Chapter 24
Charlie wakes up, frowning when his hand meets cold sheets instead of the warmth he expected. His fingers ghost over the fabric, searching, grasping at nothing. He knows he’s being ridiculous, that Nick isn’t obligated to stay curled up beside him all night, but after everything that happened yesterday—Ben, the panic, the breakdown, Remy’s fear—he thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t wake up alone.
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing himself up on his elbows. His room is still, quiet, except for the soft hum of the heater kicking in. The curtains are still drawn, letting in only a sliver of early morning light. He glances at the clock on his nightstand. Too early for Nick to be up, really. Too early for Remy to be up either.
And yet, the bed is empty.
Charlie sighs, patting the space beside him one last time before swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His body protests, sore from tension and exhaustion, but he forces himself up, padding toward the hallway, his heart sinking just a little.
Maybe Nick left. Maybe he realized how much of a mess Charlie really is.
He left.
Because why wouldn’t he?
Why would Nick stay, after yesterday? After everything?
Charlie messed up. He panicked. He hurt Remy. He made Nick choose between him and work, because of course he will. He dragged him into this mess, his mess, a mess that should have never touched Nick in the first place. Nick should be spending his Saturday morning sleeping in, grabbing coffee, laughing with coworkers, not—God, not dealing with this.
Not dealing with him.
He isn’t enough. He’s never been enough. Not for his parents. Not for school. Not for Ben. And now, not for Nick.
He shakes his head. No, Nick wouldn’t do that. Not without saying something.
Charlie steps into the hall, pausing when he hears soft snores coming from Remy’s room. He creeps closer, peeking inside, and his chest tightens at the sight.
Nick is curled up on his side in Remy’s tiny bed, legs awkwardly bent to fit. Remy is tucked against him, his baby blanket clutched in one hand, his other hand curled loosely around Nick’s shirt. Nick’s arm is draped protectively over him, his face buried in the mess of Remy’s new curls.
Charlie exhales slowly, something warm settling in his chest.
He doesn’t want to wake them—not when Remy, after the chaos of yesterday, is finally resting peacefully, and not when Nick, who looked so wrecked and exhausted, is actually sleeping.
Nick, sprawled out on Remy's tiny bed, looking impossibly big and yet impossibly soft at the same time. His long limbs curled just enough to fit, his borrowed T-shirt clinging just right, and his face relaxed in a way Charlie rarely sees—completely at ease. And then there’s Remy, tucked up close against Nick’s chest, his little fingers curled in the fabric of Nick’s shirt like he belongs there.
They look like a family.
Like his family.
For a second, Charlie lets himself have it. Lets himself drink in the sight, lets himself imagine that this is their normal—that waking up to this warmth, this safety, this stability is just another day in their life. That Nick is his and Remy’s, that there’s no looming threat, no past creeping up to take it all away. That Remy will always be tucked up against Nick like this, safe, happy, untouched by the ghosts that haunt Charlie.
He swallows around the lump forming in his throat, his arms wrapping tightly around his middle, trying to hold himself together. The ghosts claw at his skin, whispering how Ben never stayed, how Ben took and took and took until Charlie was nothing. And maybe—maybe—Nick sees that too. Sees that Charlie is nothing more than broken pieces barely held together. A past filled with damage, with weakness. Not someone fit to be a father. Not someone fit to be loved.
Charlie lets himself believe, just for a moment, that this could be real. That this could be every morning. That he could wake up to Nick in his bed, sleep-rumpled and warm, with Remy crawling between them like he belongs there. Like they’re a family.
Because God, it feels like they are.
He watches as Remy shifts slightly, nestling into Nick’s chest with a sleepy sigh, and Nick—barely awake—lets out a soft, amused hum, one arm automatically curling around the little boy as his other hand reaches out to pat the mattress beside him. Half-asleep, drowsy and warm, he doesn’t say anything, just gestures. Come here.
Charlie hesitates. There’s barely any room on this tiny bed. He could stay standing, could watch from the doorway and keep himself at a distance.
