Chapter 10
Charlie wakes up with Nick Nelson’s fucking abs on his mind.
Which is annoying. Because he should not be thinking about that idiot’s body when that idiot is actively ignoring him.
But alas, here he is.
Still no word from Nick. No texts, no DMs, no accidental likes on Charlie’s Instagram thirst traps.
And, sure, fine, whatever.
Charlie isn’t bothered.
(Except, he kind of is.)
Because Nick kissed him first. Because Nick touched his face like he actually meant it, and then ran like a fucking coward.
And now nothing?
Not even an excuse?
So yeah, Charlie is annoyed.
But also horny.
Which is a very unfortunate combination.
Because every time Charlie gets frustrated, his brain decides, hmm, you know what would fix this? Remembering how good it felt to have Nick Nelson’s tongue in your mouth.
And that just leads to more problems.
Like the fact that Charlie has spent the last thirty minutes scrolling through Nick’s Instagram again, staring at his stupid shirtless photos like a pervert.
It’s not even like Nick is flexing in them.
No, it’s worse.
Because Nick doesn’t need to flex. He just has that kind of casual strength, the kind that rugby builds into you—broad shoulders, solid arms, a soft but defined stomach.
Fuck, Charlie, stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop—
But oh, what if—
What if Charlie got to touch them?
What if he got to run his hands down the ridges of Nick’s abs, feel the softness of his stomach under his palms, feel the flex of his thighs as he sank down—
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Charlie slams his phone face down onto his mattress and groans into his pillow.
He is not about to start his week like this.
He needs to get up. He needs to take a freezing cold shower. He needs to pretend that Nick Nelson does not exist.
(And maybe, just maybe, he needs to find someone else to make out with, because clearly, his brain is not handling this well.)
By the time he gets out of bed, Isaac is already gone—probably at the library, probably finding a new book to disappear into so he doesn’t have to listen to Charlie whine about his latest disaster.
Charlie stretches, gets dressed, lines his eyes with black eyeliner for good measure, and slips on his green Converse.
And if Nick wants to ignore him?
Fine.
Charlie will move on.
(Or at least, pretend to.)
And what better way to do that than getting his usual coffee at the campus café and doing what he does best? Watching Nick Nelson walk in, order his drink, and fail spectacularly at pretending he isn’t looking back. And so, that's what he does. He
sips his coffee, tapping his fingers against the table, waiting, watching, hunting.
It’s Monday.
Which means Nick Nelson is about to walk in.
Charlie already knows the routine—Nick steps inside, looking sweaty and flushed from whatever ungodly early-morning workout he’s committed to, walks straight to the counter, orders his usual black coffee, and spends about five minutes scrolling through his phone while waiting for it.
Then he leaves.
No eye contact. No hesitation. No breaking routine.
And Charlie watches.
Like a creep? Maybe.
Like a person who has been fantasizing about those fucking thighs for two days straight? Absolutely.
He exhales, tapping his fingers against his mug as he waits, waits, waits—
And then.
There.
The door swings open, and Nick Nelson steps inside.
And holy fucking hell.
Charlie nearly chokes on his own spit.
Because what the fuck is he wearing?
Gray joggers.
Fucking hell.
Charlie is weak for gray joggers.
Nick walks in, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders relaxed, jaw set, like he owns the entire goddamn café.
And Charlie?
Charlie is fucked.
His eyes trail down, down, down—
The way those joggers cling. The way they sit low on his hips. The way his thighs look thicker than usual, the way his—
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Charlie squeezes his eyes shut, breathes out slowly through his nose, tries to get it together—
And then makes the critical mistake of looking at the rest of him.
Because Nick’s top isn’t any better.
Black, long-sleeved, athletic—tight.
Too tight.
Charlie’s pupils dilate against his will.
Let me hold those biceps. Let me put my hands all over them. Let me bite them.
Nick stretches his arms back, rolling out his shoulders, and Jesus Christ.
Charlie can feel his own fucking brain melting out of his ears.
And it’s not fair, because Nick looks like that and Charlie is a weak, gay, over-caffeinated idiot who has not stopped thinking about the way Nick kissed him two nights ago.
He exhales sharply, tearing his gaze away before his entire sexual awakening happens right here in this coffee shop.
It’s fine.
