Chapter 31
It starts as an argument. That’s all it is—at first.
Nick has been on edge for weeks, anxious and restless. Remy has been quieter, a little more distant, watching them with those wide, knowing eyes. And Charlie—Charlie has been paranoid. About Ben. About Nick. About everything.
It was only a matter of time before something cracked.
Nick brings it up first, the idea that Charlie should keep seeing someone, a professional. Just to help. Charlie agrees easily, tells him he’s been talking to someone for years, that it’s helped him more than he ever thought possible.
And then Nick spirals.
He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Not about Otis. Not about the way he sometimes gets the itch to cut. Not about how his skin feels like a costume some days, too tight and too wrong and not his own. Charlie tells him that talking helps, that it’s scary but it helps, and Nick shakes his head, pacing, running his hands through his hair.
Then he says it—work has him paranoid. Ben has him stressed.
Charlie freezes. “Why?”
Nick stiffens. His jaw tightens. And then—he snaps.
Charlie doesn’t know what to do.
Nick is yelling. Yelling in a way he never has before, in a way Charlie never thought he would. And it's wrong. It’s all wrong. The warmth Nick always carries, the steady comfort Charlie has clung to for the last few months—it’s missing. It’s absent in the sharp edge of his words, in the venom dripping from his tone.
It reminds him of Ben.
And Charlie feels like he’s back there. Standing in the kitchen with a plate of spaghetti, bracing himself for another cutting remark, for another jab that will gut him open, for another hand raised too quickly for him to flinch away in time.
His hands shake. His breath shudders in his chest. His heart pounds.
Nick doesn’t hit. He never has. He never will. But yelling—it’s too close, too similar, and Charlie doesn’t know how to separate the past from the present, Ben from Nick, the hurt from the safety he used to know.
His eyes flicker past Nick for just a second, out of instinct more than anything, searching for something—someone—to ground him. But then he sees Remy.
Remy, sitting in the living room, trains in his small hands, not playing anymore. He’s still, his little brows pinched, his lip wobbling. His big, round eyes, so like Ben’s but so, so different, are glassy with unshed tears.
He recognizes the anger in Nick’s voice. He understands it.
And he’s scared.
Charlie feels like he’s going to be sick.
His body moves before he even realizes it, stepping slightly in front of Nick, as if to shield Remy from words that shouldn’t exist in this house, from the tension pressing against the walls. But Nick doesn’t even seem to notice.
"Because your fucking ex-husband is up my ass about everything!" Nick snaps, his voice sharp and ragged. "He saw me interacting with you, and now he's making my life a personal hell! He's insufferable! He's terrible! He’s your fucking ex and he's here because of you!"
Charlie flinches. He doesn't mean to, but he does. He hasn’t been yelled at in so long. And hearing it—hearing it from Nick—it’s like a slap to the face, like the walls of his home are caving in around him.
He swallows thickly, shaking his head, words failing him. "What?" His voice cracks, thin and unsure. "It’s... It’s not—Not my fault. You... You told me before it wasn’t my fault…”
Nick scoffs, running a rough hand through his hair, and then he snaps.
"Well, I lied!" he barks. "I fucking lied! I loved my job before! Before! Now I hate it! I hate it because I have Remy to look after more than any other kid, because he’s too fucking needy and spoiled and hates other kids and forces me to play with him when I’m exhausted and just want a break! And I hate my job because of Ben breathing down my neck, and it’s all because of you!
"He’s here because of you! And you—you gave me responsibility over Remy that I never fucking asked for!"
Charlie’s world goes silent.
He feels the words slice through him, a wound so deep he knows it won’t heal quickly.
Nick hates his job.
Nick resents Remy.
Nick resents him.
Charlie’s breath stutters, his throat closing up, and he turns, desperately, instinctively, toward his son. He needs to make sure he’s okay. Please be okay, baby, please be okay.
But Remy—sweet, soft, small Remy—has fat tears rolling down his cheeks now, his tiny fingers gripping his train so tightly his knuckles are turning white. He doesn’t look at Charlie. He doesn’t look at Nick.
