing what the fuck is going on.
But what he does know—what he immediately clocks the second his eyes scan the crowd—
Is Nick Nelson.
Wearing pink.
Standing in the middle of the fucking chaos like a walking contradiction.
And—
Oh, fuck.
Charlie’s brain short-circuits.
Because Nick Nelson is wearing pink.
Not, like, a little pink.
Not, like, an understated, “my socks have a hint of blush” kind of pink.
No.
A full pink hoodie.
And—fuck, he looks hot in it.
Charlie wants to die because what the fuck.
Why does Nick Nelson in pink make him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic? Why does he suddenly have visions of yanking that stupidCarhartt jacket off of him and actually appreciating the pink in its full glory?
Why does he suddenly picture himself on his knees, gripping the fabric, looking up—
Charlie clenches his jaw. Nope. Nope. Nope. Abort.
Focus, Charlie. There are more important things happening right now.
Like the fact that Nick Nelson is here.
Like the fact that Nick Nelson is here, wearing pink, and standing in the middle of a fucking disaster.
Like the fact that—
"Um," Isaac says beside him, snapping him out of his internal spiral, "I don’t think they’re supposed to be here, right?"
Charlie exhales sharply, trying to regain his focus. "No. Last time I checked, Imogen was just inviting the cheer team, the art club, and maybe a few mutual friends. I don’t think they’re supposed to be here."
Isaac frowns. "Okay. Then why the fuck is Nick Nelson here? And why the fuck is he wearing pink?"
Charlie groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I don’t know. Imogen has never talked about him before. I mean, she occasionally mentions this old childhood friend, but besides that, I don’t—"
He pauses.
Isaac’s eyebrows shoot up. "Wait. Do you think he’s the friend?"
Charlie blinks.
Looks at Nick again.
His stupid pink hoodie.
His scowl.
His entire existence.
And—
No.
No way.
Imogen and Nick?
Absolutely not.
Charlie shakes his head. "No way. No way. He’s a fucking asshole."
Isaac snorts. "Yeah, no shit."
Charlie hesitates. Because—
Yes, Nick is an asshole.
Yes, he’s arrogant.
Yes, he’s got all the classic straight-boy stereotypes wrapped up in one frustratingly hot package.
But also—
There’s something under it.
Something Charlie caught a glimpse of last night.
Something he wants to understand, even if he probably shouldn’t.
"I think he could be kind though" Charlie admits, chewing his lip. "I think there’s... tenderness, somewhere. I think he’s softer than he lets on. But he’s rough. And I don’t know."
Isaac eyes him carefully. "You sound dangerously close to romanticizing a straight boy again."
Charlie groans. "Shut the fuck up."
Isaac smirks. "Just saying. I’m not dragging you out of another heartbreak."
Charlie flips him off.
And then—
He notices something.
He notices the way Nick is standing.
He notices his expression.
And—
Oh, fuck.
Charlie follows Nick’s line of sight—
And his stomach plummets.
Because Derek is here.
And Derek is in Nick’s face.
And Nick’s jaw is clenched, his fists tightening, and—
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Charlie panics.
"Oh, fuck. No. Nick's going to—oh my God, we need to go. We need to go."
Isaac blinks. "What?"
Charlie grabs his arm. "Fucking look, Isaac. Look. Nick’s about to get in a fucking fight with the guy who tried to hit me yesterday."
Isaac’s head snaps toward the commotion. "Wait, someone tried to hit you yesterday?"
Charlie groans. "Isaac, I literally already told you this—never mind! We need to go, we need to go!"
And just as he starts moving—
Just as he starts pulling Isaac through the crowd—
He hears Nick’s voice, sharp and firm, slicing through the noise.
"Don’t... don’t use that word."
And then—
Derek’s voice, cold and taunting:
"Why? Last I heard, you used it last night."
Charlie’s blood turns to ice.
His whole body locks up.
