Chapter 22
Charlie is going to die.
He can feel it in his bones, the certainty of it, like an old wound reopening. The ghost is there, clawing at his skin from the inside, begging to be released. The ghost wants out, and when it does, it will consume him whole. He knows this. He knows because the panic is there, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around his chest like a vise.
Ben will come back. He always does.
Ben will come back into his life and ruin everything. He’ll steal Remy, strip away the only light Charlie has left, and take Nick too. And Charlie—Charlie will have nothing.
Nothing but a house filled with silence and the echoes of laughter that once was. A house with walls that once held warmth and joy, now hollow and cold, a tomb of memories too painful to live in but too sacred to leave behind.
He will die.
He knows it. He can feel it. He can sense it. Life without Remy isn’t life—it’s a void, a nothingness so consuming it feels like death itself.
Charlie’s breath catches, sharp and ragged, his hands trembling as he tries to ground himself. But there’s no grounding when the fear is this overwhelming.
The ghost inside him whispers, You’ll fail. You’ll lose him. You’ll lose everything.
And he believes it.
Because how could he not? When the past is a constant shadow, a reminder of every mistake, every wound, every scar? When Ben is out there, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, waiting to strike?
Charlie presses a hand to his chest, as if he can hold himself together, as if he can stop the cracks from widening. But the panic is spilling over now, and he’s drowning in it.
He closes his eyes, clutching at the threadbare hope that maybe—just maybe—Nick will save him. That Nick will hold him together, even as he falls apart. That Nick will fight for him, for Remy, for the fragile pieces of the life they’re trying to build.
But the ghost whispers again, louder this time: You’ll lose them. You’ll lose everything.
And Charlie believes it.
It whispers that Remy was never his son.
He’s not yours, Charlie. He never was. Never will be.
And is that the truth?
They don’t share blood. Not a single thread of DNA ties them together. All they share is a past—a messy, complicated, painful past. A present that feels fragile, like glass ready to shatter. And a future? No, probably not.
Remy is Ben’s kid.
The anger in his eyes when he’s frustrated, the sharpness in his words when he’s upset—it’s so much like Ben. The way he looks, the shape of his face, the tilt of his chin—Ben’s features, undeniable. And the way he thinks, the way he can be so calculating and stubborn—that’s Ben too, right?
But then there’s the laughter. That warm, bright laugh that could light up the darkest room. That’s Charlie’s laugh. That’s Charlie’s influence. The kindness in Remy’s heart, the determination in his little body, the way he fights for what he believes is right—that’s Charlie too.
Right?
But no.
The ghost whispers again: He isn’t yours. He’s Ben’s. He’s always been Ben’s.
And maybe that’s why Ben is here now, lurking the halls, watching, waiting. He’s not here for Charlie. He’s here for Remy. To get close. To befriend him. To plant seeds of doubt in his little mind, to worm his way into his life. To steal him away.
Because Ben is the father. Not Charlie.
Ben has the blood. Ben has the biology. Ben has it all. Charlie—Charlie is just a man who tried to play house. A man who told himself bedtime stories, whispered lies to himself in the dead of night, hoping that somehow, by some miracle, he could make Remy his.
His. His. His.
But no.
Remy was always Ben’s. Ben’s to steal. Ben’s to keep. Ben’s to hurt.
And Charlie—Charlie has been living in a fantasy. A dream he can’t wake up from. A dream that’s about to become a nightmare.
Charlie flinches when Nick taps on his bedroom door. He hadn’t even realized the door was closed, hadn’t realized the lights were off except for the dim glow of the hallway spilling in. Nick steps in hesitantly, frowning, his feet shifting from side to side like he doesn’t know where to plant himself.
And that’s Charlie’s fault, isn’t it?
Nick doesn’t know what to do because Charlie has tied him into this mess—a mess that was never his to deal with. A mess Charlie should have cleaned up years ago.
He needs to pack. He needs to grab what he can, stuff it into bags, and get Remy out of here. They need to run. They need to move. Ben can’t catch him if they’re gone. But Ben always knows, doesn’t he? Ben has always found a way. And he will again. He’ll find them. He’ll take Remy. He’ll make sure Charlie has nothing left—until he’s gone, dead, a ghost.
No. No. No. No. No.
Nick’s voice pulls him from the spiral.
“I managed to get Remy down for the night,” Nick says, his voice soft, tentative, but trying to carry some normalcy. “He demanded I read four books. I got to book two and he was out, but I worried if I stopped reading he’d somehow know, so that’s what took so long.” Nick chuckles lightly, scratching the back of his neck. “Little fella probably would’ve woken up and pinched me until I followed through on my promise of all four books.”
Charlie blinks, his chest tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He tries to focus on Nick, on his voice, on the way his words float through the heavy fog in his mind. But all he can think about is how he needs to pack. He needs to go. He needs to save Remy.