He just stares at the floor, sniffling quietly.
Charlie wants to fix it. He wants to do something. But his feet feel cemented to the floor, his hands shaking at his sides, his body too frozen in place to move toward his child. Because something else is screaming in his head—Ben’s voice, Nick’s voice, his own voice.
You gave me responsibility over Remy that I never fucking asked for.
Charlie swallows down bile.
“Remy,” he says, voice cracking, but Remy flinches, squeezing his eyes shut. Like he’s waiting to be yelled at, too.
And Charlie can’t fucking take it.
His hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He turns back to Nick, who still looks so angry, so frustrated, and Charlie doesn’t—he doesn’t recognize him.
Charlie watches as Nick’s entire body tenses, his anger simmering just beneath the surface before he steps back, as if suddenly afraid of himself. His hands twitch at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes darting toward the floor before he exhales sharply.
“I’m sorry,” Nick mutters, voice tight, hands threading through his hair before they drop uselessly. “I just—God, I know I’m a fuckup. Work sucks. I never should have been seen as fit for this. I love Remy, I do, but—I can’t take it.”
Charlie feels the words hit before he even fully processes them, a sharp, piercing ache that makes his breath hitch. But Nick isn’t done.
“Ben is at work, Charlie. You know why. We both do. He wants you back. He wants Remy back. We’ve known this, we’ve fucking known this, and we haven’t talked about it, and it’s been days and weeks and—” Nick’s voice cracks, anger turning to something more raw, more desperate. “It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.”
Charlie swallows hard, his nails digging into his palms, but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move.
“I don’t like Ben in my classroom,” Nick continues, voice growing hoarse. “I don’t like him breathing down my neck, I don’t like that I have to pretend like everything’s fine when he looks at me like I’m nothing. And I don’t—I don’t like this responsibility. I don’t like looking after Remy because—” Nick chokes on the words before forcing them out. “Because he isn’t my son.”
And that. That’s what does it.
It doesn’t just break Charlie—it shatters him. But worse, it shatters Remy.
The toy in Remy’s hands slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor. And then he’s moving, small and quick and full of nothing but wide-eyed, open-hearted love, sprinting straight to Nick before Charlie can stop him.
Remy’s little hands grab onto Nick’s arm, tugging at his sleeve, voice trembling as he whimpers, “Papa? Papa mad?” His lip wobbles, his hands clutching tighter. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry. Papa? Papa? Papa?”
Charlie wants to grab him, wants to pull him away, shield him from the heartbreak that’s coming—but Remy is too fast, too trusting, too kind.
Nick doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look at Remy. Doesn’t acknowledge him.
He just stares—straight at Charlie.
And Charlie hates that look. Hates it more than anything. It’s empty. It’s lost. It’s the look of someone who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing anymore. Someone who’s unraveling. Someone who is running, even when they don’t have anywhere to go.
Charlie’s breath is shallow, his pulse thrumming in his ears, as Remy tugs on Nick’s sleeve again, desperate now, voice cracking—
“Papa?”
Nothing.
Just that same blank, defeated look.
Charlie’s stomach twists, his instincts screaming at him to fix this, fix this now, before it’s too late. Before Nick says something else that will leave a scar.
Before Remy learns what it feels like to be unwanted.
Charlie doesn’t even know how it gets to this point. How they go from waking up together, tangled in warmth, with sleepy smiles and soft kisses, to this.
Nick—his Nick—is standing across from him, jaw clenched, eyes filled with something Charlie can’t name. Something that twists in his chest and makes his stomach churn. This isn’t them. This isn’t how they work. But it’s happening, and Charlie feels like he’s watching everything fall apart in slow motion.
"Nick, you can't just..." Charlie's voice wavers, but he pushes forward. "I didn't—You knew. You knew before any of this that I was a father, that I had a kid! That's how we met, for God’s sake! Of course Remy was going to trust and love you. He does with all adults. Kids are... trusting, until you break it. He knows you’re special to me, so of course you're special to him too—”
Nick shakes his head, looking away, hands gripping his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back together. "Charlie—"
"We can—" Charlie swallows hard, trying to breathe, trying to keep from completely unraveling. "I know Ben is here for Remy. I know that. You know that. But we can—Why are you being so rude? If you had these doubts, why didn’t you just tell me?"
