Heartbreaker, a Heartstopper Story - Ch. 05

Enjoy!

Friday nights at Roosters were always a proper madhouse, the kind of chaotic buzz that turned the place into a glittering circus of thirst and excess. The California night pressed warm and heavy against the windows, that endless LA heat lingering even after sunset, carrying the faint salt tang from the distant ocean and the low hum of traffic on the boulevard outside. Inside, the air thrummed thick with bass-heavy pop remixes pounding from the speakers, laughter rolling in waves, the sizzle of burgers on the grill cutting through the sharper scents of spilled beer, cologne, and sweat-slick skin.

The restaurant was rammed, every table crammed with punters high on the weekend vibe: groups of lads in tight tees nursing pints and shouting over the music, hen parties screeching with glee as they snapped selfies with the menu’s cheeky “Cock Specials,” clusters of older blokes in button-downs eyeing the floor like wolves at a feast. String lights twinkled, casting a flattering glow over the polished wooden tables and the neon “Roosters: Home of the Cocks” sign buzzing behind the bar.

Nick hadn’t stopped for a second, legs burning as he strutted through the chaos in those tiny red trunks.The thin fabric clung to his thighs, his heavy bulge swinging obvious and unapologetic, drawing stares like magnets. He weaved between tables with a tray balanced easy on one palm, Loaded Fries steaming hot, Spicy Cock wings dripping sauce, flashing that easy grin, laying the British accent on thick. “Cheers, loves, enjoy your thighs,” he’d quip, winking as a table of giggling blokes slipped bills into his waistband, fingers lingering just a beat too long.

His co-workers were in the thick of it too, Sunny behind the bar, ginger hair catching the lights as he poured pints with flair, tossing cheeky winks; Rocket and Jet high-fiving after a synchronized hip thrust for a cheering table, their red trunks stretched tight over arses that could stop traffic; Tsunami strutting past, long hair loose tonight, hips rolling dramatic as he delivered drinks. The banter flew fast between them, “Yo, Nelson, shake that British ass harder, they’re eating it up!” Jet called once, laughing as he slapped Nick’s back, the impact stinging just enough to jolt him.

In one corner booth, tucked under a string of flickering rainbow lights, sat Nick’s most looked-after table of the night, planted there for a good two hours, turning the place into their own private playground. Charlie and Luna were squeezed in on one side, Charlie’s head bouncing in laughter as Luna dished out some utterly mad gossip, hands gesturing wild like she was conducting an orchestra of scandal. Opposite them, Harp held court with his newest conquest, a pretty little twink whose name had slipped Nick’s mind the second Harp introduced him (something trendy like Aiden or Jaden, probably), the lad giggling into Harp’s shoulder, all flushed cheeks and adoring eyes as Harp spewed even wilder bullshit, arms flung wide like he was recounting the conquest of Everest instead of last weekend’s frat antics.

They were having an absolute riot, the four of them, plates long since cleared away, burgers demolished and wings reduced to sticky bones, but the drinks kept flowing, refilled by Nick every time he swung past with a fresh tray. Pints of lager for Harp and the twink, frothy and cold; a vibrant pink cosmopolitan for Luna, loaded with extra lime because she always asked; and a simple ginger ale for Charlie, bubbles fizzing gently, no alcohol tonight because he was pacing himself, that fond, knowing smile flashing Nick’s way each refill. On the house, every one, Nick waving off their protests because, well, they were his lot. His people. Seeing Charlie there, eyes bright under the lights, that soft laugh bubbling up whenever Luna landed a punchline or Harp exaggerated some daft story... it grounded him, a warm anchor amid the chaos, making the purest love swell fierce in his chest like it always did. Charlie, his Charlie, safe, familiar, home, even in this madhouse of ogling eyes and grinding hips.

Nick caught the glint of empty glasses from across the floor, Charlie’s ginger ale down to melting ice and Luna’s cosmo a sad pink rim. Time for a top-up. He wove through the chaos, tray balanced easy, as he leaned over the bar. He flagged Sunny and rattled off the order for table twelve and the lad grinned as he poured, quick and slick, tossing a remark about Nick’s boyfriend being bad for business. Nick just snorted and carried the drinks back, cold glass biting his palms against the room’s sticky heat.

“How you lot holding up, eh?” he asked, laying the accent on thicker than clotted cream, eyebrows waggling as he set them down. “Not too knackered from all that sophisticated colloquy?”

Charlie’s grin split wide, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always turned Nick’s insides to mush.

“We’re cool, lad,” Charlie teased back, imitating Nick’s accent. “Ready to get the bill, actually.”

“Oh, really?” Nick’s smile faltered a touch, disappointment nipping sharp. He still had a solid hour left on shift.

