Chapter 25
Nick has decided he hates his job.
Not the kids—never the kids. He still loves teaching, still loves seeing the light in their eyes when they learn something new, still loves the way they scribble their names in shaky handwriting and call him over, so proud, as if they’ve just written a novel. That part? That part is still his.
But everything else? The school? The walls? The fucking halls that Ben Hope now roams like he belongs there?
Yeah. He hates it.
He hates how Ben randomly shows up in his classroom, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, eyes sweeping across Nick’s students like he’s memorizing them, trying to make an impression, trying to be friendly. As if he’s not the same man who hurt Charlie. The same man who tried to take Remy. The same man who is weeks away from running this school.
He hates how Charlie is quieter now, how the light in his voice has dimmed just a bit. How coffee runs are becoming rare again, how the playful texts about their next morning date have stopped. How Charlie lingers in his car instead of stepping inside. How every morning, instead of walking Remy in, Charlie waits in the parking lot while Nick walks out to get him.
Nick hates how he’s the one pulling Remy’s small hand into his, guiding him into the building, feeling the weight of Charlie’s gaze on his back but never meeting his eyes.
He hates how he scolds Remy every time he starts to call him Papa at school instead of Mr. Nick.
He hates the way Remy’s face falls, the way his eyebrows pinch in confusion. The way he pouts and tugs on Nick’s sleeve and whispers, “But you’re Papa.”
Nick doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know how to say that the wrong person hearing that word in the wrong place, at the wrong time, could ruin everything. That Ben, with his cruel smirk and his calculated charm, would twist it into something ugly. That Nick’s already pushing his luck, already playing with fire by being in Charlie and Remy’s lives at all.
He doesn’t know how to explain it, so instead, he just sighs and shakes his head and says, “Not here, Rem. Not at school.”
And Remy just frowns harder, confused, but listens. Because he’s a good kid. Because he’s Charlie’s kid.
Nick hates it.
He hates it because he can see the way this is all getting to Charlie. He can see the weight settling back onto his shoulders, the paranoia creeping in, the way he holds Remy just a little tighter at pick-up, kisses his forehead a little longer before letting him go.
He hates it because he doesn’t know how to fix it.
Because he’s trying. He’s trying so damn hard. But Ben is still here, Charlie is still scared, Remy is still confused, and Nick—
Nick is just fucking helpless.
Nick feels like he’s failing.
Failing Charlie. Failing Remy. Failing himself.
Just like he failed Otis.
It gnaws at him, a quiet, insidious voice in the back of his mind that tells him he’s not enough. Not strong enough. Not careful enough. Not good enough.
Charlie is slipping through his fingers, spiraling into a panic he can’t always pull him out of. Remy is scared and confused, stuck between past traumas he doesn’t fully understand and a present that Nick isn’t sure he knows how to navigate. And Nick—Nick is standing there, trying to hold them both together with hands that have never been steady enough to catch anyone.
Otis fell. And Nick couldn’t catch him.
He sees the same thing happening all over again. Charlie slipping, shaking, ready to fall, and no matter how hard Nick tries to reach him, to grab onto him, his fingers always come up just short.
Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe Nick isn’t meant to be the person people rely on, because at the end of the day, he always lets them down.
The thoughts wrap around him like a vice, dragging him deeper into that familiar, suffocating guilt. He barely notices the cafeteria noise around him, the way the kids’ laughter and chatter swirl together in the background, all of it feeling too distant, too far away.
And then—a sudden, sharp clatter jerks him back to reality.
Nick blinks, startled, as a food tray lands with a loud thud on his desk, barely missing the edge of his open grade book. He looks up to see Imogen standing there, arms crossed, brow furrowed in concern.
“Earth to Mr. Nelson,” she says, giving him a pointed look. “Are you even here right now?”
Nick exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Sorry. Just… distracted.”
Imogen doesn’t buy it. She never does.
She pulls out a chair, plopping down across from him with all the grace of someone who’s made herself at home in his presence far too many times before. “Distracted, huh? Nick?” she echoes, narrowing her eyes.