Nick lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, but it sounds like it hurts. "Because, Charlie, you're not well!" He gestures vaguely, voice rising. "The last thing I needed was to make it worse!"
Charlie barely has time to process those words, the implication, the truth of them, before there’s a small tug at Nick’s sleeve.
“Papa,” Remy says softly.
Nick flinches at the name like it's a slap to the face. "Not now!" His voice is too sharp, too rough, and Charlie sees the way Remy’s lip trembles.
And that—that—is the final fucking straw.
"Don't snap at my fucking son!" Charlie snaps, stepping forward, heart hammering. “He’s upset, and he just wants you to hold him! He thinks he did something wrong!"
Nick scoffs, running a hand down his face. "Well, maybe he did do something wrong! He put the wrong label and trust in the wrong person! I'm not his fucking father, Charlie. I'm not meant to be one! I’m meant to be a teacher—that's it. Take care of kids from 9:30 to 3, and then go home and live my life. Not—” He gestures wildly. “Not whatever this is!"
Charlie’s breath catches, fury and heartbreak crashing over him in waves. "It’s not his fucking fault! Maybe before you decided I was good enough to fuck, you should have thought of that!"
Nick’s eyes snap to his, anger flashing, hurt woven into every sharp edge of his expression. "Oh, so this is my fault!?"
Charlie exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No, it’s Ben’s! It’s always been Ben’s! Always will be! But you're fucking letting him win by dragging you down! By controlling you! You're shutting me out, just like he wants! Obviously something happened. Something he said. Something you're not telling me!"
Nick opens his mouth, about to argue, about to throw something else back, when—
"Papa," Remy says again, softer this time, small fingers tugging on Nick’s sleeve.
And then—it happens.
Charlie sees it in slow motion, like some cruel twist of fate pulling the worst version of reality into focus. Nick turns abruptly, frustration and exhaustion and everything catching up to him in one violent motion. His arm jerks back in exaggeration, a blind movement—
And his hand collides with Remy.
The sound isn't loud. Not a slap, not intentional, not that—but it's enough. Enough that Remy stumbles back a step, enough that a small, shocked cry escapes his lips, enough that Charlie's entire fucking world stops.
Nick freezes.
Charlie doesn’t.
His instincts take over in an instant—one second Remy is blinking up at Nick in pure confusion, little fingers going to his cheek, and the next, Charlie is scooping him up, holding him, shielding him, hands shaking. He hears the way Remy’s breath hitches, the way his small body curls into Charlie’s chest, seeking comfort.
He hears Nick let out a sharp, broken sound.
“I—” Nick stares at his hands like they don’t belong to him, like they’re foreign, like he’s just realized what he’s done and it’s killing him. His whole body sags, eyes wide and horrified. “Charlie, I—fuck. I didn’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—”
Charlie steps back, instinct. "Remy, baby, are you okay?" His voice shakes as he runs his hands through Remy's hair, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, checking everything. “Are you hurt, baby? Let Daddy see.”
"Oh my god," Nick breathes, voice breaking. His knees nearly give out. "Oh my god. No—Remy, sweetheart, I— I didn’t—"
Charlie doesn’t let him finish.
“Get. Out.”
Nick blinks. "Charlie—"
"Get the fuck out," Charlie says, louder this time, voice shaking, his vision blurring with tears he refuses to let fall.
"Charlie, wait—"
"No!" Charlie shouts, chest heaving. "You don't get to do this! You don't get to come into my home, and scream at me, and tell me you fucking hate my son! Hurt my son! You don’t get to be Ben!"
Nick stumbles back like he's been punched. "I—"
"Leave!" Charlie’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t care. "Remy doesn’t deserve to hear that! Feel that! I don’t deserve to hear that, see that, live that again! Just get the fuck out!"
