Chapter 40
Nick has always been a little… different. He doesn’t like admitting it, not out loud, but he knows. He’s known since he was a kid, when his heart and the version of himself he showed to the world never quite seemed to match.
Growing up, he wasn’t like David. He wasn’t rough and rowdy, didn’t thrive on competition or aggression the way his brother did. While David wrestled in the dirt, Nick was more interested in picking flowers for their mom, carefully arranging them in a way that made sense only to him. When David started training for football, eager for the bruises and glory that came with it, Nick dodged tackles instead of taking them head-on.
And beyond all of that—beyond what he liked or didn’t like—Nick always loved too much. Too easily. Too deeply.
At seven, he gave away all the loose change he could find in the car to someone sitting on the curb, only to be scolded for running off and talking to strangers. At ten, he sat with the lonely kids at school, making sure no one ate alone, even when it meant inviting teasing from his friends. At thirteen, he cried over news reports he barely understood but could feel in his bones were wrong.
Nick’s emotions come in waves—huge, crashing tides that sometimes knock the breath out of him, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. And then, just as suddenly, the tide recedes, and he’s left feeling nothing at all. Numb. Empty. Like an extra Lego piece that doesn’t quite fit anywhere, useless unless another one gets lost.
He loves with all he has, but sometimes it feels like too much. And other times, it feels like nothing at all.
Maybe that’s why he is the way he is. Why he feels like too much and not enough all at once. His mother embraced his differences, David acknowledged them with a shrug and a roll of his eyes, but his father—his father always pointed them out. Always made him feel small. Like something about him needed fixing. Like he had to change.
Maybe that’s why his father doesn’t talk to him much now—because Nick stopped trying to be what he wanted. Because he embraced the parts of himself his father spent years trying to mold into something else.
Before the divorce, before his heart grew so heavy, before he knew what it meant to carry shame, his dad had taken him camping, fishing, signed him up for football, forced him to go hunting. Taught him how to change the oil in a car when he was just ten. Looking back, Nick wonders if his dad always knew—if he saw something in him that Nick hadn’t even realized yet.
Maybe his dad noticed how soft he was, how open-hearted, how willing he was to be filled up and broken apart by love. Maybe he recognized something in the way young Nick would reach for another boy’s hand on the playground, playing house and always wanting to be the wife so he could have a husband. Maybe he saw it in the way Nick would pick wildflowers, giving them to girls who giggled and kicked sand at his feet, in the way he always gravitated toward kindness, toward closeness.
Is he that easy to read? Had he always been? Had his father known before he did? Before Nick had the words? Before he understood that love—his love—was something his father would never fully accept?
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t call. Maybe that’s why Nick doesn’t either.
Regardless, Nick loves—fully, recklessly, with his heart hanging by a thread so thin it could snap at any moment. He doesn’t know how to love in halves, only in wholes, in overwhelming devotion and quiet, steady affection. It’s always been that way.
He remembers the first time he ever thought a boy was pretty. Sophomore year. Evan, with his blond curls and freckles that dusted his nose and shoulders like constellations. Eyes as green as summer, dimples so deep they could carve themselves into memories. Evan had laughed at something stupid, something small, and the whole world had lit up. It wasn’t much, not really—a fleeting thought, a silly little crush—but it stuck with him.
His first kiss with a boy was Grant. And Grant, well… when they were good, they were really good. But when they were bad, they were really bad. Maybe they could have worked, maybe in another life, maybe if Nick hadn’t wanted too much. Because Nick does—he wants cuddles, and breakfast in bed, and soft aftercare, and whispered reassurances at night. He wants a kind of love that lingers in the space between kisses, in the way fingers thread together without thinking. And Grant… Grant never wanted that. Maybe Nick was childish for thinking he deserved it.
But Charlie—Charlie is the first love Nick has ever had. The real kind. The kind that sticks to your ribs, that carves itself into your bones. The kind you never walk away from, not truly.