He’ll just do what he always does. Observe from afar. Keep his distance. Pretend he’s not picturing Nick pushing him against the wall, gripping his hips, whispering in his ear, pulling his hair, making him—
Wait.
What the fuck?
Charlie blinks rapidly as he realizes Nick isn’t walking toward the counter.
No.
No, Nick is walking toward him.
What.
What.
What.
Charlie barely has time to process before Nick reaches his table, grabs his laptop, and slams it shut.
Charlie yanks out an earbud, blinking up at him.
“Excuse me?”
Nick doesn’t answer.
Instead, he picks up Charlie’s coffee, tilts his head back, and chugs the entire thing in one gulp.
Charlie gawks.
“Hey—what the fuck? That’s mine!”
Nick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, completely unbothered. “Oops?”
Charlie narrows his eyes.
“Payback,” Nick says flatly. “For you spilling your drink on me last week.”
Charlie splutters. “That was an accident.”
Nick shrugs, tossing the empty cup into the trash. “Sucks to suck.”
Charlie hates him.
Hates how attractive he looks in his stupid joggers.
Hates how his throat moved when he swallowed.
Hates how a very shameful part of him wants to be the coffee in Nick’s mouth.
And then.
Then Nick tilts his head at him and says, “Follow me.”
Charlie blinks.
Huh?
What?
Fucking hell.
“...What?”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “You heard me.”
Charlie’s brain short-circuits.
Because no. This isn’t how this works.
Nick is supposed to ignore him.
Nick is supposed to pretend that Saturday night never happened.
Nick is supposed to walk past him, not stand here looking annoyingly attractive and saying mysterious, vaguely dominant things like ‘follow me.’
Charlie wants to throw himself out the window.
Instead, he glares.
“Why should I?”
Nick sighs, clearly impatient.
“Because I said so.”
And then he turns, heading for the exit.
Charlie watches him go, watches the way those fucking joggers move, watches the way his broad back shifts beneath that tight, tight, tight top—
And well.
Fuck.
Maybe he’s weaker than he thought.
Because before he can even process what’s happening, he’s grabbing his backpack, shoving his laptop inside, and following Nick Nelson out the door.
Like an obedient fucking dog.
And hell.
Maybe he wants a treat... But getting a treat in silence... That's a shame. Truly. Fully. It's fucking outrageous.
The silence stretches longer than it should.
Two minutes. Four minutes. Eight minutes.
Charlie walks beside Nick, trying very hard not to say anything.
Which, let’s be honest, is not his strong suit.
His mind is a mess, spiraling in twelve different directions, because what the fuck is happening? Why is he following Nick Nelson? Why did Nick steal his coffee? Why did Nick look at him like he was plotting something sinister?
And, most importantly—
Why does Nick Nelson’s ass look so good in those joggers?
No. No. No. Focus, Charlie. FOCUS.
They walk out of the café.
Onto campus.
Across the quad.
Up a hill.
And that’s when Charlie realizes—wait. What? Where the fuck are they going?
“Uhh.” Charlie finally breaks the silence, tilting his head. “Nick. Why are we heading toward the maths building?”
Nick doesn’t answer.
He just keeps walking.
Charlie huffs, crossing his arms. “Okay, fine, I’ll just—keep following you to a secondary, unknown location without question. Super safe. Not suspicious at all.”
Nick still doesn’t answer.
Charlie rolls his eyes as they climb the steps to Maths Hall, pushing through the heavy doors.
Nick leads him down three hallways.
Takes a turn.
Pulls out a key.
Wait. What?
Charlie stops, blinking in confusion as Nick unlocks a classroom door.
“Uhh?” Charlie says, stepping inside. “Nick. Why do you have classroom keys? Why are we here? Why did you take my coffee? Are you kidnapping me? Am I about to be murdered?”
Nick says nothing.
Instead, he closes the door.
And pulls the window shade down.
Charlie laughs awkwardly.
“Oh, okay, yeah. No, that’s not ominous at all. Nope. Super casual. Very normal. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.”
Nick sighs, rubbing his temples. “Charlie.”
Charlie holds up his hands. “Hey, if you’re gonna kill me, maybe make it quick, okay? I don’t do well with blood. Or dark spaces. Or enclosed rooms, really. This whole situation is—”
“Shut up.”
Charlie blinks.
Nick’s voice is low. Rough.
Charlie shivers.