Nick barely registers the sound of his name at first, too lost in his own head, running over everything again and again—Charlie’s panic attack, Ben’s return, Remy calling him Papa like it’s always been that way. It’s too much, all of it. His thoughts are a tangled mess, looping over each other, an endless spiral of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
“Nicholas.” Imogen’s voice is softer now, teasing but with an edge of concern. “Please tell me what’s distracting you? Is it a girl? A boy? Is it that cute curly-headed boy that’s been dropping you off coffee? Please, for the love of all that is good, tell me it is!”
Nick blinks, finally snapping out of his haze enough to register her smug grin and the way she’s practically bouncing in her seat.
“It’s really nothing, Imogen,” he says, shaking his head, though the words feel automatic, detached from reality.
Imogen doesn’t buy it. Of course, she doesn’t. She never has. She narrows her eyes, tilting her head slightly as she studies him.
“Mmmhmm,” she hums, leaning back in her chair like she’s about to interrogate him. “Last time I saw you this distracted, this deep in your own head was—” She cuts herself off abruptly, pressing her lips together.
Nick knows what she was going to say.
Otis.
Yeah. He guesses this stress, this weight pressing down on him, is similar. Different circumstances, different ghosts haunting his every step, but the feeling? The exhaustion? The fear of losing someone he loves?
That’s the same.
Nick swallows hard, looking away. “It’s just been a long week,” he mutters, hoping that will be enough.
Imogen frowns but doesn’t push. She just reaches over, squeezing his arm gently. “Well,” she says, voice softer now, “whoever it is, I hope they’re worth all this worrying you’re doing.”
Nick lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “They are.”
Imogen hums, stirring her drink lazily, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Hmm... Well, if this is about coffee boy, I like him. Tara and Darcy agree."
Nick nearly chokes on his own coffee, eyes widening as he turns to her. "You've been talking to them about me?!"
Imogen shrugs, completely unbothered. "Well, yeah. You've kind of been ignoring all of our texts, and last time you actually came out, you wouldn’t shut up about some hot daddy."
Nick gapes at her, scandalized. "I did not use the term daddy or hot! And—there are children here! Shshsh!"
Imogen just grins, utterly delighted by his reaction. "Jeez, so dirty-minded, you. I wasn’t implying it like that. What? He is a father, isn’t he? And you do find him hot, right?"
Nick sputters, face turning a shade of pink that rivals the strawberry milkshake in front of her. "What?! I have no idea what you’re talking about."
Imogen tilts her head, utterly unconvinced. "Yeah? Explain the hickey then." She points smugly to the faint bruise peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.
Right. That.
Nick resists the urge to groan because, of course, of course Imogen would notice. He barely remembers it’s there half the time, but the second someone else points it out? Yeah, now he’s aware of it. Very aware.
Right. Yesterday. Charlie had taken Remy down for a nap and then begged Nick to come over. Naturally, Nick assumed it was some kind of emergency, so he rushed over—only to get immediately shoved against a wall and kissed like his life depended on it.
Not that Nick was complaining or anything. It was just… surprising. Charlie wasn’t usually that bold, not unless he’d had a few drinks. But yesterday had been rough for him—Nick had seen it, from the moment he’d dropped off Remy to the moment he picked him up, the exhaustion hanging off him like a weighted blanket. He’d barely responded to texts, and Nick had been worried, but—well, that was how Charlie chose to deal with it.
Not that Nick was going to explain any of that to Imogen.
So instead, he turns to her with a glare, voice dropping into a low whisper. "Shhh! No one can know!"
Imogen just laughs, sipping her drink with a triumphant twinkle in her eyes. "Mm-hmm. Sure, Nicky. Whatever you say."
Nick scans the cafeteria, his eyes sweeping over the clusters of students before landing on Remy. The kid is sitting at a table with a few other children, chatting animatedly, and Nick feels something in his chest ease. That’s new. A good new, hopefully. Friends.
He forces himself to focus back on Imogen, who is idly stirring her milkshake with her straw, eyebrows raised at him.
"No, really, no one can know," Nick insists, voice hushed but firm.
Imogen rolls her eyes. “Why? Just because you’re fucking a student’s parent? That’s not a crime, Nicholas.”
Nick groans, rubbing his temples. “No, but it’s a crime when the person I’m fucking's ex-husband is our future principal.”
Imogen chokes—actually chokes—on her milkshake, spluttering as she grabs a napkin. “What?!” she hisses, eyes wide.