Nick frowns deeper, stepping closer but still keeping a careful distance. “Charlie,” he says softly. “Hey. Can you look at me?”
Charlie shakes his head, his nails digging into his palms. “I... I need to pack. We need to go. He’ll find us. He’ll take Remy. I need to go. We need to—”
“Charlie.”
Nick’s voice is firmer this time, but not harsh. It’s grounding.
“Charlie, you’re safe. Remy is safe. He’s asleep, okay? He’s safe. Ben isn’t here. He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt Remy.”
Charlie shakes his head again, but this time it’s weaker, like the words are starting to crack through the panic. “You don’t understand,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “He always finds me. Always.”
Nick takes another step closer, his hand hovering like he wants to reach out but doesn’t want to push. “I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’ll help you. I won’t let him take Remy. I promise. But I need you to breathe, okay? Just breathe.”
And somehow, Charlie’s chest loosens just enough to let him take a shallow, shaky breath. Then another. Nick doesn’t move, doesn’t rush him, just waits, patient and steady.
Charlie sniffles, his voice cracking as he wipes at his face with trembling hands. He takes a deep, uneven breath, his shoulders shuddering with the effort.
“I ruined our date night,” he whispers, the words heavy with guilt. “You had to help with Remy because I’m so... so messed in the head. And you—you took off work because of my stupid fucking spiral. I’m sorry... I’m sorry, Nick. I’m fucking everything up.” His voice breaks further, and his hands fall limply into his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Nick’s heart twists at the sight, at the rawness in Charlie’s voice. He crosses the room in an instant, dropping to his knees in front of him. He gently takes Charlie’s hands, holding them firmly but tenderly, his thumbs brushing over the knuckles.
“Charlie,” Nick says, his voice low but steady, filled with a warmth he hopes can reach past the fog in Charlie’s mind. “You didn’t ruin anything. Nothing, okay? You haven’t messed anything up.”
Charlie shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “You say that, but look at me. I—I can’t even keep it together. Remy—he deserves better. You deserve better.”
Nick’s voice is calm, steady, but firm—each word purposeful as if trying to stitch Charlie back together.
“Charlie,” Nick says, his eyes locking onto his, unwavering. “I decide what I want. What I deserve. No one else. And I think I deserve you, not better. You. So, please don’t think that.”
Charlie’s breath shudders, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Nick continues before he can.
“And you didn’t ruin our date, okay? Remy’s asleep. I can make some dinner, and we can talk about whatever you want—Ben or not.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And if you want, I can stay the night. Yeah?”
Charlie shakes his head quickly, his voice cracking as he says, “You shouldn’t have to make dinner in my house... and take care of Remy…”
Nick shrugs, giving Charlie a small, lopsided smile. “Well, he’s… he’s important to me. You’re important to me.”
Charlie flinches, his hands gripping at his knees. “He’s calling you Papa,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “He called you Papa because he saw me and was scared.”
Nick reaches out, his hand resting lightly on Charlie’s knee. “Charlie,” he says softly, “I’m sure Remy didn’t just call me that because he was scared. He’s been saying it all day now—even after the fact.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie mutters, his voice breaking. “I hurt him. I’m like Ben.”
Nick’s hand tightens just slightly, grounding. “Charlie. Don’t. Don’t say that.” His tone is gentle but firmer now, the weight of his words sinking into the space between them. “I don’t want to be stern with you, but that’s not true. That’s not you.”
Charlie looks down, his tears spilling silently onto his lap.
Nick leans in, his voice softer now but no less resolute. “I don’t know everything about your relationship with Ben, and honestly, I don’t want to unless you choose to tell me. But from what I do know… Ben hurt you on purpose. Because he got something out of it. Because he wanted to hurt you.”
Charlie’s breath catches, his chest tightening as he listens.
“What happened today is not that,” Nick continues. “You panicked, Char. As anyone would in that situation. You wanted to flee, to protect Remy. It’s a fight-or-flight response. It’s not the same.”
Nick reaches up, gently brushing a tear from Charlie’s cheek. “No one blames you. I don’t blame you. And Remy certainly doesn’t blame you. He’s gotten his chocolate milk, his cuddles, and he feels fine now. He still calls you Daddy, Charlie. That’s still your boy. And you’re still you—not Ben.”
Charlie exhales shakily, Nick’s words washing over him like a balm on an open wound. He doesn’t respond, not yet, but his shoulders relax just slightly, and Nick knows it’s a start. A small crack in the wall Charlie’s built around himself.
Charlie sighs, his voice trembling as he whispers, “You’re not angry? Please don’t be angry.”
Nick’s face softens immediately, his hand finding Charlie’s and squeezing it gently. “All my anger is directed towards Ben, not you. Okay? You’re not the one I’m angry at—never you.”
