Chapter 19
Nick has faced his share of challenges working with four-year-olds. He’s dealt with tantrums, scraped knees, and a million rounds of “why” questions. You’d think he’d know how to handle a situation like this. But standing there, staring at Remy nestled in Charlie’s arms, small hands reaching out for him, Nick is utterly at a loss.
It’s not that he doesn’t care—quite the opposite. He cares so much it’s overwhelming. But he’s not a father. Not yet, at least. He doesn’t even know if being a father is in the cards for him. It’s a dream he’s tucked away in some quiet corner of his heart, too afraid to hope for it after everything he’s been through. And the last time anyone tucked him in, he was just a boy, clutching his childhood blanket. Well—unless you count those first two weeks after Otis died.
Those two weeks when he was more ghost than person, hiding in his childhood bedroom, his mom coming in with bowls of soup and whispered reassurances. She’d tuck him in then, just like she had when he was little, smoothing down his hair and telling him it would be okay even when he didn’t believe it.
But this—this is different.
Remy’s small, sleepy voice cuts through his thoughts. “Nicky and Daddy tuck me in. ‘M tired.” His tiny hand still reaches out for Nick, holding onto Charlie’s free hand with the other.
Nick freezes, unsure what to do. He glances at Charlie, searching for guidance, but Charlie just gives him this soft, almost amused smile. "Well?" Charlie says gently, nodding toward Remy.
Nick swallows hard and takes a hesitant step forward. “Uh, okay, bud,” he says, his voice softer than usual. He feels clumsy, like he’s navigating unfamiliar terrain. “Let’s, uh, get you tucked in, yeah?”
Remy nods sleepily, his little fingers curling around Nick’s as he finally grabs his hand. It’s such a small gesture, but it makes Nick’s chest ache in a way he can’t quite explain. He lets Charlie lead the way down the hall to Remy’s room, Remy’s grip still tight on both of them.
By the time they get there, Nick feels like he’s holding his breath. He watches as Charlie lays Remy down gently, his blanket and favorite stuffed dino already in place. Nick hesitates at the edge of the bed, unsure of his role here, but Charlie just gives him another soft smile and nods toward the blanket.
“Help me, Nicky,” Charlie says quietly, his voice warm and teasing, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
So Nick leans down, smoothing the blanket over Remy’s tiny frame, his fingers brushing against Charlie’s as they work together. “There,” Nick murmurs, his voice so soft it surprises even himself. “All cozy.”
Remy looks up at them both with wide, tired eyes, and for the first time, Nick doesn’t feel out of place. He feels... part of something. Part of this.
“Night, Daddy. Night, Nicky,” Remy mumbles, his words slurring as he drifts off.
Nick glances at Charlie, and for a moment, they just stand there in the dim light, watching as Remy’s breathing evens out. Charlie reaches over, brushing a hand against Nick’s arm, and Nick feels something settle deep in his chest.
Nick watches quietly as Charlie leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Remy’s forehead. The tenderness in the gesture makes Nick’s chest ache. Charlie’s hand moves to brush back a few strands of hair from Remy’s face, and Nick notices how the little boy’s curls are starting to form, just like Charlie’s. It’s uncanny, really—how much Remy resembles his dad in these quiet moments.
Blood. No blood. Adoption. No adoption. That kid is Charlie's.
Charlie straightens up, glancing at Nick with a small, tired smile, before grabbing his hand. Together, they turn off the main light, leaving the soft glow of the nightlight to fill the room. Charlie cracks the door slightly before leading Nick out into the hallway, their footsteps quiet on the wooden floor.
Nick follows obediently as Charlie guides him into the living room, but his focus shifts as the dim light catches on the tear streaks drying on Charlie’s hoodie. His eyes are red, too, like he’s been crying. Right—bad mental day.
Charlie moves as if he’s about to head into the kitchen, but Nick doesn’t let him. Instead, he gently grabs Charlie’s waist, stopping him mid-step.
“Wait,” Nick says softly, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of Charlie’s hoodie. “Can we… Do you want to talk about it?”
Charlie freezes for a second, his shoulders tense under Nick’s touch. He doesn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Nick, it’s fine,” Charlie murmurs, his voice low, but Nick doesn’t miss the strain in it.