“Yeah, man,” Harp cut in easy, slinging an arm round the twink’s shoulders. “Gotta get this one home soon. He’s got an early lecture tomorrow, 8am chem lab, poor baby.”

“Oh,” Nick said, raising his eyebrows at the twink. How old was he again? “Right then. Let’s sort you lot out.”

He fumbled through his tablet quick, thumbs flying over the screen, pulling up their tab. “That’s gonna be one-eighty even. Split four ways?”

“Nah, I got it,” Harp said breezy, slipping his black Amex from his wallet like it was nothing, handing it over with a wink. The twink looked about ready to swoon proper, eyes gone all starry as he leaned harder into Harp’s side.

Nick rolled his eyes.

“And the tip? And you wankers better be generous.”

Nick, Harp, and Luna exchanged glances then, the most devilish grins Nick had ever seen creeping across their faces, wicked and knowing, the kind that promised chaos.

“Oh, we’ll be generous,” Luna drawled.

“100% tip, Brit,” Harp added, grin widening like the cat that got the bird.

Nick stared dryly at Harp, one eyebrow arched high enough to vanish into his curls. “Come on, mate. You serious?”

“Yup,” Harp shot back, grin splitting wide and wicked, all white teeth and mischief under the neon glow. “Smash that button, Brit!”

Nick rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, but he couldn’t fight the fond twist in his chest at Charlie let out a bright “Woo-hoo!” and clapped like a kid at Christmas, etes sparkling pure joy under the rainbow lights. Harp leaned forward, tapping his card against the tablet with a flourish. Ping, payment confirmed, the screen flashing green. Then Nick reached out, fingers hovering over the big red button every table had, the infamous “Cock Crow” button, shaped like a cartoon rooster with a comically oversized comb.

He pushed it, the plastic clicking satisfying under his thumb.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

The sound blared loud and ridiculous from hidden speakers, echoing through the restaurant like a farmyard alarm gone rogue. His mates erupted, Harp throwing his arms up with a triumphant whoop and Luna cackling that sharp laugh. Charlie cheered loudest of all, face lit up like Nick had just scored the winning try, while the twink just looked at them as if they had gone mad. But this time, it wasn’t just their table. The whole bloody place joined in, cheers swelling into a roar, punters waving bills and phones, the energy flipping electric as red lights washed over everything, bathing the room in sultry crimson glow.

Still shaking his head, proper daft, the lot of them, Nick hopped onto the nearest empty bench, muscles flexing under the lights as the bass dropped heavy, Meghan Thee Stallion’s WAP thumping filthy and unapologetic from the speakers. All over the floor, his co-workers leaped up as one, Sunny from behind the bar, Rocket and Tsunami mid-stride, Jet right there with that killer grin, red trunks gleaming, bodies moving in sync like they’d rehearsed it a thousand times.

Nick couldn’t pretend he was brassed off for long. The beat of WAP hadn’t even hit the chorus yet, vibrating up his legs like a dare, and already he was letting loose, hips shaking in that half-sexy, half-exaggerated sway he’d perfected over months at Roosters. He ran a hand slow down his chest, tracing the carver contour of his abs, fingers dipping teasing into the waistband of his trunks for show, giving his mates a proper performance. The red lights bathed everything in crimson heat, sweat beading on his skin, the air thick with spilled drinks and roaring approval. They bloody loved it, Harp hollering like a maniac, banging his massive palms against the table hard enough to rattle glasses, Charlie’s eyes were locked on Nick like he was the only bloke in the room.

To his surprise, Zion Brooks, Big Z while on clock, hopped up onto the bench behind, towering even over Nick’s frame, lanky and lean where Nick was built solid, dark skin gleaming under the lights. Nick was laughing so much he could barely keep dancing, the sound bursting out genuine and free as Big Z planted big hands on his hips, firm, thumbs pressing just enough to steer the sway. Nick leaned back instinctive, back glueing to Big Z’s torso, the heat of him solid and steady, arse rubbing deliberate against the bulge in his red trunks as the beat dropped harder, lyrics filthy and thumping.

The crowd roared louder, and the even louder, proper deafening, a tidal wave of cheers and whistles crashing over the floor as Jet hopped up next, that cheeky grin flashing white under the crimson lights, joining their little train without missing a beat. Jet’s body moved like liquid sin, tanned and toned, perfect arse flexing perfect in those strained red trunks as he slotted in front, hips rolling back instinctive. Nick didn’t hesitate and mirrored Big Z, big hands settling firm on Jets hips. Jet wasted no time, pressing back deliberate, that fantastic bum connecting flush to Nick’s bulge with a teasing grind.