Nick exhales sharply, bracing himself.
“Ben,” he says. “Charlie’s ex. Ben fucking Hope.”
Imogen stares at him for a solid three seconds before she shakes her head, muttering, “Oh, you are so screwed.”
“I know! That’s why I’m all—well, this, distracted and all that! Because fucking... Ben. He’s not a good guy, alright?” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I’m almost 100% sure he paid his way into this position.”
Imogen, sitting across from him, frowns, arms crossed. “Why would he even want to work with kids if he has that kind of money?” She tilts her head, studying him. “Nick, I know the anniversary of Otis is in two days, and maybe—”
Nick cuts her off, sharp and immediate. “Don’t.” His voice wavers, just slightly. “That’s not—” He swallows. “Yes, I know it’s coming up. It’s not like I fucking count the days or anything, haven’t been for weeks.” His voice cracks at the last word, and he exhales through his nose, running a frustrated hand down his face.
Imogen watches him carefully, concern evident, but Nick doesn’t stop.
“I’m—look,” he continues, voice quieter, a little more strained. “Remy—no, Charlie—” He corrects himself, because this isn’t just about Remy, this is about Charlie. “The guy I like? His son Remy isn’t biologically his. And Ben, I’m assuming, wants Remy back. Wants to take Remy from Charlie, because that’s the kind of asshole he is.”
Imogen’s eyes widen slightly, processing that.
Nick exhales, hands on his hips. “And it’s stressing me out, because I shouldn’t know any of this, right? But I do. Because I got close to a student’s parent and now—now here I am! Fucking spiraling about something that’s not even my business, but it is because it’s Charlie and—”
He stops, catching his breath, because suddenly his chest is tight.
Imogen sighs, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Nick…” Her voice is gentle. “Do you want to be in Remy’s life? Like, actually? Because it kinda sounds like you already are.”
Nick’s breath hitches. His stomach drops.
Because fuck. Fuck.
He does.
Nick drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. His whole body feels tense, coiled tight with the weight of everything. This isn’t about me.
He says it like a mantra, like a reminder, but it doesn’t ease the pressure building in his chest.
This is about Remy staying in a safe home. About keeping him away from Ben’s reach, from whatever twisted game Ben is playing. This is about Charlie. My… Nick swallows, voice barely above a whisper. Mine.
He feels the word settle in his bones, heavy and terrifying and true.
'I can’t lose him, Imogen."
His voice cracks, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. Not from her. Not now.
"Not like…"
The name goes unsaid, but it lingers between them like a ghost, like a wound that never quite healed.
Imogen exhales softly, giving him a look that’s both understanding and determined. “Well, what do you want to do, Nick?” she asks. “You’re smart, you’re strong, and you’ve got the heart. What is it you want?”
Nick sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I… I want Charlie to go to court,” he admits. “I want him to do some sort of restraining order or something. Force Ben to stay far away. Have the public know what kind of person Ben really is.”
Imogen nods, as if she already knew that’s where his thoughts were heading. But she waits, sensing there’s more.
And there is.
But.
Nick feels it like a weight on his chest, the part of this plan that’s the hardest. The most painful.
“But that means having Charlie open up wounds I don’t think he can,” Nick murmurs. “He’s already been to court once, battling for custody. And from the way he talks about it, from the way he looks when he even mentions Ben, I think he barely won. I…” He hesitates, voice tight. “I don’t know if he can handle going into a courtroom again. I don’t know if I can ask him to do that.”
Imogen is quiet for a moment, watching him. And then, gently, she asks, “But can you live with it if you don’t?”
Nick’s breath catches.
Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?
Can he live with the idea of Ben still lurking? Can he live with the fear in Charlie’s eyes, the way Charlie still flinches at the idea of Ben coming anywhere near Remy?
Can he live with himself if he does nothing?
No.
No, he can’t.
"You have your answer, Nick,” Imogen says, watching him closely. “And, honestly? I get bad vibes from Ben. He’s been… stalking? Almost. I don’t know how else to put it, but it’s bizarre. He lingers, he watches, he inserts himself into conversations where he doesn’t belong. And he’s been making comments.”
Nick frowns. “Comments?”