“It’s not fine,” Nick counters, keeping his tone gentle. “You’ve been crying, Charlie. I don’t want to push, but… I’m here, okay? If you want to talk. If you want me to listen.”
Charlie’s shoulders sag slightly, and he sighs, finally meeting Nick’s gaze. “It’s just been… a long day,” he says, but Nick can tell it’s more than that.
Nick steps closer, his hands steady on Charlie’s waist. “You don’t have to carry it all on your own, you know,” he says softly.
Charlie lets out a shaky breath, his eyes glistening slightly in the low light. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Nick squeezes his waist lightly, offering him a reassuring smile. “Wherever you want. Or we can just sit, no talking. Whatever you need.”
Charlie looks at him for a long moment, like he’s searching for something, and then he nods. “Okay,” he whispers.
Nick doesn’t let go as he leads Charlie to the couch, sitting close beside him, their knees touching. He waits patiently, offering silent support, ready to be whatever Charlie needs him to be.
Nick has always been told he’s good at helping others with their feelings, but he’s never believed it. It feels like a lie dressed in soft words, a comforting myth spun to make him feel like he’s enough. The truth sits heavy in his chest, though: Otis is gone, and no amount of kind words can erase the fact that Nick wasn’t enough to save him. If he was so good at helping, why couldn’t he stop his best friend from slipping through his fingers like sand in a storm?
Charlie sighs—once, twice, three times—and then collapses his head onto Nick’s shoulder, the weight of it grounding Nick in the moment. When Charlie speaks, his voice is a soft whisper, heavy with unspoken emotion. “I miss going on coffee runs with you.”
Nick hums, tilting his head slightly to rest against Charlie’s. “We can start doing them again,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “But please tell me coffee isn’t what made you so upset today.”
Charlie lets out a brittle laugh, the sound cracking like glass. “No, it’s not that,” he admits. His words slow, thoughtful. “It’s just… it’s hard to talk about. It feels like there’s this ghost under my skin, scraping to get out. But I don’t want it out, because if I let it out, it’ll expose everything. My past. And that’s…” He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s terrifying.”
Nick swallows hard, his chest tightening at the rawness in Charlie’s voice. He doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t want to break the fragile honesty hanging between them. Instead, he lifts his hand, resting it lightly on Charlie’s knee—a silent reassurance, steady and unwavering. “Would you feel more comfortable,” he says after a moment, his voice soft, “if I told you something from my past that’s scary?”
Charlie tilts his head, looking at Nick with wide, searching eyes. “You don’t have to,” he whispers. “I don’t want to make you relive anything—”
“It’s okay,” Nick interrupts gently, giving Charlie’s knee a light squeeze. “If it helps you feel less alone, it’s worth it.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’m not great at this either, you know. But… we’ve all got ghosts. Maybe if I show you mine, yours won’t feel so overwhelming.”
Charlie blinks, the softness in his gaze catching Nick off guard. He leans in a little closer, his breath warm against Nick’s neck. “Okay,” he whispers. “If you’re sure.”
Nick nods, though the weight in his chest says otherwise. He isn’t sure. Not at all. But for Charlie—for the way his voice cracks under the weight of his ghosts—Nick will try. “Alright,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Let’s trade ghosts.”
Nick has many ghosts.
He’s spent years collecting them, piece by piece, until they became a shadowy choir that follows him everywhere, whispering reminders of the things he’d rather forget.
He could start with his childhood, the ghost of his father looming large over his earliest memories. A man who left without looking back, leaving his mother hollowed out and grieving for months. Nick remembers standing on a step stool, barely tall enough to reach the stove, stirring boxed mac and cheese because he thought it would make her smile. It didn’t, not really. All she wanted was to care for him, but even as a child, Nick felt the weight of her sadness and tried to carry it.
He could bring up high school, when the ghosts in the locker room whispered at him as he stared a second too long at one of his teammates. He told himself it was nothing—he was straight, obviously. He loved football, girls, breasts. He definitely didn’t wonder what it would feel like to kiss one of the boys on his team, or what it would be like to hold their hand. That was a lie he told himself every day, burying the truth under layers of forced smiles and casual laughter.