Sweat slicked their skin, red lights pulsing like a heartbeat, bodies moving as one in the chaos. Luna shoved closer then, whooping over the music as she fished out crisp ten-dollar bills, tucking one into each of their trunks, fingers lingering playful on Nick’s waistband, then Jet’s, then Big Z’s, before whipping out her phone quick as a flash. She stuck her tongue out cheeky, flashing a V with her fingers, framing the shot perfect to catch the lads grinding beneath her.

All of a sudden, the combined force of it all slammed into Nick like a wave, Big Z’s massive hands gripping his hips, the warm puff of his breath ghosting hot against the nape of Nick’s neck, and Jet’s bloody perfect arse grinding harder, insistent, that rounded muscle pressing back with a rhythm that sent sparks shooting straight to his core. Too much. Way too much. He felt it then, that treacherous twitch low in his trunks, nothing massive, just a tiny stir, like a lion catching the scent of blood on the wind and rousing slow from slumber, curious, hungry. A warning flashed bright in Nick’s mind, red and screaming — DANGER, DANGER —, because he really, really couldn’t afford to get hard here, not in these flimsy red scraps that hid sod all, not with the crowd baying and phones out, and Christ, not in front of Charlie. He glanced quick toward the booth, heart in his throat and relief flooded him cool and sweet. Charlie was still laughing, proper belly laughs, phone out filming their triple grind with that bright, uncomplicated joy. He hadn’t noticed a thing, lost in the fun, and, to keep it that way, Nick moved fluidly, spinning round smooth in Big Z’s grip until they were face to face, chests brushing, his bulge now rubbing against Big Z’s instead, the contact safer, much safer than the devastation Jet’s arse promised. Big Z grinned down at him, dark eyes sparkling mischief under the red lights, and they locked in, hips swaying synced to the filthy drop, sweat mingling where skin met skin.

They rode it out to the song’s last throbs, Nick running his hands exploratory over Big Z’s lean torso, tracing the long lines of muscle, the flat planes of his abs, playful and showy for the roaring crowd. Jet, cheeky bastard, slotted in behind now, dry-humping Nick’s bum with exaggerated rolls, one hand mimicking a spank that cracked loud enough to draw fresh cheers, the slap more sound than sting.

As the final filthy beat of WAP faded out, the whole place erupted, cheers and claps crashing like waves. Bills fluttered down like confetti, sticking to sweat-slick skin, the red lights pulsing one last triumphant glow before easing back to its normal warmth. Laughing proper breathless, chest heaving, Nick joined Big Z and Jet in a couple of exaggerated bows, deep and theatrical, arms flung wide like they were on the West End stage, the crowd roaring approval. Big Z blew him a cheeky kiss as he hopped down, that tall frame melting back into the chaos with a wink, while Jet landed one last playful smack on Nick’s bum, drawing fresh whoops from nearby tables.

Nick turned to his lot then, grin still split wide, adrenaline buzzing electric in his veins, and Charlie was on him in a heartbeat, launching up from the booth with breathless energy, hands fisting in the waistband of Nick’s trunks to tug him close.

“Think you can dance for me like that later?” Charlie murmured, voice just for him, eyes dark with want under the lights, that desire thick enough to taste. It curled straight to Nick’s gut.

“All night long, love,” Nick promised, heart flipping at the heat in Charlie’s gaze.

He expected a quick goodbye peck, something sweet carrying the promise of later, tender, the way Charlie usually was in public. But Charlie surprised him, yanking him down proper and kissing him full on: tongues tangling hot and urgent, lips parting hungry, that soft mouth claiming him right there in the middle of the madness. Nick didn’t hate it. Far from it. Shock melted quick into fire, and he responded in kind, one big hand cupping Charlie’s jaw, the other steady on his waist, pouring everything back. They only tore apart when whistles started up again, teasing from nearby tables, and Nick caught the words clear as day from some pissed bloke nearby: “Damn, how much I gotta tip for one of those, Brit?”

“Sorry, mate. VIP only,” Nick shot back at the pissed punter. The bloke laughed it off good-naturedly, raising his pint in salute, and Nick turned away quick, heat still tingling on his lips from Charlie’s kiss. “To be continued.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Charlie whispered back, voice soft but laced with heat, stepping away slow, their hands clinging until the distance tore them apart, fingertips brushing one last electric second. Love surged fierce in Nick’s chest then, pure, unwavering, the kind that drowned out the shadows for a heartbeat, reminding him why he fought so hard against the poison twisting inside. Charlie, his anchor, trusting him even here, in this den of stares and grinding hips. Shame flickered faint beneath it, a whisper of how close he’d come to wrecking it all, but Charlie’s smile chased it back, bright and forgiving.

