Chapter 41
Charlie has no idea how he ended up here—pinning Nick against the bathroom wall, gripping the loops of his jeans like a lifeline, their bodies flush and breaths mingling in the heated air.
Well, okay, maybe he does.
It wasn’t the wine—because, for once, there was no wine. No alcohol. No hazy, liquid courage fueling his actions. Just Nick. Just Nick standing in his living room, warm and laughing, looking at him like he hung the damn stars, and then—then he can't forget what Nick said.
I love you.
So yeah, Charlie’s not made of stone. He’s only human, and can you blame him? The house is quiet, no tiny feet padding around, no sleepy voice calling for a bedtime story. Just them. Just Nick in jeans that hug him in all the right places, his cologne lingering on the air, his lips parted and kiss-bruised from where Charlie’s already had his way with him.
It would be criminal not to ravish him.
And really, they had the whole night. They’d already done the domestic thing—dinner, Mario Kart (which Charlie won, thank you very much, three rounds in a row), curled up on the couch together in a tangle of limbs. It had been perfect.
But then came the goodbyes. The moment where Nick stretched, blinking drowsily, and murmured something about needing to head home. And well. That just wouldn’t do, would it?
So Charlie did the only logical thing—crawled into his lap, hands in his hair, kissing him until Nick was breathless, pliant, melting into him with soft little sighs. Kissing him until his own legs stopped feeling like jelly, until he could walk Nick back to the bathroom with purpose, pulling at the collar of Nick’s hoodie to expose the sensitive skin of his neck, licking and sucking and biting just to feel him shudder.
And now—now they’re here.
Nick’s breath is shaky, hands gripping the sink behind him like he needs the support, like Charlie is wrecking him in the best way. And God, that does something to him.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Nick breathes, voice rough, and Charlie just smirks, tilting his head as he tugs Nick even closer by his belt loops.
“Mm,” he hums, letting his lips brush just below Nick’s ear. “Not quite. But I am gonna ruin you.”
And when Nick groans, eyes dark and full of heat, Charlie knows he’s won.
Charlie lets out a breathless laugh, tilting his head back against the mirror as Nick’s lips ghost over his throat. His pulse is racing, heat pooling in his stomach, and God, he’s missed this. He’s missed him.
“Nick,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “You’re so fucking hot... and kind, and—” He exhales sharply when Nick’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin of his neck. “God, I’ve missed you.”
Nick barely has time to smirk before Charlie grabs the front of his shirt and pushes him, not too gently, against the bathroom counter. But Nick doesn’t resist. He just pulls Charlie right back in, holding him flush against him like he has no intention of letting go. Their bodies press together, heat meeting heat, and Charlie swears he can feel every inch of him—especially the hardness straining against Nick’s jeans.
Power surges through him at the realization, his fingers already moving to the waistband of Nick’s jeans, fumbling with the button. But then Nick bends down, lips finding his neck again, and Charlie gasps, head falling to the side as his breath stutters. It’s fire—burning, consuming, devastating in the best way possible.
Then, before he can catch his breath, Nick flips their positions, gripping his waist and lifting him so easily that Charlie barely has time to react before he’s perched on the bathroom counter, Nick standing between his legs.
Charlie whines, hands tugging at Nick’s shirt, desperate, eager. “Off. Off. Off,” he demands, and Nick chuckles, teasing, “You’re needy.”
Charlie groans in frustration, narrowing his eyes at him. “It’s been forever since we’ve had sex, and I want to wake up next to you.” His voice drops, pleading. “Yes, I’m needy.”
Nick’s smirk softens, something fond flickering in his gaze as he leans in, lips brushing against Charlie’s in a kiss that’s equal parts fire and tenderness. “Then let me take care of you, love,” he whispers.
And Charlie, shivering at the words, nods.
Charlie tugs at Nick’s hoodie with more force than necessary, barely registering the way the bathroom counter digs into his thighs. He doesn’t care. He just wants Nick, wants to feel his warmth, his weight, his lips against his own. And when Nick finally bends down, capturing his mouth in a kiss, Charlie moans into it, letting himself drown in the sensation.
God, he missed this. Missed Nick’s kisses, missed the way he feels against him, missed the little sighs and moans he can pull from him when he tugs at his hair just right.
Charlie melts, folds, completely undone when Nick finally shrugs off his hoodie, tossing it to the side. The bathroom light, dim and flickering from the three bulbs Charlie still hasn’t gotten around to replacing, casts Nick in a golden hue, highlighting every inch of him—his mussed-up hair, his broad shoulders, the definition of his chest, the faint smattering of hair there leading down in a happy trail.