College brought new ghosts. There was Grant—the boy who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Harry Potter novel, all soft eyes and quiet intelligence. Nick kissed him, tipsy and reckless, and for a moment, it felt like the world stopped spinning. But then the ghost dug its claws into his back, reminding him of everything he was supposed to be. He couldn’t date Grant, not in the ways he wanted. Not long enough. Never enough, but things happen, mistakes are made, love slips out and bleeds. That wasn’t the college experience. He was supposed to hook up, be popular, live without strings. So he let Grant slip through his fingers, sex was sex, love wasn't love, and another almost-love turned into a specter.
And then there were the ghosts like Grant, who were lovers. Olivia. A handful of flings that never lasted past five dates. He remembers the fifth dates most clearly, when he finally felt ready to shed his clothes and let someone see him—really see him. But they never saw more than his body, and when it was over, they sent him away, their beds growing cold before he could even dream of staying. Those ghosts cling to him like the scent of shame, following him as he buttoned his shirt and slipped out the door.
But none of those ghosts compare to the one that haunts him most. The ghost that was once flesh and blood. The ghost that had a name—Otis.
Otis isn’t just a memory. He’s a wound, raw and bleeding, no matter how many years have passed. Otis was Nick’s best friend, his lifeline, his brother in everything but blood. They were inseparable, tied together by shared secrets and unspoken understanding. And then, one winter night, Otis climbed onto a roof, and Nick failed him. He didn’t say the right thing, didn’t do the right thing, didn’t hold on tightly enough. And now Otis is gone, and the ghost of him lingers in every corner of Nick’s life.
How do you put words to a lifetime of ghosts? How do you tell someone that you’re not just haunted—you’re hollowed out by the things you couldn’t fix?
Nick takes a shaky breath, his hands twisting together in his lap. He doesn’t know where to start, but he knows this much: Otis is where it ends.
It always ends with Otis. Everything does. Every chapter of Nick Nelson’s life seems to be bound by the same final punctuation: Otis. Giddy, childlike Nick—the boy who laughed loud enough to fill every room he walked into, the boy who saw the world as a playground full of possibilities—died that night, alongside the body he couldn’t hold onto. What was left of Nick, what managed to crawl out of the snow and ice, wasn’t the same. He left the best parts of himself on that ledge with Otis, frozen in a single moment he’d never be able to escape.
Everything ends with Otis.
Happiness is a foreign concept to him now. Not the fleeting kind, not the kind that shows up when someone makes him laugh or when he catches a good movie. No, that deep, soul-settling happiness—the kind he used to carry effortlessly, the kind that made every sunrise look like a masterpiece—disappeared. Nick used to wake up with the world at his feet. Now he wakes up just to keep going. He calls it “contentment,” because “happiness” feels too big, too weightless, too far removed from the heavy reality he’s lived in for years.
He wonders sometimes if the love he once had, the love that made him whole, ran dry that night. If Otis took it with him, not out of cruelty but because he was that love. Otis was the well that never ran out, the light in every dark room. Without him, Nick wonders if he’s been slowly draining, like a cracked jar leaking what little he has left. And when it’s gone—when it’s truly, completely gone—what will he be? A shell. A hollow jar with no purpose, no meaning, no reason to keep moving forward.
Everything ends with Otis.
But after Otis, new things began. Dark things. Quiet things. Heavy things. He remembers the razor blade he held the morning of the funeral, the way it gleamed almost invitingly, promising relief if only he leaned into it. But he had a speech to deliver, people to comfort. There was no time to indulge the darkness. There was never time, not in those days when grief was a tidal wave and he was constantly trying to stay afloat. He remembers fumbling through that speech, his words barely audible through his stuttering, his hands shaking so badly he had to grip the podium just to keep himself upright. And the stutter didn’t end there. It followed him for months, a cruel echo of the night he lost Otis. It wasn’t just a speech impediment—it was a scar, an open wound that refused to heal. Every syllable reminded him of the screams he couldn’t stop, the words he couldn’t say fast enough, the time he couldn’t rewind.