Charlie looks at him, uncertainty and shame still etched across his features. Nick leans closer, his voice steady and warm. “It’s a Friday night, Char. The kid’s asleep, and I’d really still like that date, even if it’s microwave mac n cheese and playing Mario Kart. Just…”
Nick pauses, his free hand brushing softly over Charlie’s knee before reaching for his other hand. “Please, take my hand.”
Charlie hesitates, but then his hand falls into Nick’s, and Nick gives him the gentlest of smiles.
“Take my hand, and I’ll make you dinner. You can sit all pretty, as you always are, and we can have a good night. It’s only eight, Char. We still have a full night ahead of us, yeah?”
Charlie lets out a weak laugh, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “You think I’m pretty?”
Nick smirks, squeezing his hands again. “Always. Even when you’re crying and think you’re not, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Charlie blushes faintly, shaking his head but not letting go of Nick’s hands. “Okay,” he whispers, his voice still shaky but lighter now. “Okay. Microwave mac n cheese and Mario Kart. Let’s do it.”
“That’s my Charlie,” Nick says softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before standing and tugging him gently toward the kitchen.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. His chest tightens, his nails biting into his palms as if the pain could anchor him. Not yours, Ben. Nick’s. Nick is mine, and I am Nick’s. The mantra loops in his mind, a frantic attempt to push back the fear that threatens to consume him.
His gaze flickers toward Nick, who’s busy in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, moving with a confidence and ease that feels like home. Don’t take him away. Don’t take Nick away. Don’t take Remy away.
He grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles whiten. Mine, mine, mine. His breath hitches, eyes darting to the living room where Remy’s blanket lies abandoned on the couch. His son’s favorite toy train sits nearby, a tiny piece of stability in a world that feels like it’s crumbling.
He closes his eyes, willing the ghosts of Ben’s smirk, Ben’s voice, Ben’s cruelty to disappear. Mine. Mine. Mine. The words settle in his chest, no longer frantic but steady, like a heartbeat. His. Nick is his. Remy is his. And no one—not Ben, not anyone—can take them away.
Charlie stands, moving behind Nick, his arms wrapped securely around his waist, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Nick’s neck. The scent of Mac n cheese and hotdogs—a simple meal, nothing fancy—mixes with the faint scent of Nick’s cologne, and Charlie feels something unfamiliar settle deep in his chest: peace.
Nick glances back, smiling as Charlie’s fingers slowly move up to undo the top buttons of his dress shirt. The sight of Nick’s untucked shirt, his slacks slightly wrinkled, and those silly penguin socks makes Charlie’s lips curl into a warm smile.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Hi, lovely,” Nick says softly, turning his head to press a quick kiss to Charlie’s lips.
And Charlie damn near melts.
This is kindness, gentleness, a softness he’s never known. Not like this. He leans into Nick, resting his cheek against his back, letting himself breathe in the moment. But as quickly as it comes, the ghost of a memory claws its way forward.
He’s at the stove, stirring a pot of overcooked spaghetti, his nerves fraying with each passing second. Ben is in the living room, sprawled on the couch, his voice sharp and cutting.
“Hurry up, Charlie. I’m not at home all day while you are, and I can’t even come back to warm food that’s ready? Jesus Christ.”
Charlie bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Ben, you never told me what you wanted for dinner.”
He hears the sharp snap of a beer bottle being set down on the coffee table, followed by Ben’s irritated voice. “I’m your husband. You should know by now.”
The weight of Ben’s words hangs heavy in the air, suffocating, and Charlie stirs the pot harder, his grip on the spoon tight enough to hurt.
Charlie carefully plates the spaghetti, making sure it looks as presentable as possible. It’s not gourmet, but it’s warm and made with effort—a small attempt at peace, at connection. He carries the plate to the living room, where Ben is seated, scrolling through his phone, looking disinterested at best.
Charlie smiles softly, placing the plate in front of him, his eyes searching Ben’s face for something—anything. A thank you. A smile. A kiss. Just some shred of affection.
But Ben doesn’t even glance at him at first. When he finally does, his eyes drop to the plate and then back up to Charlie, his expression hard and unkind.
“Really? Spaghetti?” Ben says, his tone laced with disdain. “That’s like, the most basic meal you could have made.”
Charlie’s heart sinks, but he forces himself to stay calm, his voice soft. “I’m not a chef.”
Ben raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly, his voice sharp. “What did you say? Come on, if you’re going to use your words, speak up.”
Charlie swallows hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. “I’m not a chef,” he repeats, his voice cracking just slightly.
Ben hums, leaning back against the couch, his face twisting into a mocking smirk. “No, you’re not. You’re also not a very good husband either. Jesus Christ, Charlie. I pay for this house on my own, the least you can do is show some appreciation of it!”
Charlie feels the sting of the words, like a slap across the face. His fingers curl at his sides, but he keeps his voice steady. “I do!” he says, his voice louder now, desperate. “I do! Ben, please, why are you angry with me? I’m... I’m trying, okay?”