He loves him. Loves the dimples that appear when he’s teasing, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his nose scrunches up in thought. Loves his sweaters, too big for his frame, the way they slip off one shoulder. Loves the way Charlie holds onto things tightly, the way he protects what he loves, even if it hurts him. Loves him.
Maybe that’s why, on this quiet evening, he finds himself driving with homemade chai tea steaming in a travel mug and a bouquet of flowers carefully placed on the passenger seat. Charlie didn’t ask for flowers. But Nick loves fully, or not at all.
And Charlie?
Charlie deserves every bit of it.
When Nick pulls up to Charlie’s house, a strange, twisting anxiety settles deep in his stomach.
What do you say? How do you fix things that need to be mended? How do you step into a home that feels like it could be yours but isn’t—at least not yet?
He grips the warm cup of chai tea in one hand, the other clutching a small bouquet of flowers, the petals slightly trembling from the way his fingers tighten around the stems. It feels almost ridiculous, standing here with flowers like some hopeless romantic, but Charlie deserves them. Deserves kindness, deserves softness.
Nick swallows hard, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the tension weighing on him. He hates feeling like he doesn’t belong, hates the small, creeping doubt that tells him he’s overstepping, that this isn’t his place.
But it is. It has to be.
So he takes a breath, steels himself, and knocks firmly on the door.
Then, for good measure, he rings the doorbell.
And then he waits—heart pounding, feet shifting slightly on the porch, hands gripping his offerings just a little tighter.
When Charlie opens the door, Nick is hit with a wave of emotions so strong it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. Regret, sadness, love, happiness, pride—God, all of it, all at once.
Charlie glances down at the flowers in Nick’s hands, then back up at him, his expression unreadable, and suddenly, Nick feels... self-conscious? Maybe a little out of place? He shifts slightly on his feet, glancing down at his own outfit—jeans, a green hoodie, and a pair of well-worn Vans. Comfortable, casual. But somehow, standing in front of Charlie, he wonders if he should’ve tried a little harder.
Because Charlie, even in something as simple as a sweater and jeans, looks effortlessly put together. The soft knit drapes perfectly over him, an undershirt peeking through at the collar, and Nick can’t help but think he looks beautiful. Warm. Like home.
And suddenly, Nick isn’t sure if the flowers were too much or not enough.
"Hey, um… hi," Nick starts, shifting awkwardly on his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Sorry, I know this is probably... you don't probably.... I just—uh, congrats? I guess. I don’t know. I, um… I wasn’t sure if I should even come, but…" He trails off, his voice faltering, before letting out a small, breathy laugh. "I—I'm sorry."
Charlie tilts his head slightly, watching Nick fumble over his words, and sighs. He steps back, opening the door a little wider. "Do you want to come in?" he asks, voice softer than he intends.
Nick blinks, looking from Charlie to the open door, as if debating whether he should. "I mean, I don’t want to intrude," he says hesitantly.
Charlie shakes his head, already turning to walk inside. "I wouldn’t have asked you over if I didn’t want you here."
Nick lets out a small, relieved breath before stepping in, glancing around like he’s unsure of what to do with himself. He holds something in his hands, and when Charlie notices, Nick quickly thrusts it forward. "Oh, um—these are for you. I don’t know, I figured tea and flowers were a safe bet. Or maybe it’s weird, I don’t know, you don’t have to—"
Charlie just looks at him for a second before taking the chai tea and the flowers from his hands, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. "You really didn’t have to do that," he murmurs, glancing down at them.
Nick exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well… I wanted to."
Nick stands in the doorway, watching as Charlie moves around the kitchen, finishing up dinner. There’s a certain ease to the way he moves, the soft clatter of dishes and the occasional sizzling from the stove filling the silence between them. But underneath it, there’s something else—something heavier.
Charlie lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair before turning slightly, glancing toward Nick. “I’m almost done making dinner,” he says, voice a little too casual. “Sorry the house is a bit of a mess. Remy didn’t know what clothes and toys he wanted to bring to Tori’s, so… I just didn’t have time to pick up. I’m sorry.”