And then there’s the little voice that crept in after. Not a loud voice. Not one that screams or shouts. Just a soft, persistent hum. A static whisper that reminds him of what he lost, what he failed to save. It’s not Otis’s voice, though Nick wishes it was. It’s his own. A twisted version of himself that never lets him forget.
After Otis, Nick became a nomad in his own life. From dorms to his mother’s house, from his mother’s house to an apartment, and then to a sprawling five-bedroom house he thought would heal him. He envisioned movie nights in the living room, a game room he and Otis had talked about, an office where they could work on projects. But the house was cold. Quiet. Each empty room echoed with ghosts of plans that would never happen. He sold it within a year. Too much space for one person. Too many reminders of what could have been.
Everything about Nick Nelson—the boy who was supposed to live brightly, who was supposed to have it all—died that night. What’s left is a man who survives. A man who reads books to escape, who pours himself into his work, who eats dinner alone in front of the TV. A man who still keeps Shadow’s urn on a shelf because even the emotional support dog he got after Otis couldn’t stay with him. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t know if he’s meant for a future, who feels like every step forward is a betrayal of the boy he used to be.
Everything ends with Otis.
But maybe, just maybe, something new can begin with Charlie. Because for the first time in years, there’s a warmth in Nick’s chest that feels foreign and familiar all at once. It doesn’t erase the pain, doesn’t drown out the hum of static entirely, but it’s there. And it’s enough to make Nick wonder if, maybe, not everything has to end with Otis. Maybe something can start with someone else. Maybe.
Nick sighs deeply, his hand brushing gently against Charlie's hair, moving it softly out of his face. His own face tightens with emotion, and his eyes flutter closed. He always closes his eyes when he retells this story. Not because it makes the pain go away, but because it lets him see Otis again, clear as day. As much as Otis’s memory is a ghost—haunting, cruel, and filled with aching regret—it’s also beautiful. Otis in his final moments, Otis breathing, Otis alive. The vividness of it is both a blessing and a curse. Nick can still see his face, hear his voice, broken and choppy as it was, even after all these years.
"My best friend died," Nick says finally, his voice breaking, quiet and raw. He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. "We... we were college friends, but we were so much more than that. He was—" Nick stops, corrects himself with a quiet shake of his head. "Is. Was. My brother. Like, not by blood, but by... everything else. We shared everything. When we weren’t roommates, we begged until they let us be. And when we couldn’t live in the dorms anymore, we spent hours planning a future. A house, a game room, the kind of life where we could just live and breathe and be until we had to face the real world. He..." Nick’s voice cracks again, and he has to stop for a second, his hand trembling. "He was the best. He just... got me. I never even had to say things out loud most of the time. He just knew.
"And when I finally figured myself out—when I told him I was bisexual—he didn’t even flinch. He just smiled, shrugged, and said, 'Well, if I’m your wingman, I guess that means we need to start going to queer bars now too, yeah?' That’s who he was. Always there. Always supportive. He was my teammate, my best friend, my goddamn anchor. He was the first person who ever really saw me. Saw the parts of me I was too scared to show anyone else. And he... he died."
Nick’s voice grows louder, sharper, and he sits up straighter as the words tumble out of him in a rush, the pain finally breaking free. "He fucking died, Charlie. Can you believe that? And it’s because of me. It’s because while Otis was being the best fucking friend anyone could ask for, I was the shittiest one. I didn’t deserve him. I didn’t appreciate him. I focused on everything else—football, parties, Grant, fucking popularity. Everything but him. And he—" Nick’s voice cracks, and he presses his hands to his face, trying to ground himself.
"He died, Charlie. He fucking died, and it’s my fault. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t see him when he needed me most. And now, every day I wake up, I think about how if I had just been a little less selfish, a little more present, maybe he’d still be here. Maybe he’d be living that future we planned. Maybe he’d have a wife, or kids, or—or whatever the hell he wanted. But instead..." Nick swallows hard, his hands falling to his lap as his voice drops to a whisper. "Instead, he’s a memory. Otis is a ghost I can’t get rid of."
Nick opens his eyes then, looking at Charlie, his gaze filled with equal parts pain and longing. "I’ve never forgiven myself for it. He jumped, and sometimes I think... sometimes I wish I had too. Maybe then... maybe then I’d be forgiven."