But Remy, already half on Nick’s chest, cracks one eye open and sleepily whines, “Daddy, come cuddle.”
And who is Charlie to say no to that?
So he moves carefully, squeezing onto the tiny bed with them, lying on his side as Remy sprawls across both of them, his small arms stretching out to touch both his father and the man he’s now calling Papa. Charlie doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to process it.
He hears Nick’s soft chuckle, feels the way Nick lets his body relax, heavy and warm against the too-small mattress. Remy snuggles deeper between them, completely content, and Charlie, for the first time in what feels like years, lets himself do the same.
For now, just for now, he can dream that this is his life. That this is permanent. That when he wakes up tomorrow and the next day and the next, it’ll still be like this—Nick at his side, Remy curled between them, safe and warm and happy.
He closes his eyes. Breathes in the moment.
Bathes in the sound of Nick’s soft, steady breathing as he drifts off again.
And he lets himself hope.
The second time Charlie wakes up, it’s from a gentle poke on the cheek, and the moment his brain catches up, he realizes—yep, his back is going to be completely jacked. Sleeping in a child-sized bed with two other people wasn’t exactly the best decision for his spine.
He groans softly, shifting slightly, but before he can fully move, he notices Remy sitting up beside him, frowning at him with that serious little face that always makes Charlie’s heart ache with love.
But that ache turns into something heavier, something colder, when his eyes drift down to Remy’s wrist.
The bruise is there, dark and ugly, wrapped around his tiny wrist like a silent accusation.
Charlie did that.
He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Remy tilts his head, blinking at him like he’s studying him.
“Daddy,” Remy says softly, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re sad.”
Charlie swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up slowly, careful not to jostle the bed too much. On his other side, Nick stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, still deep in sleep.
“I…” Charlie’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, reaching out tentatively, brushing his fingers over Remy’s curls. “I’m not sad, sweetheart.”
Remy squints at him, unconvinced. Then, without hesitation, he lifts his bruised wrist, holding it up between them.
Charlie flinches.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Remy looks at his own wrist like he hadn’t even thought about it before now, then shrugs. “A little. But you kissed it better, so it’s okay.”
Charlie’s throat feels tight. He reaches out again, this time taking Remy’s small hand between his own, being so, so gentle.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to Remy’s fingers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you so much, bud.”
Charlie barely has time to settle in, the warmth of Nick’s body so close, the softness of Remy pressed between them, before Remy shifts, tilting his head up to look at him. His little face is full of sleep, his eyes droopy, but there’s something else there too—hesitation, uncertainty.
“Daddy?” Remy whispers. “Are you mad at me?”
The question hits Charlie like a punch to the gut. His breath catches, his body tensing for just a second before he forces himself to relax, to look at his son—his son—whose small hands are still stretched out, touching both him and Nick like he’s afraid they might disappear.
Charlie blinks rapidly, swallows hard. “No, baby,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, sweetheart, I’m not mad at you.”
Remy’s face scrunches, his lip wobbling just a little. “But yesterday…”
Charlie exhales, closing his eyes briefly. Yesterday. The parking lot. The panic. The fear. The bruises on Remy’s tiny wrist.
Guilt, sharp and unrelenting, twists inside him, and he shifts closer, lifting a hand to brush through Remy’s curls. “I wasn’t mad at you,” he says again, firmer this time. “I was scared. I was so, so scared. But never at you, okay? Never you.”
Remy studies him for a long second, like he’s trying to figure out if he believes him, and Charlie feels like he’s being picked apart piece by piece, dissected by the only person in the world whose judgment truly matters.
Finally, Remy nods, his little body relaxing, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric of Charlie’s shirt. “Okay,” he mumbles sleepily. “Love you, Daddy.”
Charlie’s throat closes up, and when Nick reaches out, his hand finding Charlie’s in the dark, squeezing once, it’s enough to send him over the edge. He doesn’t let himself cry, not here, not now, but he shifts closer, pressing a kiss to Remy’s forehead, then to Nick’s knuckles where their hands are still joined.