“Shshsh,” Nick adds, waving a hand. “Just. Shut up.”
Charlie scoffs. “I’ve never been good at keeping my mouth shut.”
Nick glares at him.
Charlie smirks.
Charlie tilts his head. “Ohh? Let's play a game. Wanna shut me up? Well, make me.”
Nick stills.
The air between them shifts.
Okay, bad move. Really bad move.
Rest in Peace Charlie Spring - Dying by Muscular Man in Joggers That Make His Ass Jiggle and Tight Tops That Need To Be Cherished
Charlie barely has time to process it before Nick moves.
Walks toward him.
Slow. Measured. Intense.
And Charlie—oh.
Oh.
What the hell is happening?
Charlie swallows. His brain is screaming.
His horny, traitorous brain is picturing scenarios that are absolutely, 100%, no question, NOT happening right now.
Like Nick backing him against the desk.
Like Nick grabbing his jaw.
Like Nick biting his neck.
Like Nick whispering in his ear—
NO. NO. STOP. STOP. STOP. Stupid fantasy brain.
His breathing picks up.
Nick’s pace doesn’t slow.
Charlie wants to combust.
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Charlie licks his lips, eyes flicking to the door.
It’s locked.
The shade is drawn.
Nick is still walking toward him.
And Charlie is—Charlie is having a very real, very gay crisis. He doesn’t know what’s happening until it’s already happening.
One second, he’s standing there, running his mouth like usual. The next?
Nick is in his space.
Close. Too close.
One arm braced against the wall by Charlie’s head, the other pressing against his neck, firm but not harsh.
And oh.
Oh, well, this is new.
Kinky? Yes. Ooh! I like this...
Um? Bad time! STOP!
Charlie blinks.
His brain immediately short-circuits because what the fuck is happening?
Nick’s body is inches from his own, his chest rising and falling, his jaw clenched so tight it could cut glass.
And fuck, why does he look hot when he’s angry?
Charlie really shouldn’t be thinking that.
But his brain has never been helpful, so here he is—thinking it anyway.
Nick leans in.
His voice is low. Dangerous.
“I’m going to make this fucking clear, okay?”
Charlie swallows.
Nick’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest near his throat, pressing lightly against his pulse.
Charlie definitely does not react to that.
Not at all.
“You don’t tell anybody about what happened Saturday,” Nick continues, eyes sharp, heavy. “Not the kiss. Not the fight. None of it.”
Charlie opens his mouth—
Nick’s grip tightens.
His breath catches.
Nick leans in closer, so close that Charlie can smell the faint traces of whiskey and mint gum.
YUMMY! LET ME KISS YOU. Fuck.
“I hear word spreading that you told people I kissed you?” Nick’s gaze darkens. “I’ll hunt you down and make you swallow your own fucking tongue.”
Charlie stares.
Heart racing.
Brain on fire.
Mouth betraying him.
“Uh. Okay?” Charlie blurts, voice high-pitched. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone? That’s not really my place?”
Nick squints, like he doesn’t believe him. Charlie huffs, trying to regain some kind of dignity here.
“I know what it’s like being outed,” he adds, raising a brow. “So? Not exactly my thing to go blabbing about other people’s business.”
Nick’s expression falters.
“Wait—what?”
Charlie tilts his head.
“What?” he mocks, flashing a smirk. “Surprised? What, you thought I was just gonna parade around campus screaming I made out with Nick fucking Nelson?”
Nick glares.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” Charlie interrupts. “And might I just say? Bold choice.”
Nick bristles.
“I’m… I’m not fucking gay, Charlie.”
Charlie hums.
“Right.”
Nick’s fingers twitch.
Charlie should not be enjoying this.
Should not be poking the bear.
Should not be feeling any kind of way about the weight of Nick’s arm against his throat.
But here we are.
Charlie raises a brow.
“Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he continues. “But, uh… straight men don’t kiss boys.”
Nick’s entire body tenses.
His fist slams against the wall beside Charlie’s face.
Charlie flinches, eyes squeezing shut.
He waits—
But Nick doesn’t move.
Charlie peeks one eye open.
Nick’s breathing is ragged, his knuckles white against the wall.
Charlie feels it—the way Nick’s body trembles.
The way his gaze flickers, unsure.
And then—
Nick steps back.
Hands shaking.
Breath shaky.