Ben doesn’t answer right away, just shakes his head as if Charlie’s pleas mean nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and all Charlie can do is stand there, rooted in place, waiting for some sort of response.
But all Ben does is pick up his fork, twirling the spaghetti absently, muttering under his breath, “Try harder.”
Charlie stands there for a moment longer before turning back toward the kitchen, his chest aching with a familiar, hollow pain. Try harder. It’s always the same. Always.
Charlie’s grip on Nick tightens as if grounding himself, pulling him back to the now. The ghost fades into the warmth of Nick’s presence, the softness of his voice, the light sound of the spatula scraping against the pan.
“You okay back there?” Nick asks, his voice gentle but attentive.
Charlie nods against Nick’s back, his voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
Nick hums, leaning into Charlie’s touch as he finishes stirring. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m almost done, and you’re about to experience my world-famous... okay, maybe mediocre... mac and cheese.”
Charlie chuckles softly, his lips brushing against Nick’s neck. This is different. This is love. This is Nick. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Charlie leans in, pressing another gentle kiss to the back of Nick’s neck, letting his lips linger for a moment before pulling away just enough to whisper, “You’re unreal.” His hand slides down slowly, resting on Nick’s waist as he leans his forehead against Nick’s shoulder.
Nick smiles softly at the affection, but before he can respond, Charlie continues, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “No one’s ever made food for me. Not like this.”
Nick’s movements pause, his hands stilling as they rest on the countertop. A frown tugs at the corners of his lips. “Charlie… that’s not…” He struggles for the right words, his chest tightening at the weight of Charlie’s admission.
Charlie sighs, his fingers curling slightly against Nick’s waist. “I mean, my parents, sure. Especially back in school when things got bad.” He swallows hard, a faint crack in his voice as he adds, “But with Ben? Never.”
Nick hums softly, turning his head just enough to glance at Charlie. His eyes are warm but filled with sadness. “Well,” he begins, his tone steady but soft, “I’m quite shit at cooking, sorry."
Charlie huffs out a quiet laugh against Nick’s shoulder, and Nick smiles a little wider, his voice turning playful yet sincere. “But I do find it comforting when you’re here holding me. Maybe… maybe I’ll become a better cook as long as you’re around.”
Charlie tilts his head, his lips brushing Nick’s ear as he murmurs, “Guess I’ll have to stick around, then.”
Nick chuckles, his hand lifting to cover Charlie’s, intertwining their fingers against his waist. “Guess you will.”
Once Nick finishes cooking, he turns off the stove and plates the mac n cheese with hotdogs. It’s simple, but it’s warm, and it’s made with care. He takes a moment to look over the plate, nodding in quiet satisfaction before turning around.
Charlie doesn’t expect what happens next. With barely a moment to register Nick’s grin, he lets out a surprised squeak as Nick steps forward, grabs him firmly by the waist, and effortlessly lifts him onto the kitchen island. Charlie blinks, startled, as Nick’s hands linger on his sides for a moment, grounding him.
Nick chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and hands Charlie the plate. "Here, your dinner, lovely." The way the word rolls off Nick’s tongue so casually makes Charlie’s heart stutter.
Before Charlie can respond, Nick leans in, getting on his top toes to close the gap between them. His lips brush against Charlie’s in a soft, lingering kiss, and Charlie swears he could melt right then and there. There’s no urgency, no expectations—just a gentle kiss, warm and full of kindness.
When Nick pulls back, his eyes are filled with that same contentment Charlie’s learning to recognize in him—a quiet pride in taking care of someone he cares about. Nick tilts his head, still close enough that Charlie can feel the faint heat of his breath. “You okay up there, sweetheart?” he teases, his voice low and playful.
Charlie’s grip tightens slightly on the plate, and he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. “You’re unreal,” he whispers again, his cheeks flushing.
Nick laughs softly, leaning in to kiss his forehead this time. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He steps back just enough to grab his own plate, his free hand resting casually on Charlie’s knee as if to keep him tethered.
Charlie doesn’t say it out loud, but in that moment, he knows: this is what it feels like to be cared for. To be held, to be kissed, to be fed—not just physically, but emotionally. It’s everything he never thought he’d have
Charlie takes a bite of the mac n cheese, his heart full as he looks down at Nick. “Thank you,” he says softly, his voice full of emotion.
Nick grins, setting his plate down and leaning casually against the counter. “Of course,” he hums, waving it off like it’s nothing. Then, his grin widens mischievously. “Now, I’m thinking Mario Kart—besides Rainbow Road, because absolutely the fuck not. Otis always fucking won at that one. Little fucker.” He laughs, shaking his head at the memory.
Charlie chuckles softly, finding Nick’s rambling endearing. That's good. Talking about Otis is good. He's glad Nick feels a bit better, being able to talk to him, and tell stories about him besides just what had happened.