Nick shakes his head immediately. “No, don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize for that.”
Charlie exhales, stirring whatever’s in the pan a little more aggressively than necessary. “Why are we acting so awkward with each other?” His voice is quieter now, a little hesitant, but there’s an edge of frustration beneath it too. “I don’t like this.”
Nick sighs. “I don’t either.”
“Then why?” Charlie turns fully now, leaning against the counter, his arms crossing over his chest. “Why are we like this?”
Nick hesitates, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know,” he admits, shifting from foot to foot. “I guess I feel bad. I don’t want to overstep, not with everything going on, but I also just…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I really want to hug you, Charlie.”
Charlie nods, looking down at the floor. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Nick echoes, exhaling slowly. The weight in his chest is unbearable, like something pressing down on his ribs, keeping his words locked inside. But then Charlie looks up at him again, and his face—God, his face—Nick hates the distance between them. Hates the way it lingers, like a physical thing neither of them know how to fix.
So, he says it.
“I feel safe when I’m in your arms.”
The words are quiet but honest, raw in a way that makes Nick’s throat feel tight. “And I—I don’t know, I haven’t felt at home or safe since our argument, and I just…” He shakes his head, biting back a nervous laugh. “You look so cuddly like that.”
Charlie blinks at him, caught off guard, and before Nick even realizes what he’s doing, his body moves on instinct. He’s crossing the room, closing the space between them, pulling Charlie into a tight embrace.
And Charlie melts into it instantly, gripping the back of Nick’s shirt as if he needs it, as if he’s been waiting for this just as much as Nick has.
Neither of them say anything for a moment. They just hold each other, and for the first time in days, it feels like breathing comes a little easier.
Nick sighs softly, reluctant to let go, but he pulls Charlie just a little closer, his arms firm around his waist as he rests his chin on Charlie’s shoulder. He breathes him in, the scent of him—warm and familiar, something like home. He truly doesn’t want to let him go.
Charlie laughs, light and amused, though he doesn’t pull away. “Nick, if you don’t let me go, I’m gonna burn the food.”
Nick groans dramatically, squeezing just a little tighter before finally loosening his hold. “But I’m just recharging.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking his head, “You’re recharging?”
“Yeah,” Nick murmurs, his voice warm and teasing but with an undercurrent of something softer, something real. “It’s been too long without hugging you. And I know that we’re still not all okay, that we still have to talk, but this feels nice.”
Charlie pauses for a second, before he nods, leaning back slightly into Nick’s touch just for a moment longer. “Okay,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Well… how about once we finish dinner, you can recharge all you want, and we can talk, yeah?”
Nick smiles against his shoulder, pressing a light kiss there before finally—reluctantly—letting go. “Okay,” he agrees. “We’re letting go.”
Charlie rolls his eyes fondly but doesn’t hide his smile as he turns back to the stove, stirring the soup one last time before ladling it into two bowls. Nick watches him move, watches the way he breathes just a little easier now, and feels a small spark of hope settle deep in his chest.
They’re not okay yet.
But they will be.
Nick sits at the table, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slump and his fingers toy with the rim of his bowl. He smiles warmly when Charlie places the food in front of him, watching as Charlie settles into the chair beside him. The room is quiet, but not the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that had filled the spaces between them before. This is softer, expectant.
Charlie watches him for a moment before finally speaking. “You look really tired, Nick. Are you doing okay?”
Nick hums, exhaling slowly. “Um… yeah. I mean, I think I’m doing better,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been holding a lot in for years, honestly. Trying to be what people need me to be, trying to please everyone, and in doing that, I think I kind of… lost parts of myself.” He shakes his head slightly. “Justin’s been helping me work through that. And it was good seeing my mom. I haven’t been the best son to her recently, but talking to her, reconnecting… it helped. So, I think I’m doing better. I really am.”