Eyes wounded.
“I’m sorry,” Nick mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.
Charlie’s brows furrow.
Nick takes another step back.
“Just…” He swallows thickly. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Charlie tilts his head.
Nick’s voice is pleading.
Broken.
“They…” Nick trails off, eyes flickering to the ground. “They can’t know.”
And Charlie gets it.
Because he’s been there.
And fuck.
Nick Nelson is terrified.
Charlie exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Nick…” He pauses, hesitating. “I’m not—look, if it was a mistake, I get it. Alright? Just experimenting or whatever… I’m not gonna tell.”
Nick's eyes flicker to his, wide and searching, even in the dim light of the classroom.
“You’re not gonna tell?” he whispers.
Charlie shakes his head. “No.”
Nick studies him, like he doesn’t fully believe him, like he expects Charlie to grin and say gotcha, to run out of the room and announce to the whole school that Nick Nelson kissed a boy.
But Charlie isn’t an asshole.
Charlie leans against the desk, crossing his arms. “Nick, you’re an asshole—”
Nick scoffs, “Wow, thanks—”
“But,” Charlie cuts in, firm, “you don’t deserve people questioning your sexuality when you don’t even understand it yourself.”
Nick's face falls at that. His shoulders hunch forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk too tightly.
And Charlie sees it—the exhaustion, the frustration, the war happening inside his head.
Nick sighs heavily before collapsing into the desk chair, his body curling inward, like he’s trying to make himself small.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low.
Charlie watches as Nick runs a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the ends before covering his face with both hands.
“I shouldn’t have threatened you,” Nick says, muffled. “I’m just—I’m having a proper full-on gay crisis and I—I can’t—”
His breath shudders.
His hands tremble in his lap.
Charlie blinks.
Nick looks up at him, vulnerable in a way Charlie has never seen before.
“I can’t have that,” Nick whispers.
His voice cracks at the end, like the weight of it all is finally crushing him.
Charlie doesn't move.
Nick lets out a bitter, breathless laugh, shaking his head.
“I promise I’m not crazy,” he adds quickly, almost desperately, like he needs Charlie to believe him. “This key—” he lifts it, shaking it in the air, “—Coach gave it to me, said if I ever needed space from being Captain, I could come here.”
Nick lets out another shaky breath, staring down at the key in his hands.
“I’m not crazy, Charlie,” he repeats. His voice is soft, desperate. “I swear. I just—”
His jaw clenches.
His hands tighten.
“I’m so confused,” he murmurs, barely audible.
His throat bobs as he swallows, knuckles going white as they grip the desk.
“I’m so…”
His breathing picks up again.
His hands curl into fists.
“Fuck,” he exhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m so fucking confused.”
Charlie watches silently.
Watches the way Nick’s body shakes, the way his breath comes out too fast, too uneven.
Watches a boy—who’s always been so sure of himself, who walks the halls like he owns them, who’s always had the world wrapped around his fingers—completely and utterly break apart in front of him.
And fuck.
Charlie knows this feeling.
Knows the pain, the fear, the unbearable weight of not knowing who you are.
Knows what it’s like to feel like the entire world is crashing down on you all at once.
So, Charlie doesn’t push.
He doesn’t tease.
Doesn’t gloat or smirk or say I told you so.
Instead, he just… sits.
Quietly.
And waits. He watches silently, arms crossed, as Nick runs a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he wants to rip them out. He looks wrecked—frazzled, anxious, exhausted.
The golden boy of rugby looking like he might just fall apart at any second.
And, well, Charlie’s seen this before.
Not with Nick, no, but he’s seen this expression, this fear, this complete and utter panic before. It’s the same look he used to see in the mirror.
Nick exhales roughly, staring at the ground, hands tightening on the edge of the desk. “Charlie, I—” he starts, stumbling over his words like he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say.
“I’m sorry for running away Saturday. I was just—I don’t know. I was surprised and confused and—” He lets out a bitter, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t…” he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I don’t fucking know.”
Charlie doesn’t move.
Nick’s fingers tap restlessly against the desk, leg bouncing like he needs to run again. “But… please don’t tell anyone,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes flicker up—hesitant, pleading, terrified.
Charlie blinks at him. “Nick,” he says, steady, firm. “If I told you I’m not going to, I’m not going to.”