“Oh, and then,” Nick continues, “I saw you had some bath salts in your bathroom. Your shower? Fucking lovely, by the way. But that jet tub?” He whistles, gesturing for emphasis. “I was thinking maybe we could, you know, use it later. I mean, obviously if you feel comfortable.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he watches Nick stumble through his words.
“Which, by the way,” Nick adds quickly, “you say you don’t treat yourself, but damn, you should. I mean, if you have that kinda bath, you definitely should. Sorry, sorry, I’m rambling. I—uh—I’m a bit awkward with dates?”
Charlie sets the plate down and reaches out, gently tugging Nick closer by the waistband of his slacks. “Nick,” he says softly, looking up at him with warmth in his eyes. “You’re doing just fine. Lovely, baby.”
Nick freezes for a moment, his ears pinking at the pet name. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
Charlie nods, brushing a hand over Nick’s cheek. “More than fine. I’m serious.”
Nick exhales a laugh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Charlie’s lips. “Well, in that case, Rainbow Road might be back on the table. But don’t blame me if I rage quit.”
Charlie laughs, pulling him in for another kiss, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “Deal.”
The laughter still lingers in the air as Charlie stands at the sink, rinsing the dishes and humming softly to himself. Dinner had been surprisingly light and warm, Nick’s presence making everything feel just a little easier. For the first time in what felt like forever, Charlie could breathe.
“You cooked,” Charlie had insisted earlier, pointing to the couch with a firm look. “So you sit.”
Nick had frowned, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment before shrugging and saying, “Alright, alright. But only because you’re bossy.”
That had earned him a soft laugh and a flick of water from Charlie, and he’d retreated to sit… for all of two minutes.
Now, as Charlie scrubs at a plate, Nick’s arms snake around his waist, and he feels the familiar press of lips against the back of his neck. “Nick,” Charlie says, trying to sound stern, but his voice wavers with a laugh. “I told you to sit down.”
“I know,” Nick murmurs, his voice low and warm. “But you’re too tempting, standing here all domestic and cute.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, but his hands falter in their task as Nick presses another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot just behind his earlobe. “Nick…” he warns, but it comes out breathier than intended, and Nick chuckles against his skin.
“Hmm?” Nick hums, pretending to be innocent, his lips trailing lower. He kisses the crease between Charlie’s collarbone and neck, lingering just long enough to make Charlie’s knees feel a little weak.
“Nick,” Charlie says again, this time more a plea than a warning, gripping the edge of the sink for support. “I’m trying to do the dishes.”
Nick hums again, the vibrations sending shivers down Charlie’s spine. “And I’m trying to remind you that it’s Friday night and we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves.” Another kiss, this time softer, just above the hollow of Charlie’s throat.
It’s entirely Nick’s fault. No doubt about it. Mario Kart had been the plan—a wholesome, lighthearted way to end the evening. But then Nick had leaned in, his hands gently cradling Charlie’s face, and kissed him like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
How was Charlie supposed to focus on Rainbow Road after that?
So now, they’re tangled on the couch, the game controllers abandoned on the coffee table, the TV still on but playing some random menu music they’d completely forgotten about. Nick is lying back, sprawled comfortably on the cushions, his shirt slightly wrinkled from Charlie’s hands. Charlie, on the other hand, is straddling him, gripping Nick’s shoulders as if he’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“Convincing,” Charlie murmurs between kisses, his voice a little breathless but full of warmth. “You’re too damn convincing.”
Nick grins against Charlie’s lips, his hands resting on Charlie’s waist, steadying him. “Convincing? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he teases, nipping lightly at Charlie’s lower lip and earning a quiet gasp in return.
Charlie narrows his eyes playfully, pulling back just far enough to look at him. “No idea?” he asks, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. “So you’re saying this”—he gestures to their current position, his thighs bracketing Nick’s hips—“just… happened?”
Nick shrugs, though his grin widens. “What can I say? Maybe I’m irresistible.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking his head, though the smile tugging at his lips gives him away. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are,” Nick replies smoothly, his thumbs brushing small circles against Charlie’s hips. “Kissing me like your life depends on it.”
Charlie can’t help but laugh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Nick’s. “Shut up,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to it.
Charlie might be a little weak for Nick. Okay, more than a little. Maybe he's completely at Nick's mercy-or maybe Nick's at his. Either way, the heat between them is undeniable as Charlie grinds against him, stealing every soft moan Nick lets slip.
He's careful, though. Even with the overwhelming desire threatening to take over, Charlie is aware of the house around them. Remy is fast asleep, and thank God, the kid could sleep through a hurricane. But still, Charlie keeps his kisses quiet, his movements deliberate, as if savoring every inch of Nick beneath him.
And Nick? Nick is a mess, leaning into Charlie's every touch, his head tipping back with a muffled groan when Charlie shifts just right. His hands rest on Charlie's thighs, gripping lightly, as if grounding himself, and his breath hitches when Charlie hooks his fingers into the neckline of his shirt.