Charlie nods, listening closely. But then Nick sighs, his voice softer when he continues. “I’m just… I’m tired. And I know things might be getting resolved with Ben and work, and I’m grateful for that, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty—for everything. For what you saw, for what I said. For the fact that I had a breakdown in front of your son, when I was supposed to be keeping him safe.”
His fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Charlie… I really am sorry. I know you said you wanted to talk after dinner, but I can’t just sit here and eat like everything’s fine without saying this first. I need to apologize again.”
Charlie sets his fork down and breathes in deeply. His voice is steady, but there’s a weight to it when he finally responds. “Nick, I’m not going to tell you that what happened was okay, because it wasn’t,” he says plainly. “And I’m not going to tell you that you weren’t in the wrong, because you were. What you said to me, the way you lashed out—it hurt. It reminded me of things I’ve spent years trying to unlearn. It scared me.”
Nick swallows hard, his stomach twisting.
Charlie continues, his gaze steady. “You were angry, and that anger—your hurt—came out in a way that wasn’t fair to me. You said things that you knew would cut deep. But beyond that…” He takes a breath, steadying himself. “You hurt my son. And for years, I have done everything in my power to protect him, to keep him safe. So of course, I was going to push you away. But I can see it now—I can see how much you regret it, how much you didn’t mean it.”
Nick’s eyes burn, but he doesn’t look away.
Charlie tilts his head slightly, studying him. “So I just need to know why, Nick,” he says softly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were struggling? That all of this was building up inside you? Why did you hold onto it for so long until you finally cracked?”
That’s a question Nick will never have a real answer to. Why didn’t he tell Charlie? Why didn’t he let him in sooner? Was it fear? Was it pride? Was it the deep-rooted instinct to protect the fragile peace they had built together—this perfect little bubble of warmth and kindness, of understanding and quiet joy?
Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none of it.
Maybe he didn’t want to break the illusion, the careful facade he’d kept intact for so long. He’s always been the strong one, after all. The one who takes the hit in a tackle, the one who diffuses fights at bars before they spiral, the one who keeps everyone together with an easy smile and a well-timed joke. The one who carries the weight so no one else has to.
The one who stood on a rooftop and watched his best friend fall.
Nick has always been seen as the guy who holds it together. The fixer, the protector, the dependable one. The one who loves too much, who gives perfect hugs, who makes people laugh when they need it most. And maybe, just maybe, if he had called Charlie—if he had admitted that something was wrong, that he was crumbling under the weight of his own ghosts—it would have shattered that image. It would have stripped him bare, exposed him for what he truly was: not strong, not steady, but scared.
Scared that if Charlie saw him without his armor, he’d leave.
So maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none of it.
Or maybe, deep down, Nick just didn’t want to admit to himself that he wasn’t okay.
Nick stirs the soup absently, watching the way the broth swirls, but his mind is far from the pot in front of him. He risks a glance up, and his chest tightens at the sight of Charlie’s frown—deep and worn, weighing down the softness of his face.
God, he wants to wipe that frown away. Wants to kiss it until it melts into something else—something warm and real, a smile, a laugh, even a sigh against his lips. Anything but this sadness.
Nick swallows hard, gripping the spoon a little tighter. “I don’t know, Char,” he finally says, voice low and rough around the edges. He clears his throat, but the weight in his chest doesn’t ease. “I don’t know why I held it all in. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was because I didn’t know how bad it really was. Or maybe—maybe I did know, but admitting it out loud would’ve made me feel like a failure.”
He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but it happened. And I know that’s not an excuse, but it did. And when I’m afraid, I use my words like a weapon. That’s how it was with my dad, my brother—I could never fight them, not physically. So when I needed to prove I was tough, when I wanted to hurt them the way they hurt me, all I had were words. Words I knew would cut deep.”