Nick exhales, eyes dropping again, shoulders tense, rigid, stiff. “I know it’s not fair,” he mumbles, voice thick with guilt. “I’ve been a fucking asshole to you. And Imogen. And—fuck—I’ve been a fucking asshole to myself, too.”
Charlie leans against the desk beside Nick, watching him carefully.
Nick lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head, then suddenly—finally—he looks at Charlie, really looks at him, and it’s overwhelming. “Charlie, I’m so fucking confused.” Charlie swallows.
Nick drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, frustrated, raw. “I don’t understand why I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now,” he whispers, almost like a confession, almost like an admission of guilt.
Charlie’s breath catches in his throat.
Nick’s hands clench into fists, like he’s fighting some unseen battle inside himself. “I can’t be thinking that, Charlie,” he says, his voice shaking. “I—what do I do?”
---
Nick has spent his entire fucking Sunday spiraling.
He should be doing anything else—catching up on his stupid essays, re-reading lecture notes he barely absorbed, maybe even heading to the gym to workout the leftover tension from the fight with Derek.
But no.
Instead, he’s pacing his dorm like a caged animal, chewing at his thumbnail, trying to figure out how the fuck his entire existence got derailed in the span of a week.
And worse—nobody’s checked in on him. His teammates have rightfully shut him out. Probably pissed that he got into it with Derek, that he threw the first punch, that he had the nerve to stand up and say, don’t fucking use that word in front of everyone. That he didn’t just laugh along.
And fuck, maybe they should be mad. Maybe they’re right. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut, laughed along, played the part, done what he’s always done.
But instead, he did the opposite.
And now his whole fucking life feels like it’s in freefall. His bed is a mess of rumpled sheets and discarded hoodies, his laptop charger draped haphazardly over the desk, his phone buried somewhere under a pile of clothes he doesn’t have the energy to put away.
He’s tried everything to distract himself—playing music at full blast, watching dumb YouTube videos, scrolling through Instagram like that would somehow solve his problems.
Then, in a final act of desperation, he tried watching porn.
It did not fucking help.
Because every time he closed his eyes, every time his breath hitched, every time he tried to lose himself in the feeling—it wasn’t the nameless girl on the screen he saw. It was Charlie.
Charlie’s fucking smirk, his teasing remarks, the fucking cropped shirt he wore at Imogen’s party that showed off his stomach and the way his eyeliner made his brown eyes seem darker, deeper. His lips.
Fuck.
Nick grits his teeth, fists his hands in his hair, groaning as he falls back onto his bed. What the fuck is wrong with him?
And after six full hours of pacing, of self-doubt, of frustration and denial and something else he doesn’t want to name—he finally snaps.
Grabbing his laptop, he opens Google. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a long moment, hesitant, shaking.
Then, finally, he types. "Am I g-"
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.
No, too obvious.
Too direct.
Instead, he types: "Does attraction change with stress?"
Click. Skim. Nothing helpful.
"Haven't been laid in a while. Does that change my attraction to people?"
Nothing but helpful tips to jerk off.
"Can masculine men kiss men and still be straight?"
No. The obvious answer is no.
"Different sexualities."
Too broad.
"Gay vs. Bisexual."
Too clinical.
"Sex-driven by men but straight?"
Too fucking desperate.
Finally—frustrated, out of options, hating himself more by the second—he gives in.
"Am I gay?"
And when the results load, he clicks on the first stupid, fucking, Buzzfeed-adjacent quiz he sees. He speeds through it. His hands are clammy. His heart is racing. His stomach feels like it’s going to fucking implode.
And then—the result.
46% homosexual.
Nick stares. He blinks.
Once. Twice.
46%.
That’s not nothing. That’s not an answer either.
What the fuck does he do with that?
He feels sick. He feels relieved. He feels like his entire world has tilted on its fucking axis.
46%.
What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?
Nick stares at the number like it holds the key to his existence, like it’s going to offer him some kind of clarity, an escape, a fucking answer.
46% homosexual.
Does that mean there’s a 46% chance he’ll fall for a guy? That he’ll want to kiss him, touch him, crave him? And the other 54%—is that still enough? Enough to make sure he stays on the path he’s always been on, the one laid out for him? The one with girls and easy smiles and kisses that never left him this... this wrecked.
What does 46% mean?