She nods, crossing her arms. “Yeah. About my pride flags in my classroom. About my pink hair strands. He keeps bringing them up, saying they’re ‘unprofessional’ or that they ‘don’t reflect the school’s values.’” She air-quotes the words mockingly, but there’s unease in her voice. “It’s weird, Nick. Controlling. If what you’re hinting at is similar to what Charlie went through, then…”
Nick’s jaw clenches. “Our kids deserve safety.”
Imogen nods. “And the boy you care for? He deserves it too.”
Nick exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but I can’t pressure Charlie into doing anything. It’s his life, his decision.”
“I know that,” Imogen says gently, “but… I think he’ll listen to you. He seems like a nice guy. He seems to trust you.” She tilts her head, giving him a meaningful look. “So… try?”
Nick stares at her for a long moment, his thoughts racing. Charlie did trust him. He had let Nick in, let him see the cracks, let him hold him through the worst of it. But bringing this up, suggesting something—what? That Charlie should take action? That he should fight back? That he should do something about Ben before it was too late?
Would Charlie even hear him? Or would he shut down completely?
Nick lets out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet but firm. “I’ll try.”
Nick tries. He really does.
He has every intention of sitting down with Charlie today, of bringing up the idea of talking to a lawyer, a judge, anyone who can make sure Ben can’t just waltz back into their lives like he owns them. He wants legal action, something permanent, something that finally—finally—paints Ben as the bad guy he truly is.
But then he sees Charlie’s frown.
He sees the way Charlie's brows pinch together as he picks up Remy, holding him close, and Nick’s heart clenches. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is, it’s already weighing heavily on Charlie’s mind.
And Nick just can’t add to that right now.
Not when Charlie’s shoulders are already too tight with tension, not when he’s looking at Remy like he’s trying to memorize every feature, like he’s afraid—deep down—that he might not get to hold him like this forever.
So Nick swallows the words that are on the tip of his tongue.
Later. He’ll bring it up later.
Right now, Charlie needs something else. Comfort, reassurance—something Nick can actually give him, even if it’s just in the form of a steady presence. So instead of launching into a conversation about judges and courts and custody battles, he reaches out, resting a gentle hand on Charlie’s back.
"Hey," he says softly. "What’s wrong?"
Charlie takes a breath, tightening his hold on Remy, and Nick knows. He knows before Charlie even says it.
It’s Ben. It always is.
Nick hates it.
Hates how Ben has rewired Charlie, changed him in ways that make Nick’s stomach churn with frustration and grief. The Charlie he first met—the one who made sarcastic remarks, who had an easy laugh, who carried the weight of the world but still found light in the smallest things—that Charlie is still there, but he's dimmer now.
More closed off.
A bit of a shell of what he used to be. It reminds Nick too much of Otis. Otis, who had always been the brightest person in the room, who had a way of making people feel like they belonged. Who smiled and joked and carried on, right up until he didn’t.
Right up until it was too late.
And Nick, blind and foolish and too wrapped up in his own world, didn’t see it then. Didn’t see how the laughter had turned a little more forced, how the weight on Otis’s shoulders had gotten heavier, how he had started withdrawing, hiding pieces of himself behind well-practiced smiles.
And now, watching the way Charlie moves around like a ghost of himself—still functioning, still putting on a brave face for Remy but otherwise seeming… sad—Nick feels that same, gnawing fear creeping up his spine. He can’t let history repeat itself.
He won’t.
He won’t be too late this time. He won’t miss the signs. He won’t ignore the little things—the way Charlie’s smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he flinches at unexpected touches, the way his fingers tremble slightly when he thinks no one is looking.
Ben did this to him. Twisted and broke him down. Convinced him that love was conditional, that he had to beg for crumbs. That his needs, his happiness, didn’t matter.
Nick wants to fix it. Wants to put the pieces back together, to hold Charlie close and remind him that he’s worthy of love, of kindness, of safety. But he also knows that fixing someone isn’t that easy.
So instead, he watches, he listens, he stays. He makes him coffee just the way he likes it. He keeps the bed warm at night before he heads to his own apartment, which doesn't feel much like home anymore. He kisses his forehead when he thinks Charlie needs it, even when Charlie doesn’t ask.
And he waits. Because Charlie isn’t Otis.
Otis slipped through his fingers before Nick could hold on.