Nick’s eyes snap to his, wild and desperate. "I hit him, Charlie. I—" He chokes on the words, shaking his head in disbelief. "I said I wouldn’t. I promised—I swore, I fucking swore—"It happened! I—I let my anger get the best of me, and I—" He drags his hands down his face, stepping back, retreating. "Charlie, I—I can’t do this. I can’t."
Charlie cradles Remy against his chest, pressing gentle kisses to his reddened cheek, whispering soft reassurances even as his own heart feels like it’s shattering. His son’s breath is still uneven, hiccups shaking his small frame, but Charlie holds him tighter, grounding himself in the warmth of the little boy who has always been his entire world.
Then he looks up at Nick.
And it isn’t the man he’s grown to love that he sees standing there—it’s someone he doesn’t recognize. Someone with wild eyes and a trembling mouth, someone full of regret but still unable to take back what’s already been done.
“Nick,” Charlie says, voice low but sharp. “Until you talk to someone—until you figure out what the fuck you want, until you actually work through all the anger and sadness and whatever the hell led to this—” He gestures down at Remy, at the evidence of what happened. “You get the fuck out.”
Nick flinches, his entire body tensing like he’s been struck, but Charlie doesn’t care.
“You don’t contact me. You don’t show up. You don’t fucking exist in my life until you fix yourself,” Charlie continues, voice shaking with fury and something deeper, something more painful. “I will not—I refuse—to let myself fall into another relationship where I have to brace for impact every time something goes wrong.”
“Charlie, please,” Nick chokes out. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, I swear to God, I was just talking with my hands and it just happened. I would never—I didn’t mean to.”
Charlie laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just exhaustion, just pain. “You did, Nick,” he spits. “I don’t give a fuck that you ‘didn’t mean to.’ You still did it. And I won’t let that slide. Not again. Not ever.”
Nick takes a step forward, but Charlie tightens his hold on Remy, standing his ground. “Whatever it is that’s got you on Ben’s fucking leash, fix it. Because I sure as hell had to break off mine. And until you do, don’t call me. Don’t text. Don’t come near my son. You are his teacher, nothing else. If I find out you’re crossing any boundaries at school, I’ll pull him from your class so fast you won’t have time to apologize.”
Nick looks devastated, his breathing uneven, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for Charlie but knows he can’t. And Charlie hates this. Hates that this is what it’s come to. That the man he let himself believe could be his future, could be Remy’s future, is standing in front of him and reminding him of Ben.
But he won’t make the same mistake twice.
“You hurt him,” Charlie whispers, voice raw. “And I will not let you do it again. So go. Get help. Then we’ll talk.”
For a moment, Nick just stands there. Silent. Staring. Breaking.
Then he swallows hard, nods once, and walks away.
The sound of Remy’s quiet sobs, muffled against Charlie’s chest, echo in his head the entire way out.
And just like that, Nick is gone.
It started as a conversation. A small, anxious worry that grew into something bigger, something heavier. Charlie voicing his concerns—about Ben, about the way Remy had started coming home with more and more stories about him, about the way it was eating away at him, making his skin itch with the ghost of old wounds. It led to therapy, to Charlie’s therapist, to the quiet suggestion that maybe—just maybe—Nick needed help too.
And now here they are.
Charlie cradling his son, Remy’s cheek flushed red, tears streaking his face as he clings to his father. The argument spiraled, twisted into something neither of them meant, and now Charlie is staring at the man he loves with his heart cracked open, giving him an ultimatum.
Get help. Figure out your shit. Or Remy and I are gone.
It started with concern. It ended with Nick walking out.
And the worst part—the part that guts Charlie the most—is that he knows Nick didn’t mean it. Knows Nick’s harsh words, his sharp edges, the anger that bled into his voice weren’t from cruelty, but from stress. From sadness. From being so deeply lost in his own pain that he lashed out the only way he knew how.
But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.
That something broke between them.
That Nick hurt Remy in the process.
And that, more than anything, is something Charlie can never allow.
Charlie knows, deep in his bones, that this all circles back to Ben. It always does.