His throat tightens, but he forces himself to look up, to meet Charlie’s eyes, raw and vulnerable in the dim kitchen light. “And I did that with you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I hurt you, and I’m so fucking sorry for that. It’s not an excuse—I know that. But I need you to know that what I said… none of it was true. I said it because I knew it would hurt you, and that’s the worst part of all. Because just because something hurts doesn’t mean it’s true.”
Nick’s grip on the spoon loosens, his fingers flexing as if he wants to reach out, to touch, to soothe. But he doesn’t—not yet. He just watches Charlie, waiting, hoping, silently begging for a chance to fix what he’s broken.
Nick takes a slow, shaky breath, eyes searching Charlie’s face like he’s trying to memorize every freckle, every curve, every ounce of the man in front of him. His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet but firm, raw in a way that makes Charlie’s breath hitch.
"If you don't forgive me, I understand," Nick says, voice breaking slightly. "If you want to walk away, I will respect that. But Charlie, you are—you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. The best person I’ve ever known. And probably ever will know."
His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t dare. Like he knows he’s standing on fragile ground and one wrong step will send him crashing through.
"And the gifts you’ve given me..." Nick shakes his head, like he can’t believe it himself. "You let me be soft with you. Gentle. A lover. You let me be a father—" his voice catches, "—and I didn’t even realize how much I needed that until it was gone. Until you were gone. And now that I know what life is like without you, I don’t want it. I want you. I want us."
He swallows hard, finally letting himself reach out, brushing hesitant fingers against Charlie’s wrist.
"I want to be better," Nick says, eyes burning with sincerity. "I want to take care of you, hold you, make sure no one ever gets the chance to hurt you again—including me. And I know you can hold your own, Charlie. God, I know that. You are the strongest person I have ever met. But I don’t want you to have to be strong all the time. I don’t want you to feel like the weight of the world is yours to carry alone. Let me share it with you. Please."
Nick takes a deep breath, the thoughts in his head screaming at him—tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him. And he knows, without a doubt, exactly what his mind is begging him to say.
He stirs the soup once, twice, his free hand absentmindedly gliding up and down Charlie’s wrist in slow, comforting strokes. The warmth of the moment, the weight of everything they've been through, settles deep in his chest, and he realizes—he doesn’t want to wait any longer.
So he exhales, steadying himself, and turns to look at Charlie, really look at him. At his soft, tired eyes. The gentle curve of his mouth. The way he just exists beside him so easily, like he belongs there, like they belong here, together.
And then, finally, he says it.
"Charlie, I really like you. And I like loving you. And I—"
He swallows, gripping Charlie’s wrist just a little tighter.
"I love you, Charlie."
The words are there, raw and real, sitting between them. They feel terrifying and exhilarating all at once, but the second he says them, he knows there’s no taking them back. Not that he would ever want to.
"I know it’s probably too soon to say that, and you don’t have to say it back, but I do. I really do. You made the first move that night at the bar. Hell, if we’re being honest, you made the first move the second you walked into my classroom."
He lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I just—I wanted to be the one to say this first. Because it’s true. I love you, Charlie. I do."
And then he waits, breath caught in his throat, watching as Charlie's expression shifts—eyes wide, lips parted, something unreadable flickering across his face. Nick can feel his heart pounding, can hear the sound of his own breath in the quiet kitchen.
Nick watches as Charlie looks him over—his eyes flicking to his, then down to his mouth, then to his hands as they stir the soup. There’s a quiet moment, filled only by the soft bubbling of the broth, before Charlie finally speaks, his voice small but certain.
“you love me?”
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says simply. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
Charlie lets out a breathy laugh, almost disbelieving. “I’ve never had someone love me before. Not like this.”
Nick’s expression softens. “Well,” he murmurs, “I think—I know—I really do love you.” He swallows, suddenly nervous. “And I’m not just saying that for forgiveness, Charlie. I hope it doesn’t come across that way.”