Does it mean he’s still straight, just a little fucked up right now? That it’s just stress, or a dry spell, or some kind of phase?
Or does it mean the opposite?
Does it mean he’s not straight at all?
Nick grits his teeth, fingers threading through his hair, pulling just enough to ground himself. He takes a deep breath, but it does nothing to quell the panic burning through his chest.
Because 46% of him—nearly half of him—is thinking about Charlie.
About the way he laughs, the way he teases, the way he holds himself like he doesn’t give a fuck but also like he cares too much. About the way his lips felt, soft and insistent and tasting like fucking pineapple and cheap liquor, about the way he gasped into the kiss when Nick pulled him closer. About the way Nick didn’t just like it.
He wanted more.
He still wants more.
46%.
Nick slams his laptop shut and groans into his hands.
What does he do with this? What does he do with himself? There has to be a way to make it go away. There has to be a way to force it back down, to bury it deep until it rots and disappears. Because he has to be straight.
He will make himself be straight. Whatever it takes.
So, when Monday rolls around, he wakes up with one goal in mind. Confront Charlie. Shut it down.
Maybe if he tells Charlie outright—I don’t like you. This meant nothing. I don’t want this. Maybe if he forces the words out, forces himself to believe them, that 46% will shrink.
Maybe it’ll go down to 30.
Then 20.
Then 10.
Then 5.
And then—finally—0.
He’ll make it disappear. He has to.
But the problem—the real fucking problem—is that when he sees Charlie, when he pulls him into the classroom, locks the door, and pushes him against the wall, it all falls apart.
Because Charlie isn’t scared. Charlie is smirking. Like he knows. Like he can see straight through him. Like he already has the answer.
And when Nick spits out threats and desperate demands—don’t tell anyone, don’t say a word, they can’t know—Charlie just tilts his head, arms crossed, and says, “I’m not—look, if it was a mistake, I get it. Alright? Just experimenting or whatever… I’m not gonna tell.”
And fuck, that should make Nick feel better.
It should.
It should be his out.
It should be his chance to say, Yeah. Yeah, it was a mistake. Let’s forget about it.
But instead, his throat goes dry, his chest aches, and the words get stuck.
Because he doesn’t want to forget.
He doesn’t want to let it go.
He doesn’t want to pretend.
And that realization hits him so hard it makes him dizzy.
And Nick—Nick fucking hates that.
Hates that he asks with a voice softer this time, “I—what do I do?”
He already knows. But, he won't.
He can’t.
He’s staring at Charlie’s mouth, at the way his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, at the way he’s breathing just a little too fast, like he’s just as fucked up from all of this as Nick is.
And before he can stop himself—before he can remind himself that this is exactly what he came here to avoid—he leans in.
And Charlie doesn’t stop him.
And then Nick is kissing him again, and it’s not a mistake, and it’s not an accident, and it’s not just the 46% of him that wants this—
It’s all of him.
The kiss feels too fucking good.
Too fucking good for something that’s supposed to be a mistake. Too fucking good for something that’s supposed to be buried, forgotten, ignored.
But Nick can’t ignore it.
He can’t ignore the way Charlie’s lips move against his like they belong there. Like he’s been waiting for this, teasing him, tempting him, knowing exactly what would happen once Nick gave in.
He can’t ignore the soft, desperate sound Charlie makes when he licks into his mouth, when Nick tilts his head and kisses him deeper, harder, hungrier.
He can’t ignore the way his own fucking body betrays him, heat curling in his gut, in his thighs, in his chest, in his fucking spine, electric and unbearable and inevitable.
And fuck, fuck, fuck—he doesn’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s standing up, dragging Charlie with him, hands gripping his waist, belt loops, anything he can grab, anything that lets him pull Charlie closer, closer, closer.
Charlie barely has time to gasp, barely has time to smirk into the kiss before Nick pushes him back, back, back, until his spine hits the wall with a soft thud.
And oh, the sound Charlie makes—fuck.
A sharp, surprised gasp, swallowed instantly as Nick crashes into him again, pressing their bodies together, fitting a knee between Charlie’s thighs, just to see what happens.
And what happens is—fuck.
Charlie makes another sound, something high and wrecked, something that shoots straight to Nick’s already aching cock, and Nick loves it, he loathes it, he wants to hear it again, again, again.
Charlie tugs his hair, hard, and Nick groans against his mouth, a noise he can’t hold back, a noise that betrays him completely.