Nick’s voice, softer. Uneasy.
"What?"
Charlie doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.
All he knows—
Is that Derek just stepped closer.
And Nick just stepped back.
And if someone doesn’t do something soon—
This is going to end very, very badly and he’s going to die violently, painfully, and very, very soon.
Because what the actual fuck is he doing?
What the actual, genuine, full-on stupid fuck is he doing, stepping between a six-foot-tall wall of testosterone and Nick fucking Nelson?
He doesn’t know.
He has no clue.
But his body moves before his brain can catch up, because all he knows is he needs to stop this before it escalates.
Before furniture gets broken.
Before someone gets seriously hurt.
Before Imogen’s birthday party turns into an all-out rugby brawl.
And so, like the absolute fucking idiot that he is, Charlie steps in between them, holding out his arms as if that’s going to do a damn thing against men who could literally snap him in half.
"Okay, hold up, hold up, hold up. What the fuck is going on?"
He watches Derek’s nostrils flare, his jaw clenching, his hands tightening into fists.
Nick looks like he’s about two seconds from swinging.
Charlie has never known true fear until now.
But—fuck it.
He powers through.
"Why the fuck are you guys here?!" Charlie demands, his voice sharp. "I get that you want to be at a party, but this isn’t some fucking frat house. This is a birthday hangout. We had our own drinks, our own food, our own fucking peace before you stormed in. I don’t know who fucking invited you here, but please—just leave."
Derek’s eyes darken.
And then—
"Oh, look," he sneers, his lips curling into something ugly, "it’s the fucking fag from last night."
The words slam into Charlie like a punch.
Like an actual, physical punch.
For a split second, everything freezes.
And then—
A hand grabs his shoulder.
Firm. Unyielding.
Nick.
Before Charlie can even react, Nick yanks him back, shoving him slightly behind him like he’s shielding him.
And Charlie—
Charlie doesn’t have time to process it, because—
"I told you not to fucking use that word," Nick snarls, his voice low, furious, and shaking with barely contained rage.
Derek grins.
Because, of course, he fucking does.
"Yeah? And what if I fucking say it again?"
Charlie’s stomach twists violently.
Because—oh, no. No, no, no.
Derek’s trying to provoke him.
Nick is already too wound up.
This is going to get so much worse.
"You protecting that fag again?" Derek taunts. "Is there something you wanna say, Nick? Are you a fucking fag too?"
And before Charlie can even blink—
Nick swings.
Fist colliding with Derek’s face.
Hard.
The sound is sickening.
Derek stumbles back, but he recovers quickly, launching himself forward.
And just like that—
It’s chaos.
Rugby lads start shouting.
Some of them cheering for Derek.
Most of them cheering for Nick.
Because, of course, they are.
Nick is their captain.
Charlie is yanked back by Tao and Elle before he can get hit by a stray punch.
"What the fuck is going on?!" Tao exclaims, eyes wide with panic. "Charlie, why the fuck did you get in the middle of that? You’re fucking stupid, you could have gotten hurt!"
Charlie shakes his head, his pulse racing.
"I was trying to stop it, Tao!"
His voice sounds too high, too frantic.
He hates it.
"We can’t have this happening, okay? Imogen’s gonna lose her fucking mind—"
He turns—and sees Imogen, looking absolutely livid.
She’s frantically shouting at some of the cheerleaders, trying to get people to back away, but nobody is listening.
And—fuck.
The fight is still happening.
Nick has Derek pinned on the floor.
He’s hitting him.
Once. Twice.
Charlie catches the flex of his arms, the strain of his muscles, the sheer power behind each movement—And forces himself to look away, because now is not the time to be horny, you absolute fucking disaster.
Nick pulls back suddenly, his chest heaving.
His voice is hoarse, desperate.
"Derek, I don’t want to fight. Please, stop."
Derek spits blood onto the floor.
"You’re a fucking pussy, Nick."