Charlie is still here. And Nick isn’t going to let him go.
It’s easy like this. It’s always been easy with Otis.
Nick sits on the edge of his bed, one foot on the floor, the other tucked under him, a cold beer in hand, barely touched. Otis is sprawled out on the dorm room floor, legs kicked out, one arm lazily draped over his stomach, the other holding a half-empty bottle of water, condensation dripping onto his shirt. He doesn’t care. He’s laughing too hard to care.
“Nick,” Otis gasps between cackles, shaking his head, eyes scrunched up in delight. “You—no, listen—you cannot seriously be telling me you thought she was flirting with you.”
Nick groans, flopping back against the bed dramatically. “She was twirling her hair, man.”
“She had gum stuck in it.”
Nick throws an arm over his face. “Fuck off.”
Otis howls with laughter, full-bodied, joyous, the kind of sound that makes the world feel lighter. Nick can’t help but grin, peeking at him from under his arm.
“Alright, fine,” he mutters, taking a sip of his beer, wincing a little because it’s warm now. “Maybe I was misreading the signs.”
Otis snorts. “Maybe?” He props himself up on his elbows, still grinning. “Dude, I love you, but your gaydar is so fucked. Like, beyond repair.”
Nick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, shaking his head. “You’re one to talk.”
“Excuse me?” Otis sits up fully now, pointing at himself. “I have impeccable taste.”
“You had a crush on our chem professor.”
Otis gasps, placing a hand over his heart like Nick just deeply wounded him. “Professor Larkin was hot, and that is not up for debate.”
Nick laughs, taking another swig of his beer. “She was sixty.”
“She had a presence.” Otis smirks, shaking his head as he leans back on his hands, watching Nick with that familiar glint in his eye. “Come on, Nicky. You know you have a type.”
Nick scoffs. “I do not.”
“You so do. Nerdy. A little bossy. Way too pretty for their own good.”
Nick opens his mouth, ready to argue, but stops. Closes it. Thinks.
Otis grins wider. “See?”
Nick groans again, pushing his beer onto the nightstand and covering his face with both hands. “Fuck you.”
Otis just laughs, nudging Nick’s knee with his foot. “You love me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nick drops his hands, eyes softening. “I do.”
Otis' grin falters, just a little, and Nick catches it. But before he can say anything, before he can ask, Otis is stretching his arms out and sighing dramatically.
“Man, I don’t wanna do this fucking paper.”
Nick huffs a laugh, picking up his abandoned notebook and tossing it at him. “Yeah, yeah. Get to work, dumbass.”
Otis catches it, laughing again, easy and bright. The night continues, their laughter filling the room, warm and safe.
Nick doesn’t know then that it won’t last forever.
He doesn’t know how many more nights like this they’ll have.
He doesn’t know that years from now, he’ll still hear Otis’ laughter in the quiet, in the spaces between memories.
Right now, they’re here. Together.
And that’s enough.
Nick had laughed. He remembers that. He’d laughed, rolling his eyes and nudging Otis with his shoulder, calling him dramatic, calling him stupid, calling him anything that wasn’t serious because it wasn’t supposed to be serious. It was a joke. A dumb, morbid joke that Otis made sometimes, because he had a dark sense of humor and they were best friends and that’s just what they did.
But looking back…
Looking back, it wasn’t funny at all.
“Hey, Nick?” Otis asks, voice quieter than usual, almost thoughtful, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to.
“Mm?” Nick hums, stretched out across his dorm bed, flipping a football in his hands like it means nothing. Like Otis’ words mean nothing.
“You’d throw a good funeral for me, yeah?”
Nick snorts, glancing at him with a grin. “What? When we’re eighty? Sure, dude. I’ll make sure to play Life is a Highway and have a buffet of brownies.”
Otis laughs, but now—now Nick knows that laugh is too light, too forced. He doesn’t notice it then, brushes right past it, because why would he notice? Otis makes jokes like that all the time, laughs at things that aren’t really funny, and Nick never thinks to question it.
Otis shakes his head, takes a sip of his water, then says, “Oh, shut up. I’d want brownies and cookies, man.”
And Nick grins, stretching his arms behind his head, completely oblivious. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll plan the best damn funeral. But who says you’re dying first, huh?”