The buttons don't stand a chance. They pop free, scattering across the room like tiny, startled soldiers, and Charlie leans back with a proud, mischievous grin. "0ops," he says, his tone anything but apologetic.
Nick's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his flushed cheeks and hazy eyes making Charlie feel drunk on the moment. "You're.. unbelievable," Nick manages, his voice rough but affectionate.
Charlie just smirks, leaning back in to press a lingering kiss to Nick's collarbone, his hands roaming up and down his chest and abs, exploring every line and curve. "You make it hard to resist," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as his fingers toy with the waistband of Nick's slacks.
Nick shivers under his touch, his hands tightening briefly on Charlie's thighs. "Char," he breathes, his voice a mix of warning and want.
Charlie hums, leaning in to kiss him again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of him. "What?" he whispers against Nick's lips, his grin turning downright wicked. "You don't like me taking charge?"
Nick chuckles softly, his voice laced with affection and heat. "I never said that."
"Good" Charlie replies, nipping at his bottom lip before moving lower, his kisses trailing down Nick's jaw and neck. "Because l've had a shitty day, and think deserve this."
Nick's laugh turns into a soft moan as Charlie's hands wander again, and Charlie can't help but smile. Yeah, maybe he's weak for Nick, but right now, Nick looks just as weak for him-and that's a feeling Charlie wouldn't trade for anything.
They stay like that, wrapped in the heat of each other but tethered by the reality of their home. As much as Charlie would love to completely lose himself in Nick—to let Nick completely lose himself in return—there’s Remy. There’s always Remy, sleeping soundly in his room, blissfully unaware of the charged moment in the living room. The last thing Charlie wants is to scar his son with muffled noises or wandering footsteps.
So, a heated make-out session it is, with a bit of teasing that leaves them both breathless but unsatisfied enough to want more. Charlie smiles, so warmly, so smugly, as he swallows one of Nick’s moans, pulling back just enough to take in the sight in front of him.
And God, does Nick look good.
His hair is a mess, tufts sticking out in every direction from where Charlie’s hands tangled and tugged. His shirt is completely undone, exposing the expanse of his chest and abs, still glistening faintly with a sheen of heat. And then there’s the way Nick is shifting slightly, trying and failing to adjust himself in his slacks, the evidence of their moment together undeniable.
Charlie’s grin widens, his heart swelling with a feeling that’s too big, too loud, and too consuming to ignore.
Mine.
Nick blinks up at him, his lips swollen and red from their kisses, his cheeks dusted pink, his eyes hooded but soft.
Mine. Mine.
Charlie leans in, brushing his lips over Nick’s, so light it’s barely a kiss. He lets his hand rest on Nick’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath his palm, savoring the intimacy of the moment.
Nick chuckles softly, his voice hoarse but warm. “What?” he asks, his fingers ghosting over Charlie’s hip.
Charlie shakes his head, his grin not fading. “You look…” He pauses, taking another moment to admire the masterpiece he’s created. “Completely debauched,” he finishes, his voice low and teasing.
Nick groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. “Well, whose fault is that?” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to his tone. If anything, he sounds amused, maybe even a little proud.
Charlie hums, trailing his fingers lightly along Nick’s jawline. “Mine,” he says softly, the word heavy with affection, with possession, with everything he feels but hasn’t quite said yet.
Nick hums, his voice soft and gravelly. “Bathroom?”
Charlie smiles back at him, the edges of his grin not as bright as before. Yeah, they should have a nice evening, just the two of them, bathing in each other’s presence. But beneath the warmth, Charlie feels the familiar twinge of insecurity clawing at him, coupled with the weight of things left unsaid.
He nods hesitantly. “Okay... That works. But can we... Can we do a bubble bath or something?” His voice is quieter now, vulnerable. “I don’t... I don’t want you to see my arms and chest.”
Nick’s gaze softens, the corners of his mouth tipping into a gentle, reassuring smile. “Okay. Of course,” he murmurs, cupping Charlie’s cheek lightly with his palm. “Come on, yeah.”
Charlie expects them to move down the hallway, closing the bedroom door quietly behind them, and slipping into the bathroom with a lock clicking into place.
But Nick has other plans.
Without warning, Nick stands, his hands firm and sure as they slide under Charlie’s thighs, hauling him up effortlessly. Charlie’s legs instinctively wrap around Nick’s waist, and he gasps softly, his breath hitching.
Because that? That’s hot. Unreasonably, unfairly hot.
“Nick—” Charlie starts, but the words die in his throat when Nick grins at him, that easy, confident grin that always leaves him a little unsteady.
“What?” Nick teases, his voice low and playful as he starts toward the hallway, carrying Charlie like he weighs nothing. “I told you to come on. This just seemed more efficient.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, his cheeks warming as he buries his face in Nick’s neck, the scent of him—spice and warmth and something inherently Nick—filling his senses.