Nick’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t react.
"I’m your captain, Derek. Please stop."
His voice is softer this time.
Like he doesn’t want to do this anymore.
Like he’s begging.
Charlie sees it.
The way Nick’s body is starting to tremble.
The way his adrenaline is fading, leaving something vulnerable in its place.
And for a second—
Charlie sees that layer again.
That glimpse of something else.
Something softer, something unsure, something fucking breaking—
But then—
Derek snarls, his movements quick and brutal as he punches Nick straight in the stomach.
Nick collapses instantly, gasping.
Charlie’s blood turns to ice.
And—
Oh, fuck.
He’s moving before he can think.
Charlie is not built for this.
And yet, he moves before his brain can even process it.
Before he can rationalize the consequences of stepping in front of Derek and shielding Nick with his much, much smaller frame.
"He said fucking stop, asshole!" Charlie snaps, voice sharper than he’s ever heard it.
Derek’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing.
And then—oh, disgusting—he spits a mouthful of blood onto Charlie’s shirt.
Charlie gags.
Because—what the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck?!
He doesn’t know what he’s thinking—he’s not thinking—but his fist clenches, swings, and collides with Derek’s arm in some pathetic excuse for a punch.
The second his knuckles make impact, pain shoots up his wrist, sharp and instant, like fire ripping through his bones.
"Fuck!" Charlie hisses, immediately recoiling, clutching his wrist with his other hand.
Oh, that was fucking stupid.
Derek barely flinches, eyes narrowing as he steps forward, towering over him.
"You wanna fucking go?" he sneers, voice dark with something Charlie doesn’t like.
Charlie’s chest heaves.
No. He doesn’t.
Because he’s not stupid.
Because he is quite literally built like a twig, and Derek could probably fold him in half without even trying.
And yet, Charlie lifts his chin, scowling.
"No," he grits out. "But I fucking will if you don’t leave."
Derek laughs.
Cold. Amused.
"What are you gonna do, twink?" he taunts. "What could you possibly do? I could break you in half if I wanted to."
Charlie swallows. His wrist throbs.
And he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he might actually be about to get his ass beat.
Until—
"EVERYONE FUCKING SHUT UP!"
Charlie barely has time to process before Imogen’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
"I’M CALLING THE COPS. EVERYONE FUCKING LEAVE. COPS ARE GONNA BE HERE IN FIVE FUCKING MINUTES. IF YOU DON’T WANNA GET ARRESTED, FUCKING LEAVE. EVERYONE OUT!"
For a second, no one moves.
And then—chaos.
The rugby lads start looking at each other, shifting, mumbling.
Nick’s teammates hesitate, like they want to argue, but then—
Otis and Sebastian grab Derek.
Charlie watches, breath shallow, as they start pulling him away.
"Come on, man, we gotta go."
"We have to leave."
Charlie barely registers any of it, heart still hammering, pulse thrumming in his wrists.
He hears Imogen snap at the remaining guests, voice sharp.
"I said fucking everybody go," she says. "Leave. Party’s fucking over."
And just like that—it’s done.
The house is wrecked.
Furniture broken.
Food and drinks spilled.
And the only ones left standing are the people who were supposed to be here all along.
Tao. Elle. Isaac. Imogen. Darcy. Tara.
And—Nick.
Still on the floor.
Still winded.
Still not fucking moving.
Charlie’s head spins.
Because—fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck was that?
The door slams shut.
And then—silence.
Imogen lets out a breath, shaky, hands clenched at her sides.
Elle turns to her.
"Did you really call the cops?" she asks softly.
Imogen scoffs, shaking her head.
"No. I just... there was no way they were leaving otherwise."
Charlie drags a hand through his hair, exhaling.
His wrist still fucking throbs.
And then—Nick coughs.
Charlie looks down at him.
He looks—awful.
His pink hoodie is wrinkled, blood-speckled, stretched at the collar.