He should have known something was wrong the second Nick wasn’t beside him anymore. Should have listened to that gnawing feeling in his gut, the one that screamed at him when he found Nick looking lost, found him standing still like a ghost walking through his own haunting.
And Ben. Fucking Ben.
Charlie doesn’t even know how to describe the rage curling in his chest, because it’s not just about himself anymore. It’s about Nick. It’s about Remy. It’s about the fact that Ben is still out here, still hurting, still manipulating, still forcing his way into Charlie’s life like he has any right. Like he hasn’t already done enough damage.
Charlie cannot—will not—let Ben be his son’s principal. He won’t let Ben be Nick’s boss. Won’t let him sink his claws into anything Charlie loves, not again.
He’s stronger now. Wiser. Better.
But knowing that doesn’t help him in this moment. Not when his lover is gone. Not when his son is sobbing in his arms. Not when he feels the weight of every bad decision he’s ever made, every ghost he’s ever carried, sitting on his chest like a crushing force.
Charlie clutches Remy tighter, rocking him gently as he buries his face in his son’s curls, and all he can do is weep.
Charlie sniffles, pressing the ice pack gently to Remy’s cheek as his son lets out a tiny, exhausted whimper. He’s drained—Charlie can tell. He doesn’t have the energy to fight the pain or even question why Daddy is crying while he makes a call he never thought he’d make.
Issac.
It’s been almost two years. Two years of silence, of distance, of pretending that maybe Issac was just another ghost in his life. But now, here Charlie is, his hands shaking, his breath uneven, as he dials the number he hasn’t dared to use since the fallout.
And Issac, who never picks up on the first ring, answers immediately.
“Charlie?” His voice is the same as it always was—gentle, thoughtful, knowing. “It’s been years. What’s wrong?”
Charlie chokes on a sob, gripping the phone tighter, his fingers curling into his shirt as if that might somehow hold him together. “He’s hurt,” he whispers, voice breaking. “He—he hurt him.”
Silence. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Charlie to hear Issac’s inhale, for him to process what Charlie is saying.
Then, “Ben?”
And no, it wasn't Ben directly, but it might as well have been. Of course Issac knows. Of course that’s his first thought. Because Issac was the only one who ever told Charlie the truth—who saw the bruises for what they were, who watched Charlie break himself trying to be what Ben wanted. Who told him again and again, "You can’t fix someone who only wants to break you."
Issac, who walked away because he couldn’t bear to see Charlie fall apart. Who left because he refused to stand by and watch Charlie convince himself that Ben was anything other than a monster.
And now, here he is, proving he was right all along.
Charlie closes his eyes, his grip on the ice pack faltering. He’s exhausted. He’s broken. And he doesn’t know what to do.
“I can’t protect him,” he whispers. “I can’t protect myself.”
There’s another pause, and then Issac’s voice is firm, steady. “Charlie,” he says. “Tell me everything.”
And Charlie does.
He hadn’t meant to unload like this. Hadn’t meant to let it all out in one rushed, jumbled mess. But Issac just listened. Listened the way he always had, quiet and patient, letting Charlie ramble about everything.
About Nick. About Remy. About Ben slithering his way back into their lives like a snake in the grass, pretending to be something he isn’t. About the way Ben is positioning himself as Remy’s principal, a figure of authority, someone with access. About the fear curling in Charlie’s gut every time he steps foot into that school, every time he wonders what Ben is scheming, what his next move will be.
About Nick’s silence. The distance creeping between them, thick and suffocating, like something unseen but ever-present. About how Nick hasn’t been the same since that day in the parking lot, since Charlie let his fears consume him and let his panic take hold. Since Remy started calling Nick Papa and Nick stopped looking at Charlie like he was something good.
And when all is said and done—when there’s nothing left for Charlie to say, when the words are just ringing in the air like a confession, a plea for something, anything—Issac exhales, slow and measured.
And then, finally, he speaks.
"Charlie," he says, voice steady but firm, "Ben is and will always be in your shadow unless you fight back. We’ve had this argument so many times before. You keep saying you’ll move on, but here you are, still letting him control you. And, although we aren’t as close as we used to be, I do care about you. I do love you. And I want Ben gone. Not just for you—but for Remy. For Nick. Because this isn’t just affecting you anymore. It’s poisoning the people you love. The people who love you back."