Charlie wants to mark him. Wants to claim him. Wants to let his hands and lips wander and map out every part of Nick Nelson until there’s no inch left untouched.
But then—Nick, ever the gentle, ever the kind, stands between Charlie’s legs looking almost shy, a faint flush creeping up his chest, dusting his ears, making him look so unbearably soft despite all that muscle.
His voice is hesitant, nervous, careful. “Is this… is this okay? I… I want to make you feel good, Char, but I don’t want to do anything too fast.”
And Charlie’s heart aches with how much he loves him. How much he cares.
He reaches out, cups Nick’s face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone as he whispers, “Come here, you.”
Nick lets out a breath, a shaky, relieved sort of exhale, before leaning in, and Charlie meets him halfway.
The kiss is softer than Charlie ever could have imagined, a warmth that spreads from where Nick’s hands cradle his face down to the very tips of his fingers. The counter is cold beneath him, pressing through the denim of his jeans, but all he can focus on is Nick—his warmth, the steady strength of his body pressed against him, the way he holds Charlie as if he’s something precious.
It’s soft. Gentle. Intoxicating in the quietest of ways. And Charlie melts into it, letting himself drown in the feeling of being wanted, of being cared for, of being kissed like he’s worth something.
Like he’s loved.
His hands drift lower, down Nick’s back, over muscle he still can’t believe is real, and a soft gasp escapes him at the sheer solidness of him. He has no idea how he managed to land a man like this—someone strong and protective, yet impossibly gentle. Someone who touches him with nothing but care. Someone who sees him, all of him, and chooses him anyway.
Nick sighs into the kiss, humming against Charlie’s lips, the words slipping out so naturally it takes Charlie’s breath away.
“Mmhm, love you.”
Charlie’s heart stutters, warmth blooming in his chest. “Yeah?” he whispers, barely able to contain the smile pulling at his lips.
Nick hums again, nose brushing against Charlie’s. “Mmmhmm. Best boyfriend. You’re my boyfriend, right?”
Charlie laughs softly, giddy and overwhelmed, pressing tiny kisses all over Nick’s face—his cheek, his forehead, his nose, and finally, finally, his lips. And with each kiss, he whispers, letting each word sink into Nick’s skin, into his bones, into the space between them.
“Of course, my big love.”
Charlie needs Nick now. He needs the warmth, the grounding, the feeling of being wanted, of being real. So he moves without hesitation, bringing Nick in for a bruising kiss, hands already trailing downward, desperate and aching to touch.
He fumbles with the button of Nick’s jeans, lips still pressed to his, swallowing the soft sounds Nick makes. When the button finally pops free, Charlie grins against his mouth, triumphant, feeling the way Nick is already straining against the fabric.
He’s not alone in this feeling—Nick wants him too. Just as much.
Nick huffs out a breathy laugh, his hands smoothing down Charlie’s sides, steady even in his own arousal. “Char,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection and something deeper. “Are you sure?”
Charlie doesn’t hesitate. He looks up at Nick, his eyes dark and certain. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
And then, before Nick can say anything else, Charlie slides his fingers beneath the waistband of his underwear, pinky brushing against the soft trail of hair leading lower. He hears the sharp inhale Nick takes, feels the way his body tenses, the heat radiating off him.
Charlie wants to be consumed by him, to lose himself in this moment, in Nick’s touch, in the way he already knows Nick will take care of him. He leans in, presses another kiss to Nick’s lips—slower this time, deeper, savoring it.
And then he moves lower.
Charlie is drowning in heat, in the feel of Nick—solid and warm and right there in front of him, shirtless, skin golden under the dim bathroom light. He can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the weight of Nick’s cock against his palm, hard and pulsing, straining against the fabric of his briefs.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
Nick lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers gripping the bathroom counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, muscles tensing under Charlie’s touch. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark and hooded as he watches Charlie, gaze heavy with want. And God, Charlie wants to ruin him. Wants to take him apart, piece by piece, until all that’s left is Nick, raw and undone and his.
Charlie tugs at the waistband of Nick’s briefs, wanting more, needing more, and Nick curses under his breath, his hips jerking involuntarily into Charlie’s touch.
“Fuck, Charlie,” Nick groans, his voice wrecked, barely holding on, and Charlie swears he could come just from that sound alone.