Charlie shakes his head, cutting him off gently. “Nick, I saw the moment it happened. The moment you hurt Remy, the second the words left your mouth—you regretted it. I saw it in your face, in your body, in your eyes. There was doubt, guilt. You just... hurt. And I know you’re not saying this to manipulate me or win me over.” He gives a small, knowing smile. “The eyes tell a lot about someone. If you really look, you can tell when they’re lying.”
Nick exhales, the weight of Charlie’s words settling over him. “So... does that mean you forgive me? Or at least that you’re trying to?”
Charlie doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies Nick, as if weighing the truth in his words. Finally, he nods. “Nick, you’ve been honest with me. And I’ve trusted you with my life. You didn’t have to do everything you did, but you did it anyway. You helped me. You fought for me.”
Nick shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Of course I did. Charlie, this isn’t just your fight. You shouldn’t have to go through this alone. And besides, once I started digging, things just didn’t add up. Ben bought the school. That was the first red flag. Who does that? Why would someone with that kind of money take a job as a principal? He doesn’t need to work. He doesn’t need the title. It was never about the job—it was about control. And once I had enough pieces, it wasn’t hard to find the truth. Ben doesn’t want this job. He wants to get close to Remy. To you.”
Charlie takes a shaky breath, nodding. He knows this already—he’s known it in his gut since the moment he saw Ben standing in those halls. But hearing it confirmed, knowing that Nick saw it too, that he went out of his way to prove it, to help fight for Remy—it means everything.
And that, Charlie realizes, is the difference.
“You didn’t have to fight this battle,” he murmurs, “but you did. Ben would’ve been the one to cause the fight. You? You helped me through it.”
Nick reaches for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Of course I did, Char. That’s what you do for the people you love.”
Charlie sighs, just a little, but it’s enough to make Nick’s chest tighten. He hates that Charlie still hesitates, that there’s still a weight in his eyes, like he’s bracing for something to go wrong. Nick wants to erase that doubt, to make sure Charlie never has to question his place in Nick’s life again.
So he reaches out, gently tucking a curl behind Charlie’s ear, his voice soft but certain as he says, “Charlie, I need you to know something. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You are wonderful, and kind, and brilliant, and so incredibly beautiful. You have a heart of gold. Please don’t think, even for a second, that you don’t deserve love—because you do. You deserve love and so much more. And if you’ll let me, if you’ll give me another chance, I want to give you all the love I have in me. Every single bit of it.”
Charlie’s breath hitches slightly, and for a long moment, he just looks at Nick—really looks at him, like he’s searching for something, weighing the truth in his words. And then, finally, he speaks, voice quiet but firm. “You’d really do that for me?”
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “I’d do anything for you.”
And then, slowly, so slowly, Charlie smiles. It’s small, tentative, but it’s there, and it’s real. He exhales, eyes flicking up and down Nick’s face, like he’s trying to make sure this moment is real before he nods. “Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m giving you one more shot. But if you screw it up this time, I’m not going to be so forgiving. I won’t allow myself to be in an abusive relationship again. Not physically. Not with words. Not with anything.”
Nick nods solemnly. “That’s more than fair. And I can’t promise we won’t ever argue—because we will. Every couple does. And I’m still figuring myself out, I won’t pretend otherwise. But what I can promise you, Charlie, is that I will never use my words to hurt you. Ever. And if I’m angry, or frustrated, or if I need space, I will step away. I’ll take a walk, I’ll go to the gym, I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure you and Remy never have to bear the weight of my anger. That’s my promise to you.”
Charlie watches him for a moment longer before a teasing smirk pulls at his lips. “That’s a lot of words, Nelson,” he murmurs. “But is it a pinky promise?”
Nick huffs a soft laugh. “Pinky promise, huh?”
Charlie nods, holding up his pinky. “Yeah. Remy says pinky promises are very, very important. Unbreakable. And honestly? I’m on his side about that.”
Nick grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes as he lifts his hand and links his pinky around Charlie’s. “Then I’m making it to Remy, too. I swear.”
Charlie squeezes their fingers together, and for the first time in a long time, something in his chest eases. Safe. Secure.