Nick leans back into the couch, his shoulders slumping as he sighs, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. "I might look like I have it all together, but I don’t," he begins, his voice low and edged with exhaustion. "I go to the gym sometimes, and I work out for two, three hours. Way past the point my body should allow. My muscles are screaming at me to stop, but when it gets too much, when Otis feels too close, I have to do something—anything. I can’t just sit with it."
He pauses, running a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on the coffee table. "And I’m not all that nice, Charlie. Maybe I am to others, but at home, when I’m by myself, I’m not. Poor Shadow—he’s, uh, my old dog. Emotional support, you know? He’s dead now too, and I swear he’s barking in his grave because I’m such a mess without him. He was probably the only thing keeping me sane for a while."
Nick lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "I can’t cook for shit. Not really. I’ve tried baking, and I’m okay at it, but... a cake is better shared, right? And I’m quiet—too quiet, too stuck in my head. And I don’t think I’m much to look at either, if I’m honest. And my past?" He laughs again, bitterly this time. "It’s fucking terrifying. I feel like I’m falling and falling and falling, but I never hit the ground like Otis did. And that’s scary, Charlie. It’s really scary."
He finally lifts his gaze, meeting Charlie’s eyes. There’s a rawness there, an unspoken plea for understanding. "But I’m trying. I’m trying because I have changed. I don’t have that stupid stutter anymore that I got after Otis died. I don’t need my mom to tuck me in because I’m scared I’ll wake up back in that moment. I’m... I’m at a job I love, with kids I love, in a town I love. And I’ve got a boy who gets me coffee, lets me stay over after sex, and doesn’t judge me for trying my shot at smiley pancakes."
Nick leans forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped again. "So, yeah. I know talking about it is scary. I know the past is scary, and ghosts? Ghosts are fucking terrifying. But, Charlie..." He looks up again, his voice softening. "We’ve all got ghosts. And maybe... maybe we don’t have to fight them alone."
Nick sits in the silence that follows his rant, the only sound the steady ticking of Charlie's clock. Four seconds, five, six, seven... Then, a sniffle. Soft, broken, and it pierces through him. Another follows, then another, and Nick feels his chest tighten. He can’t not look anymore.
When he finally turns, what he sees breaks his heart. Charlie, his face half-hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie, is crying, wiping at his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears. Nick frowns, leaning forward, his voice soft and full of concern. "Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Char?"
But before Nick can say or do anything else, Charlie throws himself into Nick’s arms, collapsing against him on the couch. Nick barely has time to react, but then Charlie is there, clinging to him, burying his face into Nick’s chest, his whole body trembling. Nick blinks in surprise before his hands move instinctively, wrapping around Charlie, holding him close.
It’s strange, but comforting, to be the one held instead of always being the one holding. He lets Charlie stay there, lets him cry against him. He strokes Charlie’s back gently, his fingers brushing through his hair. It’s a quiet intimacy Nick didn’t realize he craved.
Through muffled sobs, Charlie finally whispers, "You don’t deserve any of it. Any bad thing that’s happened to you—you don’t deserve it. You deserve happiness, Nick. You deserve love and kindness and nothing else."
Nick swallows hard, his own emotions welling up again. He gives a sad, soft smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, well... Sorry?" It’s a weak attempt at humor, but it’s all he can manage.
Charlie pulls back slightly, his red-rimmed eyes meeting Nick’s. He sighs heavily, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "No sorries," he says firmly, his voice cracking. "You hate them, remember?"
Nick lets out a faint chuckle at that, nodding. "Yeah... I do."
Charlie sniffles again, his voice trembling but resolute as he pulls back just enough to look Nick in the eyes. "It’s not your fault either," he says, his tone firm despite the tears streaking down his face. "People die. People make choices. People hurt. But that’s not your fault, okay?" He pauses, taking a shaky breath, his hands still clutching Nick’s shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment. "I know when faults happen, and that’s not one of them."
Nick’s throat tightens, and he feels his chest ache in a way that’s both painful and oddly comforting. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to accept words like that when he’s spent years blaming himself. His mouth opens slightly, as if to argue, but no words come out.