He’s completely, utterly consumed by Nick. By the way he trembles under his hands. By the way he’s struggling to stay standing, gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
And Charlie?
Charlie tilts his head, feigning innocence even as a smug, shit-eating grin spreads across his face. "What's wrong, baby?" he asks sweetly.
Nick groans, and Charlie follows his gaze downward, eyes locking onto the slick bead of pre-come threatening to spill. He moves his thumb over it, slow and teasing, and the way Nick shudders, eyes fluttering shut, makes satisfaction curl in Charlie’s chest. But before he can tease further, Nick lets out a strangled sound and grabs Charlie’s hands, pulling him forward, maneuvering him with ease until Charlie finds himself hoisted up onto Nick’s back.
It takes a second to register what’s happening before Charlie realizes—Nick is giving him a piggyback ride.
Charlie laughs, legs instinctively wrapping around Nick’s waist, arms draping over his shoulders as Nick playfully adjusts his grip. "There, that's better!" Nick announces, as if he’s just solved the world’s greatest problem. "Now, what were we doing? Where were we going? Oh, I remember! The kitchen, right? I’ve heard kitchen counter sex is pretty great. Or—" he spins them around dramatically, making Charlie tighten his hold, "—was it the living room? That couch is really comfy. Or, oh! The bathroom? Against the wall, perhaps?"
Charlie gasps, swatting at Nick’s chest. "Nick! We are going that way!" He points firmly toward his bedroom, as if it weren’t already obvious.
Nick hums as if considering it, then, in an exaggerated display of confusion, spins them around again, now pointing toward the bathroom wall. "Are you sure? I swear it was this way..."
"Nick," Charlie warns, biting back a laugh.
Nick grins, finally spinning back toward the bedroom. "Ohhh, you’re right, baby. It is that way!"
He strides forward, confident and teasing, and when they reach the bed, he lets Charlie down with surprising gentleness. Charlie barely has time to adjust before Nick collapses on top of him, the weight of him grounding, warm, solid. One of Nick’s legs slots between Charlie’s, and Charlie lets out a breathy sigh at the contact.
Nick lifts his head, smirking. "There. Now I remember where we were going."
Charlie rolls his eyes, laughing softly. "Idiot."
Nick just grins. "Your idiot."
Charlie hums, dragging his fingers down Nick’s broad, muscular back, pressing in just enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath his touch. His nails don’t scratch, just ghost over his spine, guiding him, coaxing him closer, until their lips meet in a slow, heated kiss.
"My idiot," Charlie murmurs between kisses, voice breathy and teasing, but so full of something deeper, something softer. "Who I really, really want to kiss. Come here."
Nick follows without hesitation, pressing their bodies flush together, and Charlie sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it. The way their lips move together, the warmth, the pressure—it’s intoxicating. He can feel the heat rising between them, the way Nick’s body tenses, then relaxes under his hands. He needs more.
He blindly fumbles to kick off Nick’s jeans, his frustration growing when they don’t budge. He frowns against Nick’s lips, huffing because this—this barrier—is unacceptable. He needs Nick. All of him. Needs to feel him completely, without anything between them.
Nick pulls back slightly, breathless and grinning as he shakes his head. “Okay, needy baby.”
Charlie pouts, his hands gripping at Nick’s sides. “You’re just hot.”
Nick chuckles, a deep, satisfied sound that sends a shiver through Charlie. “I wasn’t teasing you, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “I think it’s cute. And it really, really turns me on.”
Then he leans back just enough to shimmy out of his jeans, tossing them aside without a care, leaving him in just his boxers, the fabric tight against his body, his arousal evident—head peeking out just above the waistband.
Charlie nearly giggles, his heart doing a giddy little flip as he stares, his mind momentarily blank with delight. If he were any less desperate, he might kick his feet like some lovesick teenager. Instead, he bites his lip, eyes flicking up to meet Nick’s, voice thick with want as he breathes, “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
And then he’s pulling Nick back in, their lips crashing together, drowning in the feeling of him—solid, warm, his.
Charlie is so, so warm in this moment. It’s intoxicating, wrapping around him like a blanket, lulling him into a false sense of security that feels both comforting and dangerous. He knows how easily warmth can be stolen away, how quickly comfort can vanish.
Still, the warmth is almost too much. His sweater clings to him, suddenly unbearable, suffocating, and so he shifts, carefully maneuvering to tug it off, leaving him in just his undershirt and jeans. When he settles back, he catches Nick’s gaze—soft, fond, unwavering.