Otis just shrugs, tapping his fingers against the water bottle, gaze flickering toward the window. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice distant. “Fate?”
Nick hadn’t known.
He hadn’t known.
Hadn’t caught the weight in those words, hadn’t heard the way they almost pleaded for him to listen. He’d let it slip past him, let it float away into nothing, because Otis was fine, wasn’t he? He was fine. They were just joking.
It was just a joke.
A stupid, stupid joke.
But a few weeks later, Nick was standing in a church, staring at a casket, and Life is a Highway wasn’t playing because Otis’ mom said it wasn’t appropriate nor his favorite song, and there were brownies, but Nick couldn’t eat a single one because his stomach felt like it was caving in on itself, and none of it was funny.
None of it was a joke.
Fate.
Otis had known. And Nick hadn’t seen it.
He still hears it sometimes, late at night when the world is too quiet and his mind is too loud.
"You’d throw a good funeral for me, yeah?"
And the worst part?
Otis had trusted him to.
Nick swallows hard, his throat tight. Two days. Two days until the anniversary. Until the weight of Otis’s death suffocates him all over again. Until the guilt claws at his chest, whispering that he could have done more, should have done more.
He shakes his head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers.
Does Charlie trust him like Otis did?
Does Charlie believe Nick can catch him, hold him up when the world threatens to tear him down?
Otis had trusted him. Had trusted him to see the warning signs, to hear the unsaid words, to understand that something was wrong before it was too late. Otis had trusted him to catch him. But Nick hadn’t. He had been too busy, too blind, too wrapped up in his own life, and by the time he noticed, Otis was already gone.
Charlie trusts him.
Charlie trusts him to be here, to hold him, to protect Remy, to stay. Charlie lets himself fall into Nick’s arms, into his life, into this fragile hope they’re both clinging to.
And God, that terrifies Nick.
Because what if he fails again? What if Charlie needs him, and he doesn’t see it? What if one day, he wakes up, and Charlie is just… gone?
The way Otis was.
He can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen.
H̶e̶ w̶o̶n̶'t̶ l̶e̶t̶ i̶t̶ h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶. H̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶. D̶e̶a̶t̶h̶. O̶t̶i̶s̶. O̶t̶i̶s̶ i̶s̶ d̶e̶a̶d̶. O̶t̶i̶s̶ i̶s̶ d̶e̶a̶d̶ b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ o̶f̶ h̶i̶m̶. H̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶. I̶t̶ h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶e̶d̶. N̶i̶c̶k̶ c̶a̶n̶'t̶ l̶e̶t̶ i̶t̶ h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶. N̶o̶t̶ c̶h̶a̶r̶l̶i̶e̶. N̶o̶. N̶o̶ n̶o̶ n̶o̶. N̶o̶t̶ c̶h̶a̶r̶l̶i̶e̶. O̶t̶i̶s̶ i̶s̶ d̶e̶a̶d̶. N̶o̶t̶ c̶h̶a̶r̶l̶i̶e̶. N̶o̶ n̶o̶ n̶o̶. H̶e̶ w̶o̶n̶'t̶ l̶e̶t̶ i̶t̶ h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶.
It's already happening, though, isn't it. Charlie reaching out. Nick failing....
No.
No.
Nick's fingers twitch on Charlie's shoulder, a reflex, a need to ground himself—to ground Charlie—because Ben is there. Standing back. Watching. Always fucking watching.
Charlie doesn’t seem to notice yet, too focused on buckling Remy into his car seat, nodding along as the little boy babbles about his day, his tiny hands flailing in excitement. It’s such a domestic moment, something Nick should be able to enjoy. Something Charlie should be able to enjoy.
But no.
Because Ben is there.
Nick’s jaw tightens, his other hand instinctively clenching into a fist at his side. His pulse pounds, a slow, rising thrum of anger and unease. It doesn’t matter that they’re in public, that Ben shouldn’t—can’t—do anything here.
He’s still watching.
Still waiting.
Still lurking.
Fuck.
Charlie finally straightens, shutting the car door, and the second he turns, Nick watches as the realization dawns. Watches as all the color drains from Charlie’s face, as his posture stiffens and his breathing hitches. Nick watches Charlie freeze.
And Ben?
Ben smiles.
Nick fucking hates him.