Charlie, seeing the conflict in Nick’s eyes, leans forward and presses his forehead against Nick’s, grounding them both. "You’re not the reason he’s gone, Nick," he whispers softly, his voice steady now. "You’re the reason people feel safe. The reason people feel loved. You’ve been carrying this weight for so long, but it’s not yours to carry. It never was."
Nick closes his eyes, letting Charlie’s words wash over him, the tears he’s been holding back finally spilling over. He nods faintly, his hands gripping the fabric of Charlie’s hoodie as if letting go would shatter the moment.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely, though the word feels fragile, like it might break under the weight of everything he’s still trying to process.
Nick smiles gently as Charlie stretches out on the couch and opens his arms. Without hesitation, Nick slides into the space, letting himself be the little spoon for once. It’s warm and grounding, and after a moment, Nick whispers, “Does this... does this make it easier to talk about your ghosts?”
Charlie hums softly, one hand brushing against Nick’s side absentmindedly. “I... I don’t like thinking about Ben,” he admits quietly. “But he’s there. A lot. I think the bookshelf thing just threw me off.”
Nick stays still, giving him the time and space to continue.
“I’m not used to loud crashes anymore,” Charlie says, his voice trembling. “Well, not for a long time, anyway. Four years since the divorce. It’s been quiet, peaceful. And then suddenly, it wasn’t. Seeing Remy hurt, seeing your blood... and then Remy being upset with you. It brought it all back. My life with Ben. When Remy was a baby. It scared me.”
Nick listens intently, feeling the weight of Charlie’s words pressing into the space between them.
“I was outed in high school,” Charlie continues, his voice growing quieter. “And no one cared. I was just some gay kid to them—creepy, weird. And then there was Ben.” His voice falters. “When everyone tells you you’re not worth anything, that you’ll never find love... you start to believe it. I did. So I took the crumbs Ben gave me.”
Nick’s heart twists, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting Charlie’s story spill out.
“And then I kept taking the crumbs,” Charlie says bitterly. “I kept following, hoping one day he’d give me more if I just did enough, was enough. Things were okay sometimes, and then bad, and then okay again. And then we got married, and everything got worse. Everything I did was too much. Too gay. But I still stayed, begging for those crumbs like an idiot.”
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the anger building in his chest—not at Charlie, but at the man who made him feel like this.
“Ben wasn’t kind,” Charlie continues, his voice cracking. “He was angry, controlling, cruel. He yelled, he hit, he demanded, but I had nothing. He wouldn’t let me work, wouldn’t let me leave. So I didn’t. I was stuck in this house, this life, with nowhere to go. And then the yelling got louder. The hits got harder. And then he started cheating. I knew. And he knew I knew. And we argued and fought, but I still begged for crumbs. I still begged!”
Charlie speaks softly, his voice shaking slightly as he continues, still curled up against Nick on the couch. Nick has one arm wrapped tightly around him, holding him close, and the other gently stroking his hair as Charlie opens up, bit by bit.
“When I managed to escape,” Charlie murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “I thought that was it. I thought I was finally free. Ben had made his choice—he left. And all of a sudden, there I was, holding Remy, this tiny little baby, and it hit me: I’m the father now. The caregiver. It was terrifying, but God, I fell for him so easily. Remy became my everything. My baby. Not Ben’s. Not Emily’s. Mine.”
Nick hums softly, a quiet encouragement to keep going, his thumb tracing soothing circles on Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie shifts slightly in Nick’s embrace, his head resting on Nick’s chest. “He was my little son, my bundle of joy, and the one thing I had left. I pawned off my wedding ring, sold just about everything I owned, and scraped together what little I had to move us into this tiny studio apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. And I gave him everything—every bit of energy, every penny, every thought I had went to Remy.”
Nick feels Charlie’s breath hitch as he continues, his voice trembling. “I starved myself at first. Not intentionally, I just... Remy needed formula, diapers, a warm blanket. And I had stale crackers and instant noodles, and I figured it didn’t matter because he was happy and healthy. That’s all that mattered to me. But then I found out about freelance work, and things got a little better. I wasn’t rolling in money, not by any stretch, but I wasn’t starving anymore. And Remy was mine. My boy. I thought we were finally safe.”