And then Nick says, “You are so handsome,” his voice thick with something that makes Charlie’s breath catch. Before Charlie can say anything, before he can downplay it or brush it off, Nick is tugging him closer, kissing him with that slow, deliberate tenderness that always leaves Charlie feeling breathless and undone.
Charlie wants more.
Not in a desperate, frenzied way, but in the way that makes his chest ache with the need for closeness—for connection. He wants Nick’s warmth against his own, without the barriers of fabric. He wants Nick’s skin against his. And yes, it terrifies him, the thought of being seen, fully seen, but more than that, he wants to be known.
His fingers fidget with the hem of his t-shirt, his heart hammering, and when he looks up at Nick, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Would you, uh... take it off?”
Nick stills, his eyes searching Charlie’s face, his brows knitting together slightly. “Are you sure?” he asks gently, as if giving Charlie a way out.
Charlie swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”
Nick hesitates only for a moment before his hands move, fingers brushing lightly over Charlie’s sides, finding the hem of his shirt. Charlie clenches his eyes shut as the fabric lifts, his pulse thrumming, his breath shaky. He doesn’t want to see it—doesn’t want to see whatever flicker of emotion might pass through Nick’s face. He doesn’t want to see disgust, or even worse, pity.
The scars are faded now, remnants of a past life, of years spent battling his own reflection. Most of them were made in high school, when he was at his thinnest, when his body felt more like a cage than something that belonged to him. A stomach wound, deep and deliberate, the last scar he ever made, had once been a plea—a desperate hope that Ben would see it and be repulsed, that it would be enough to scare him away.
It hadn’t been.
But this is different. This isn’t Ben. This isn’t fear.
This is Nick.
And when the shirt is finally gone, when Nick exhales softly and doesn’t move away, Charlie risks opening his eyes.
Nick is looking at him, really looking at him, his gaze gentle, unwavering. There’s no disgust, no hesitation, just quiet reverence. And then, so softly Charlie almost doesn’t hear it, Nick whispers, “You’re beautiful.”
Charlie shudders, something deep inside him loosening, unraveling. He wants to believe it. He really, really does.
Nick leans in, pressing a kiss—light, careful—to a scar near his ribs. Then another, near his stomach, the one that used to be an open wound but is now just a whisper of something that once was.
Charlie’s breath hitches, his fingers curling into Nick’s hair.
He doesn’t run.
Nick doesn’t run.
Charlie gasps, his breath hitching when Nick’s lips trail down his arms, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to the scars that line his skin. Each kiss is a promise, a quiet vow of love and understanding, and it makes Charlie feel unbearably seen, unbearably wanted.
“Nick,” he breathes, his fingers tangling in Nick's hair, needing more, needing him. “I need you.”
Nick lifts his head, meeting Charlie’s gaze with something dark and tender in his eyes before capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss. Charlie melts into it, moaning softly as Nick’s hands move lower, fingers working open the fly of his jeans, popping the button with an ease that makes Charlie’s stomach clench with anticipation.
And then—finally—there’s a warm, steady hand pressing against him through the fabric of his briefs, and Charlie nearly jolts at the contact, his body responding instinctively, arching into Nick’s touch. He barely has time to catch his breath before Nick slips beneath the waistband, wrapping his hand around him, fingers slick with the evidence of Charlie’s arousal.
“God,” Charlie gasps, his head falling back, his body pliant and desperate against the bed.
Nick hums in approval, his thumb swiping slowly, teasingly over the wet tip, his grip firm yet careful, like he’s savoring every reaction. He leans in, lips brushing against Charlie’s jaw as he murmurs, “So pretty. You’re so fucking pretty.”
Charlie thinks he might just die.
Charlie huffs, eyes dark with frustration, hands gripping at Nick’s shoulders as he shifts beneath him. “Nick, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to be very mad.”
Nick grins against Charlie’s neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses along the sensitive skin before sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. “Aww, baby, you’d be mad at me?” he murmurs, voice dripping with playful innocence as his lips trail lower, nipping at Charlie’s collarbone.
“Yes! Extremely—” Charlie’s words are stolen from him, cut off by a sharp gasp as Nick’s hand moves between them, stroking him slowly, expertly, fingers twisting just right at the tip. His breath stutters, a needy whine escaping his lips. “Nick, please—”
Nick pouts, mockingly, shifting just enough to keep Charlie on edge, his grip just loose enough to tease. “But, baby,” he hums, mouth brushing against the shell of Charlie’s ear, “I don’t wanna rush. I just got you back, Char.” His voice softens, more sincere now, though the smirk never quite leaves his face. “Plus, I was thinking… maybe this could be your present. Y’know, for winning the case.”