Charlie swallows, throat tight.
"So please, Charlie," Issac continues, leaning forward now, eyes locked onto Charlie’s, "do something about it. Stop waiting for him to make the first move. Stop letting him dictate your life. Fight, Charlie. Fight for your son. Fight for Nick. Fight for yourself. Please."
Charlie doesn’t know how to respond.
Because Issac is right.
Charlie grips his phone tighter, staring at the floor as Isaac’s words settle into his bones like cold air.
"But Nick did this. Not Ben." It’s the truth, the only thing he can cling to right now, because if he doesn’t, then what does he have left?
Isaac’s voice is even, careful but firm. “Nick sounds lovely, Charlie, he really does. But he also seems broken. And broken people are easy to manipulate.”
Charlie scoffs, the bitterness in his own voice surprising him. “What, like me? Like all those years I spent with Ben?”
Isaac doesn’t answer right away, and the silence is suffocating. Then, gently, “Like anyone who is suffering and doesn’t know their way out.”
Charlie squeezes his eyes shut, his chest tightening. “I’m not—”
“Charlie.” Isaac sighs, not unkindly, but with the weight of someone who has watched Charlie suffer for far too long. “Nick seems nice. He seems like he cares about you. But I don’t like what he did. And I stand by you when you say you gave him an ultimatum. But maybe… maybe it’s time to give an ultimatum to yourself.”
Charlie’s throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
“You have fought too hard, rebuilt your life too well, to let Ben back in.” Isaac’s voice doesn’t waver. “In any form. And if being with Nick means Ben finds his way back into your life, you need to ask yourself if that’s worth it.”
Charlie swallows hard, his mind racing. He knows Isaac is right. He knows it. But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
Isaac exhales. “You deserve peace, Charlie. Don’t let anyone take that from you. Not Ben. And not Nick—if he lets Ben get too close.”
Charlie sits there, his heart pounding, gripping his phone like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t have an answer, not yet. But he knows he needs one.
Charlie’s words catch in his throat the moment Remy interrupts with a small, sleepy voice.
“Daddy… face hurts.”
Charlie’s heart breaks.
He sits up immediately, reaching for his son, gently cupping his small face in his hands. Remy leans into the touch, blinking up at him with bleary, pained eyes, and Charlie swallows thickly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the soft skin of Remy’s cheek. “Let me see, baby.”
It's pink. Probably a dull ache that’s making Remy frown. Nothing severe, bruising and trauma, nothing Charlie can’t handle, but still—it’s his son. And his son is hurting. Even just a little bit is too much.
Over the phone, Isaac hums. “God, he sounds adorable.” His voice is soft, a little sad, but filled with warmth. “You’re a good father, Charlie. You really are.”
Charlie bites his lip, eyes stinging. “I try.”
“You do more than try.” There’s a quiet pause. A sigh. “I hope you know the only reason I stopped reaching out was because I love you too deeply to watch you hurt. It killed me to see you suffering like that.”
Charlie’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just swallows around the lump in his throat and nods, even though Isaac can’t see him.
“Go help your son,” Isaac continues gently. “We can talk more later.”
Charlie hesitates. “You… you still want to chat?”
“Charlie.” Isaac’s voice is firm but full of love. “I’ll always make time for you.”
Charlie presses his lips together, nodding again as he squeezes his eyes shut for a second.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah. Later.”
He hangs up and turns his full attention back to Remy, who’s rubbing at his face with a tiny fist.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Remy’s forehead. “Let’s go get some ice cream, yeah? Make you feel better?"
Remy nods sleepily, and Charlie picks him up without hesitation, holding him close.
There would be no peace as long as Ben lingered. No safety, no moving forward, no future without the constant weight of looking over his shoulder.
So he has to fix this.
He has to get rid of Ben.
Not just for himself. But for Remy. For Nick.
For the life he is finally, finally starting to believe he deserves.
Tomorrow, Charlie is going to take his life back.