His jaw is bruising. His lip is split.
And—fuck.
Charlie’s heart clenches.
Because Nick looks so goddamn lost.
Nick’s head tilts back against the couch, eyes flickering to Imogen.
"Imogen... I'm so sorry."
Imogen’s jaw clenches.
Her voice is flat.
"I don’t want to hear from you, Nick."
And then—she turns and walks away.
Charlie closes his eyes for a second, breathing through the remnants of adrenaline still curling under his skin.
Then—he squares his shoulders, looking back at Nick.
"Imogen," he calls, voice rough. "Do you have some ice?"
A beat of silence.
Then—"Yeah."
Charlie nods.
"Okay. I’m gonna get some ice."
He turns back to Nick, exhaling.
"You stay right fucking there," he says firmly. "We’ll talk after. We all need to cool off first."
Nick doesn’t respond.
Just leans further back against the couch, blinking sluggishly.
Charlie lingers for a second.
And then—
He walks away.
There is no logical reason, none at all, for him to be the one helping Nick Nelson right now. Nick Nelson, who invited his dickhead rugby friends to crash Imogen’s birthday party. Nick Nelson, who has been nothing but arrogant, infuriating, and so goddamn confusing since the moment they met. Nick Nelson, who just got into a full-on fight and who—fuck, Charlie doesn’t even want to admit this—kind of looked good while doing it.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Abort that thought.
Charlie shakes his head sharply, focusing on the task at hand.
He moves toward the kitchen, grabbing a Ziploc bag from the drawer, shoving a few ice cubes inside with more force than necessary. He can still feel the lingering adrenaline, can still hear the ringing in his ears from the way everything exploded so fucking fast. He needs to calm down, take a breath, but—
A hand grabs his wrist.
Charlie whips around, startled.
Tao.
Of course.
Tao’s eyes are narrowed, his grip firm. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Charlie frowns, glancing back toward the living room. Nick is still slumped against the couch, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
"Nick is obviously still winded," Charlie mutters, shaking Tao off. "He just—he needs a few minutes, okay?"
Tao’s brows shoot up. "So you're just tending to Nick Nelson?"
Charlie huffs.
"Tao, he was the bartender. He was the only person wearing pink. He knew about this."
Tao’s scowl deepens. "Then even more reason to hate him, because he’s the one who brought the fucking rugby guys. He’s the one who ruined Imogen’s birthday party."
"I know that."
Charlie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"I know that, Tao, okay? But he also just defended me in front of a large group of people. And I defended him, which I know you hate, but I did. So just—please let me talk to him. And if he’s better, maybe I can get some words out of him and he can go and actually apologize to Imogen. Correctly."
Tao studies him, jaw tight, gaze flicking toward Nick before sighing.
"Fine. Whatever. Just be safe, okay?"
Charlie nods. "I promise. You know I can handle myself now."
Tao doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it go, muttering something under his breath before disappearing back into the living room.
Charlie turns back toward Nick, inhaling deeply.
Then—he moves.
He walks over, grabs Nick by the arm, gripping his shoulder with his other hand. Nick lets out a low groan, sluggish and worn down.
"Alright, big guy," Charlie mutters, shifting his weight to support him. "We are going outside. Come on. Up, up."
Nick grumbles something unintelligible but lets Charlie guide him, barely resisting.
The air outside is cold, crisp, a sharp contrast to the heavy heat of the party. Charlie leads Nick toward the siding of the house, carefully easing him down until he’s leaning against the wall, legs stretched out, body completely wrecked from the night.
Charlie sits beside him, sighing as he presses the ice pack into Nick’s hand.
"For your jaw," he says quietly.
Nick blinks at it, sluggish, then mumbles a barely-there, "Thanks."
Charlie leans his head back against the house, closing his eyes for a second, trying to process how the fuck they even got here.
And more than that—why does it feel nice to be out here with Nick?