Charlie notices.
Of fucking course he does.
Because suddenly, Charlie’s laughing against his lips, smug and breathless, a little delirious, dragging his nails down Nick’s scalp just to hear him fucking shudder.
And Nick—Nick fucking hates it.
Hates the way he’s losing control.
Hates the way Charlie’s turning him inside out, unraveling him, exposing every single thing he’s spent years trying to suppress.
But he also loves it.
Loves the way Charlie arches against him, the way his body follows every single push, every single pull.
Loves the way Charlie’s breathing just as hard as he is, lips pink and wet and swollen, eyes half-lidded and sharp and fucking hungry.
Loves the way this doesn’t feel like 46% at all.
It feels like fucking everything.
It isn’t energy that pulls them apart.
It isn’t hesitation or regret or second thoughts—no.
It’s the sharp, unmistakable sound of a door handle rattling.
And then—fuck.
The door swings open.
The classroom lights flood the room.
And standing there, eyebrows raised, arms crossed, looking so unimpressed that Nick suddenly feels like he’s five years old again, caught sneaking cookies from the kitchen—is Coach Jackson.
Nick freezes.
Charlie goes stiff against the wall, his chest rising and falling just as hard as Nick’s, his lips still pink, his hair a mess, his belt loops still loose where Nick had been tugging on them, where Nick had been pulling him closer, closer, closer.
Fuck.
The silence stretches, unbearable, suffocating, Coach Jackson’s eyes flickering between the two of them, taking in every single obvious detail.
The disheveled clothes. The messy hair. The way Nick is standing in front of Charlie like he’s shielding him.
Yeah. They’re so fucking caught.
Nick doesn’t know what to say, what to do, what to fucking think.
But Coach Jackson just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s already exhausted.
"Nick Nelson."
Nick swallows. Hard.
"Don’t you have a statistics lecture to get to?"
Nick stumbles back a step, running a hand through his hair, trying to fix his appearance, trying to act like he wasn’t just making out with Charlie fucking Spring in a locked classroom like it was some sort of teenage romance novel.
"Coach, I—"
"No excuses."
Nick shuts his mouth.
"Get to class. Both of you." Coach Jackson levels them with a look. "I can’t have my captain failing."
And then—fuck, fuck, fuck, Nick doesn’t know why he does it, doesn’t know what possesses him, doesn’t know if it’s instinct or panic or something deep in his gut that refuses to let Charlie go just yet—but suddenly, he’s grabbing Charlie’s hand.
Not thinking. Not planning.
Just—grabbing.
And then—they’re running.
Charlie stumbles at first, but then he keeps up easily, the warmth of his hand burning into Nick’s skin, their feet pounding against the tiled hallway, past classrooms, past other students, Nick not stopping until they’re finally outside, until the cold air hits his face and he remembers—
Public.
Right.
Public.
He drops Charlie’s hand like it burns, like the weight of what just happened finally, finally crashes into him.
And Charlie—fucking hell, Charlie just smiles, looking at him like he can already read his mind, like he knows exactly what’s going through his head.
He fixes a strap on his backpack, smooths out his cropped sweater, and asks, “You okay?”
Nick laughs. Except it’s not a laugh at all.
"No, I’m—" He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "I’m fucking confused. But—"
He looks up at Charlie, and fuck, fuck, why does he look so smug? Why does he look so goddamn amused?
"Fuck, Charlie. You drive me fucking insane."
Charlie grins, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Yeah, I noticed."
Nick huffs, glaring, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Charlie just shrugs. “Just… whatever you figure out, and whenever you do, let me know, yeah?”
And Nick wants to say yes. Wants to promise. Wants to say that he’ll figure this out, that he’ll make sense of whatever the fuck is happening inside him, that he’ll come back to Charlie when he does.
But instead, all he says is—
"How am I supposed to text you?"
And Charlie fucking smirks.
Takes a slow step backward.
Then another.
And another.
"Instagram!"
And then he’s gone.
Nick stands there, stunned, breathless, reeling, watching Charlie disappear into the crowd of students, like this is all some sort of fucking dream.
And then—it hits him.
Instagram.
Charlie’s fucking Instagram.
His posts. His photos.
His thirst traps.
Fuck.
Fuck.
46%?
Yeah, fuck that.