Charlie groans, tossing his head back against the pillow, already overwhelmed, already desperate. “The only present I want,” he grits out, voice sharp, breath heavy, “is for you to hurry the fuck up and take those boxers off.”
Nick chuckles, low and smug, before nipping at Charlie’s jaw. “Well,” he breathes, reaching for the waistband of his boxers, “since you asked so nicely…”
Charlie swears he could drop to his knees and thank every deity in existence for the sight before him—Nick, finally, gloriously, naked. It’s almost too much, almost unfair how beautiful he is, how the soft glow of the lamp catches the definition of his muscles, the curve of his jaw, the flush already high on his cheeks. And then Nick is moving, trailing up Charlie’s legs with deliberate, unhurried kisses—his calves, his thighs, the soft patch of skin just above his hipbone, where a faint scar rests.
Each kiss leaves Charlie aching, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. He looks down through half-lidded eyes, dizzy with want, his breath hitching when he sees Nick hovering between his legs, hands ghosting over his skin, teasing, torturous.
"Nick," Charlie sighs, his voice already wrecked, "baby, love of my fucking life, stop teasing. Please."
Nick hums against his skin, lips curving into something far too smug, far too fond. "But it's so fun to tease you," he muses, fingers tracing featherlight patterns along the waistband of Charlie’s briefs. "I like seeing you blush."
Charlie whines, hips twitching, and the sound only seems to encourage Nick, who grins before finally—finally—hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling Charlie’s boxers down, slow and deliberate.
And then there's the press of Nick's lips, soft and reverent, against the tip of his cock, and Charlie moans, head falling back against the pillow.
"Fuck," he breathes, hands gripping at the sheets. "You're going to ruin me."
Nick just laughs, warm and wicked, before dragging his lips lower. "That's the plan, love."
It's heat and desperation, lust tangled with love, sorrow melting into happiness, and hope woven between every touch. It's bodies pressed so close that neither of them can tell where one ends and the other begins. It's kisses—deep and consuming, it's breathless laughter between whispered confessions, it's frantic hands and lingering caresses. It's messy and uncoordinated, it's reverent and slow, it's urgent and reckless, like they’re teenagers sneaking around for the first time, discovering what it means to touch and be touched.
It's giggles muffled into Nick’s shoulder when he curses under his breath, fumbling around for a condom. It's a sharp inhale when he finally finds one but takes his time rolling it on, taking pleasure in teasing, in watching Charlie fall apart beneath him. It's a gasp, spine arching when Nick presses a cold, lubed-up finger inside, slow and deliberate, stretching him open with a patience that’s almost cruel.
It’s hot, unbearably so, but Charlie still shivers when Nick adds another finger, when he moves in careful scissor-like motions, his lips parting as he watches, brows furrowed in concentration, his face soft but intent, like this—Charlie, pleasure, all of it—is something to be studied, something to be perfected.
And then— then—he finds it.
Charlie sucks in a sharp, broken gasp, his back bowing off the bed, a choked-out moan spilling from his lips before he can stop it. The pleasure is sudden, all-consuming, white-hot and electric, like his entire body is catching fire from the inside out.
"Holy—" Charlie gasps, legs trembling as he clutches at the sheets, at Nick, at anything. "Holy fuck, do that again—fuck—"
Nick laughs, breathless and pleased, his lips brushing against Charlie’s knee as he grins. "Ah, found it," he murmurs, pushing his fingers deeper, crooking them just right.
Charlie wails, and Nick just smirks, repeating the motion, slow and purposeful, until Charlie is nothing but a trembling, incoherent mess beneath him, reduced to gasps and moans and desperate whimpers.
And this—this—is everything.
It’s pleasure so sharp it feels like a revelation—Nick’s fingers relentless, teasing and pressing against Charlie’s prostate but refusing, stubbornly, to touch his aching cock. It’s fire curling in his belly, a mix of frustration and euphoria as Nick moves lower, lips tracing over his throat, murmuring filthy promises against his skin while his fingers keep working him open, stretching, preparing, ruining him.
Charlie reaches down, desperate for relief, but Nick is faster—grabbing both of his wrists in one strong hand, pinning them above his head with a quiet, authoritative, "Keep them there." His voice is a command wrapped in silk, and Charlie shudders, gasping, nodding before Nick even needs to tell him twice.