By the time they reach the bathroom, Charlie feels a little lighter, a little more grounded. Nick sets him down carefully, his hands lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back, reaching for the faucet to start filling the tub.
“Bubble bath, as requested,” Nick says, his tone soft, patient, and filled with the kind of tenderness that makes Charlie’s chest ache in the best way. “Anything else, darling?”
Charlie shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No... This is good.”
Nick hums softly, a smile curling at his lips, and before Charlie can even prepare, Nick casually shrugs his shirt off, revealing toned shoulders and the expanse of his back. Then, without hesitation, he reaches for the waistband of his slacks, pulling them off with the same easy confidence, leaving Charlie completely stunned.
Fucking hell. Damnit. He should’ve dropped Remy at Tori’s after all.
Nick, utterly unaware of the internal turmoil he’s causing, steps toward the tub and begins to settle into the warm, bubbly water. Charlie blinks, trying to gather himself before sighing softly. “Can I... I want to—I want to hold you,” he finally says, his voice quiet but steady.
Nick glances back at him, his frown small but thoughtful. “Oh, yeah. Okay,” he says easily, nodding in understanding.
Charlie swallows hard, feeling a flutter in his chest at Nick’s easy agreement. “Can you, um... can you get up and turn around, maybe?” he asks, his voice faltering slightly.
Nick hesitates, his brows knitting together for a brief moment before he leans in and presses a soft kiss to Charlie’s forehead. “Of course,” he murmurs, turning his back to give Charlie the privacy he’s clearly asking for.
With Nick’s gaze averted, Charlie quickly shrugs off his sweater, tossing it to the floor, followed by his jeans. The cool air prickles against his skin as he steps into the tub, settling down and letting the warmth of the water rise to just below his shoulders. The scent of the bubbles—lavender and eucalyptus, calming and light—fills the air, and he takes a deep breath before saying, “Okay. You can come in now.”
Nick turns back, giving him a small, reassuring smile before stepping into the tub. Charlie shifts slightly, making space for Nick to settle in, and when Nick lets his back rest against Charlie’s chest, Charlie feels the tension in his own body start to ease.
It’s intimate in a way Charlie isn’t sure he’s ever experienced before. Just quiet and close and... safe.
“Thank you for today,” Charlie whispers, pressing a kiss to Nick’s forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment. “I... I know we need to talk about it.”
Nick hums, his head tipping slightly to rest against Charlie’s shoulder. “We’ll talk when you’re ready, Char,” he says gently, his voice soft and steady.
Charlie sighs, the sound shaky and raw as he lets his head fall forward to rest against Nick’s damp shoulder. “I don’t... I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admits, his voice breaking. His hands tremble slightly as they tighten on Nick’s sides, grounding himself. “Fucking Ben is in town. Hell, working at your school. He knows Remy. He talked to Remy, Nick. As if I didn’t fight tooth and nail to make sure that would never fucking happen.”
He pulls in a sharp breath, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “And now? Now he’s here. In town. At the school. With Remy. And... Fuck, Nick, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m... I’m scared.”
Nick turns slightly in Charlie’s arms, his hands coming up to cup Charlie’s face, his thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “Charlie,” he says softly, his voice steady and calm, though his own heart is pounding. “Charlie, look at me.”
Charlie reluctantly lifts his gaze, his tear-filled eyes meeting Nick’s. “You’ve won in court, yeah?” Nick asks, his voice as gentle as it is firm.
Charlie nods slowly, his throat tightening. “Yeah. I did.”
“And even if—even if—Ben tried to take you back to court, which I really don’t see him doing,” Nick continues, his tone resolute, “you’d win. Okay? You would win. You’ve been taking care of Remy for years without Ben. You have all the proof you’d need—doctor reports, medical history, everything.”
Charlie swallows hard, but he doesn’t pull away, letting Nick’s words wash over him like a balm.
“You’re Remy’s contact at school. You’ve built a home for him. A real, loving home,” Nick says, his hands steadying Charlie. “If it came down to court—which it won’t—you’d win, Charlie. You’d win just by showing them Remy’s room. Ben doesn’t have that. Ben doesn’t have a home for a kid. Love for a kid. Nothing.”
The words sink in slowly, like the warmth of the bathwater around them, and Charlie lets out a shaky breath, leaning into Nick’s touch. “You really think so?” he whispers, his voice small and unsure.
“I know so,” Nick says firmly, pressing a kiss to Charlie’s forehead.
The air in the bathroom shifts, the warmth of the bathwater doing little to thaw the sudden chill that spreads between them.
Charlie lets the words spill from his lips before he can stop them. "If he takes Remy, I'm going to die."
Nick stiffens in front of him, his hands gripping the edge of the tub so tightly that his knuckles go white. His breath catches, the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders making Charlie’s heart plummet.
"Charlie, please don’t… Please don’t say that," Nick murmurs, his voice trembling, cracking with something that sounds dangerously close to fear.