“I love you too, bud,” Charlie whispers against Remy’s curls. “So much.”
“I’ma play now,” he announces, voice still thick with sleep, then turns to Nick and Charlie expectantly. “Papa, Daddy, breakfast?”
Charlie smiles, still groggy but undeniably fond. “Yeah, sweetheart, we’ll make breakfast, just let Nick wake up a bit more first.”
Remy huffs dramatically, his little arms crossing over his chest as he turns to look at Nick—who is still half-asleep, blinking blearily up at them. He shakes his head firmly, then points right at Nick with a deep frown.
“Not Nick. Papa.”
Charlie blinks. “Well, Remy, he’s—”
“Nuh-uh,” Remy interrupts, shaking his head even more stubbornly. “No Nick. He’s Papa.”
Charlie glances at Nick, unsure, but Nick just stares at Remy for a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, he smiles.
Soft. Warm. A little disbelieving.
Charlie swallows thickly. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to correct Remy—not when the name fits so well, not when it settles something deep inside him that he hadn’t even realized was restless.
Nick just stretches, rubbing a hand over his face before ruffling Remy’s hair. “Alright, bud. Papa’s awake,” he murmurs, voice still sleep-rough. “Let’s make some breakfast.”
And Charlie?
Charlie doesn’t correct it.
Remy shifts, stretching his little limbs with a dramatic yawn before suddenly perking up, his eyes bright with the realization that morning has officially started. With a squeal, he pushes himself up between them, grinning wide.
“Okay! I’m gonna go play with trains now!” he declares, not even giving them a moment to respond before he’s scrambling off the bed and bolting out of the room, his little feet padding against the hardwood floor as he disappears down the hall, giggling to himself.
Charlie watches him go, listens to the sound of his excitement echo through the house, before sighing and letting his head drop back against the pillow. The warmth of the bed, of Nick beside him, is too inviting to move just yet. And Nick, despite the way his muscles must be sore from curling into this tiny bed all night, doesn’t move either. They just lay there, breathing in the quiet, soaking in the stillness that comes after the storm.
After a few moments, Nick shifts slightly, turning to face Charlie, his expression hesitant, careful. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. “I should have—I should have woken you up. But Remy… he had a nightmare last night, and he asked for me.”
Charlie blinks, his breath catching slightly at the words.
“And because of everything that happened yesterday,” Nick continues, his voice soft, careful, “I just—I wanted you to rest. I don’t know, maybe I overstepped. It’s not my place at all. I’m not in any way fit to be a father, especially not to that kid. Not to Remy. Any title he gives me, I don’t deserve.”
Charlie furrows his brows at that, shifting onto his side to look at Nick properly. The self-doubt is clear in his face, in the way he won’t quite meet Charlie’s eyes. It stings, hearing Nick talk about himself like that, when all Charlie sees is someone who has been nothing but kind, nothing but steady.
“Nick,” he says, voice gentle but firm, “Remy asked for you.”
Nick lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly, as if that somehow makes the situation worse. “I know, but—”
“No,” Charlie interrupts, reaching out, placing a hand over Nick’s where it rests on the too-small pillow. “Nick, that means something. That means he feels safe with you. It means he trusts you.”
Nick finally looks at him then, expression conflicted, like he wants to believe it but can’t quite let himself.
Charlie squeezes his hand. “I trust you too,” he says, softer now, but no less sincere. “And I wouldn’t if I didn’t think you deserved it.”
Nick swallows, his jaw working like he’s fighting back words, or maybe emotions, and then he exhales, nodding slightly. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
Charlie doesn’t press more than that. Instead, he just shifts a little closer, resting his forehead lightly against Nick’s, allowing the quiet between them to settle, to fill the space with something unspoken but understood.
They stay like that for a while, until the distant sound of Remy’s excited train noises pulls them both back to reality, back to the home they are somehow—slowly, carefully—building together.