It’s a cry of victory when Nick finally, finally removes his fingers, gripping Charlie’s thigh and lifting it over his shoulder, positioning him just right. It’s the sharp inhale of anticipation, the way Charlie barely has time to register it before Nick is pushing in, slow and deliberate, stretching him in the best way possible.
It’s overwhelming, it’s everything, the sensation of being filled, of Nick’s weight pressed against him, of the way Nick kisses him through it—swallowing every moan, every gasp, every plea. It’s tender and consuming all at once, the way Nick moves, precise yet unhurried, his thrusts perfectly measured but never cruel, his hands roaming, caressing over every inch of Charlie’s skin, pausing only to trace the lines of his scars with reverence.
It’s beautiful. It’s safe. It’s love—raw, unfiltered, and all-encompassing.
It's Charlie begging, voice wrecked and desperate—"Nick, please, please touch me—" and oh fuck, "right there, love, right there—" his words tumbling out between moans as Nick keeps his rhythm, deep and precise, his thrusts hitting Charlie’s prostate every time with devastating accuracy.
Nick groans against his skin, pressing kisses along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, whispering against his pulse, "I'll get you there, baby. I've got you."
And he does—Charlie feels it, the pleasure coiling tight inside him, overwhelming and all-consuming, his body tensing as he gasps, his hands fisting in Nick’s hair, tugging him into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He needs him. Needs more. Needs everything.
The wave builds higher, higher—until it crashes, Charlie’s back arching off the mattress as he comes untouched, his entire body trembling from the force of it.
Nick groans, catching his lips again, murmuring against them, "Good boy, you're so good for me." His thrusts don’t falter, even as Charlie shudders beneath him, even as his body writhes from overstimulation, every nerve alight with a pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.
Then Nick finally wraps a hand around Charlie’s cock, stroking him through it, through the aftershocks, through the sensitivity that makes him keen and whimper and shake. It’s too much—it’s so much—but it’s so good.
"Too much, too much—" Charlie gasps, trying to pull away, but his body betrays him, hips still twitching toward Nick’s touch, still greedy for more even as he shudders beneath it.
Nick soothes him with kisses, lips trailing down his throat as he whispers, "Too much, but you're still letting me touch you, baby… My strong boy."
Charlie feels the second wave coming far too soon, his body pushed past its limits, over the edge of overstimulation and into something dizzying, something electric. And then he’s coming again—harder, more intense, his whole body clenching around Nick, pulling him deeper, dragging him under with him.
Nick groans, voice breaking as he follows right after, his thrusts stuttering, his hands gripping Charlie like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
And through his own release, he breathes Charlie’s name like a prayer, over and over and over again.
It’s Charlie floating, weightless, on cloud nine. It’s the way Nick holds him, gentle but firm, as if grounding him after everything they’ve been through. It’s Nick kissing him, whispering sweet nothings against his skin, soothing him with soft touches and tender care. It’s Nick cleaning him up, wrapping him in warmth, slipping him beneath the sheets before climbing in beside him.
It’s Charlie resting on Nick’s chest, their breaths heavy but in sync, their bodies pressed close, as if neither of them can bear to be apart even for a moment. It’s Charlie trailing his fingers through the soft curls of Nick’s chest hair, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along his collarbone before whispering, “I missed you… I love you, Nick. Please don’t ever leave me. Please don’t force me to leave you.”
It’s Nick tilting his chin up, pressing a kiss to his forehead, murmuring, “Never. Never, Charlie. I love you far too much to leave. I’m yours.”
It’s the way Nick traces slow, reverent fingers up Charlie’s back, his touch featherlight as he finds the raised scars along Charlie’s arms. It’s Nick’s voice, steady and full of conviction, as he says, “You’re so beautiful, Charlie. So damn beautiful. You deserve love and so much more. Thank you for trusting me… for loving me… I— I don’t deserve you.”
It’s Charlie shaking his head, pressing closer, cupping Nick’s face as he whispers fiercely, “No. Don’t say that. You deserve happiness too.”
It’s the warmth of their bodies, the safety in their embrace, the way Nick holds him as if he’s something precious, something worth protecting.
It’s falling asleep together, lulled by the sound of each other’s breathing, wrapped in the quiet promise of tomorrow.
It’s love. It’s healing. It’s grace.
It’s Nick and Charlie.