Nick presses a gentle kiss to Charlie’s hair, holding him a little tighter. “But Ben,” Charlie continues, his voice growing harder now, “Ben is... Ben. He wasn’t done. He showed up out of nowhere, demanding we go to court. Demanding custody. And what the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t have a degree. I didn’t have steady work or a fancy job. I had a leaking roof, a tiny apartment, and just barely enough money to get by.”
Charlie’s breath shakes again, and Nick can feel the tension in his body as he holds him. “And here’s Ben, with his college degree, his family’s money, his business connections, and this picture-perfect facade of a future. And me? I’m just this broken boy who spent his teenage years starving himself, cutting into his skin because I didn’t know how else to handle the pain. How was I supposed to win?”
Nick leans down, brushing his lips against Charlie’s temple. “You did win, Char,” he whispers softly.
Charlie sighs, his voice quiet. “But I fought. I fought like hell. And Ben tried everything—showing up unannounced, trying to act like he gave a damn about Remy. But even at one year old, my sweet, smart boy knew. He knew. He’d cry and yell, and Ben would just stand there, clueless. He was never fit to be a father. Never. And Remy knew that. I knew that.”
Charlie looks up at Nick finally, his eyes glassy with tears. “It was the scariest time of my life, Nick. I thought I was going to lose him. I thought Ben was going to take him, just like he’d taken everything else. And I couldn’t... I couldn’t let that happen.”
Nick tightens his hold on Charlie, his voice steady and comforting. “But he didn’t, Char. He didn’t. Remy’s yours. And you’re his.”
Charlie nods, a tear slipping down his cheek as he burrows further into Nick’s warmth. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s mine. My boy. I just… I just fear one day I’ll lose him. That the bad men, as Remy says, will come and take him. Take you. Take everything I have now, and it’ll all be gone. Like it was never mine to begin with.”
Nick tightens his grip on Charlie, holding him close as if his arms alone could shield Charlie from every fear, every ghost that lingered in his mind. “Charlie…”
“I panicked,” Charlie whispers, his voice barely audible. “I panicked, and I missed picking up Remy. I got so lost in my head, in all the what-ifs, in all the ways everything could fall apart, that I just… I lost track of time. And I left him there, waiting. And you had to step in because I couldn’t even do that.”
Nick shakes his head gently, his hand stroking soothingly up and down Charlie’s back. “Char, you’re human. You’re allowed to panic. You’re allowed to have moments where things feel too much. But you didn’t lose him. You didn’t fail him. And you won’t lose me either.”
Charlie sniffles, burying his face in Nick’s chest, his hands gripping the fabric of Nick’s shirt as if he’s afraid to let go. “But what if I do? What if one day it all comes crashing down, and I’m left with nothing again? I don’t… I don’t know if I can survive that.”
“You won’t lose us,” Nick says firmly, his voice steady and grounding. “I’m here, Char. Remy’s here. We’re not going anywhere. I promise you that. And if you ever feel like the bad men are creeping back in, you tell me. You lean on me. We’ll fight them together, okay?”
Charlie nods against him, his voice muffled as he whispers, “Okay. Together.”
Nick wishes he could say more. He wishes he could find the right words, the perfect combination of syllables that would wrap Charlie in safety and assurance, that would erase all his fears. But Nick isn’t good with words anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. Otis is gone, his human dictionary is dead, and every time Nick tries to string together something meaningful, it feels like his heart drains a little more, leaving him empty and fumbling.
So, he doesn’t say anything. He just draws Charlie closer, pressing his cheek against the crown of Charlie’s head. He breathes him in—his shampoo, the faint traces of coffee on his hoodie, the lingering salt of his earlier tears—and lets his embrace speak in place of the words he can’t seem to find.
Nick has always liked being held more than he likes holding. It’s easier to let someone else take on the weight of the world for a moment, to feel their arms like a barrier between him and his ghosts. But holding Charlie? That feels different. It feels necessary, grounding. It feels like he’s keeping both of them afloat, even if he doesn’t know how to swim himself.
So, he tightens his grip just a little more, letting Charlie melt into him. It’s not words, it’s not a promise spoken aloud, but it’s the best Nick can do.