But Charlie can’t stop himself. He’s spiraling, tumbling headfirst into the dark, panicked void inside him. "It’s true, Nick," he says, his voice breaking under the weight of his despair. "I can’t live without him. I can’t live with that guilt. If Ben takes Remy, if we go to court again and Ben wins, I’m dead. That’s it."
The words hit Nick like a blow. His breath hitches audibly, and he shakes his head as if trying to physically reject them. "Charlie, no," he whispers, his voice hoarse, strangled. "That’s not… You can’t say that. Please. Don’t. I can’t…" His voice cracks, and his grip on the tub tightens even more. "I can’t find another person I love like that, not again. I can’t do it. I won’t survive it."
And then it hits Charlie like a punch to the gut. The rawness in Nick’s voice, the tremor in his shoulders, the way his hands clutch the edge of the tub like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality—it all crashes into him at once.
Oh God. What has he done?
Charlie’s chest tightens painfully, his breath catching as guilt swells inside him like a tidal wave. He stares at Nick’s back, at the way his body trembles with barely contained emotion, and his own panic freezes him in place.
"Shit," he whispers, the word barely audible over the sound of the water. "Oh, shit. Nick, I… Fuck. I’m sorry."
He moves quickly, his hands reaching out to touch Nick’s shoulders, but he hesitates. He doesn’t deserve to touch him, not after this. How could he be so fucking stupid? How could he not think before speaking? He’s triggered Nick, dragged him into his own swirling storm of panic and fear without even realizing it.
"Nick," he tries again, his voice breaking. He places his hands gently on Nick’s shoulders, feeling the tension radiating through his body. "Hey, hey," he says, his tone urgent but soft. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to… Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt you."
Nick shakes his head, his shoulders still trembling under Charlie’s hands. "Please don’t say things like that, Charlie," he whispers, his voice barely audible, like it’s cracking under the weight of his own memories. "Please. I can’t… I can’t go through that again. You’re… you’re too important. Don’t leave me like that. Don’t even talk about it."
Charlie feels like the worst person alive. His chest aches, and his hands tremble as he grips Nick’s shoulders, desperate to anchor him somehow. "I’m sorry," he says again, his voice cracking with emotion. "God, Nick, I’m so fucking sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t… I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean it."
He presses his forehead gently to Nick’s temple, closing his eyes as the tears start to fall. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice shaking. "You’re not back there. You’re here, with me. You’re safe, Nick. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise."
Nick’s breath shudders, and he leans into Charlie’s touch, though his grip on the tub still hasn’t loosened. "Please don’t leave me," he whispers, so quiet it almost breaks Charlie’s heart in two. "Please don’t say that again."
"I won’t," Charlie vows, his voice thick with emotion. "I won’t, Nick. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going to lose me. I promise."
Slowly, Nick’s grip on the tub starts to relax, his hands falling to rest lightly on the edge. Charlie presses a soft kiss to his temple, holding him as tightly as he can in the cramped space of the tub.
"We’re okay," he whispers, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. "I promise. We’re okay."
The silence in the bathroom hangs heavy, broken only by the faint ripple of water and the quiet sound of their breathing. Charlie kisses Nick’s shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary, as if the act alone could mend the cracks threatening to widen between them.
He whispers, "You're right. Ben won’t take Remy. He can’t. And I won’t leave, okay? We’re okay. I’ve got you, and you’ve got me."
But are they really okay?
Charlie doesn’t know. The words feel hollow, like a lifeboat springing leaks faster than he can plug them. He doesn’t dare let Nick see the doubt flickering in his eyes, doesn’t let the fear that’s clawing at his chest seep into his voice. Because Nick needs this assurance. He needs the calm in Charlie’s voice, the soft press of his lips against his shoulder, the illusion of stability.
But in Charlie’s mind, the storm rages on.
Can he keep his promise? Can he really be the unwavering anchor Nick needs when he feels so unsteady himself?
He won’t let himself fathom the idea of losing Remy. No. Never. Never ever. It’s a thought so dark, so suffocating, that he shakes his head as if physically rejecting it. No, Ben won’t win. Ben doesn’t get to win.
Charlie’s grip on Nick tightens slightly, and he buries his face against Nick’s neck, inhaling deeply. He wants to believe the words he’s saying, to make them real through sheer will.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, his voice softer this time, almost pleading. “And you’ve got me. We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Nick lets out a shaky exhale, leaning back into Charlie’s embrace. His hands rest on the edge of the tub, but his fingers twitch as if they want to reach for Charlie, to pull him closer, to hold onto him like a lifeline.
“We’re okay,” Nick echoes, though there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “We have to be.”
The words settle between them, fragile but determined, a promise built on hope rather than certainty. Charlie presses another kiss to Nick’s shoulder, closing his eyes and holding on a little tighter.
Because no matter how much fear claws at him, no matter how loud the ghosts scream, Charlie knows one thing: he has Nick, and Nick has him.