Harp swooped in before Nick could catch his breath, muscular arms stretched wide, lips pursed in exaggerated pout. “My turn, Brit,” he drawled, his easy grin flashing wicked.

“Oi, piss off!” Nick exclaimed, laughter bursting out as Harp grabbed his face and planted one square on the lip. Nick shoved him away without any real strength, hands on Harp’s chest more playful than push, but Harp just hounded him again, dodging easy to land a couple more smacking kisses on Nick’s cheek and jaw, stubble rasping rough, the lads nearby whooping approval.

Finally, Harp stepped back, slinging one thick arm round the twink’s shoulders, lad beaming starry-eyed, and the other round Charlie’s, pulling him close like they were all family. Luna linked arms with Charlie on the other side, her cackle echoing as the four of them made their way out, weaving through the crowd toward the door, the California night waiting warm beyond.

Nick’s shift ended a little over two hours later, the mad rush finally easing as the clock ticked past midnight and the crowd thinned to the die-hards nursing last pints. The place was still buzzing, but the fever pitch had dropped to a low hum: drunk laughter echoing off the walls, the occasional cheer when someone landed a good tip, the kitchen clatter winding down. Nick’s legs ached proper from the constant strutting, thighs burning under the tight trunks, but the tips had been fat tonight, bills stuffed into his waistband thick enough to make the elastic dig in, a couple of punters slipping hundreds with winks that promised more if he’d been interested. He wasn’t.

There’d been the usual chaos: a hen party that got a bit too rowdy, one bride-to-be trying to climb him like a tree during a photo, her mates screeching as Nick laughed it off and posed with exaggerated flexes; Sunny behind the bar juggling bottles for a cheering group, nearly dropping one on Rocket’s head and earning a playful shove. Biz Z had pulled him into another quick grind for a table of lads celebrating a birthday, that heavy bulge once again pressing against Nick’s bum just enough to draw whoops.

Then there was the handsy one, a pissed bloke in his forties, suit rumpled from too many drinks, who’d grabbed Nick’s bulge proper hard when he leaned over to clear glasses. “Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Nick had snapped, twisting away sharp but keeping the grin plastered on, “hands off the merchandise unless you’re tipping extra for the privilege.” The table had laughed it off, the bloke mumbling apologies with a red face, slipping an extra fifty into Nick’s trunks like that made it right. Nick pocketed it without a word, annoyance simmering under the surface, but he’d seen worse. Roosters was Roosters. Boundaries got tested, but the lads looked out for each other, and Captain America had materialized like a shadow, towering over the table with a quiet “Everything alright here, fellas?” that shut it down quick.

By closing, Nick was knackered but buzzing, the adrenaline from the shift still humming in his veins. There was something else too, something that stayed in the back of Nick’s thoughts all night long. Jet, and the swell of his perfect arse grinding against him. Nick wasn’t sure why, but the dance, silly as it had been, had marked him. All night long, while carrying trays and laughing with punters, that moment stayed with Nick. It had never felt like that before. Nick had done those sensual little dances with other guys plenty of times, bloody hell, he barely spared a thought for Big Z even though he’d danced with him tonight too… but Jet, somehow, was proving more difficult to shake off.

He told himself it was nothing, just the heat of the lights, the absurdity of the whole thing making it stick. Jet was fit, yeah, everyone knew that, his arse was the stuff of locker-room legend, round and firm from all those hours on the UCLA water polo team, the kind that made punters stuff extra bills just for a closer look. But Nick had danced with fit lads before and never carried it home like this, a low, nagging heat that wouldn’t quite fade even as he wiped down tables and cashed out tips. It unsettled him. Because if he was honest, and he hated being honest about this, it felt like the same pull he’d been fighting with Beto. That dark, insistent want creeping out from one bloke and starting to spread. Jet was harmless, just a mate, just fun. So why the hell was Nick still thinking about the way that arse had pressed back, the friction sending sparks he hadn’t asked for?

He shoved the thought down hard as he made his way to the locker room. Roosters had a small bathroom with showers that Nick almost never used because the water pressure was terrible, but he simply had to that day. Some pissed punter had “accidentally” sloshed half a pint of lager down his chest during the last rush, and Nick would rather walk home starkers than put his clothes back on while still sticky and reeking of stale beer. He could use the cold shower too, he thought quietly, anything to douse the lingering heat from the dance. He asked Rocket for some of his liquid soap, the one that smelled like lavender and cut through the sweat proper, and ducked into the cramped shower stall. The water came out in a pathetic trickle and it was freezing, shocking his skin like ice. Nick stood under it anyway, head bowed, letting it sluice down his chest, over his abs, between his thighs, washing away the beer and the sweat and, he hoped, the memory of that perfect arse pressing back against him. His cock, mercifully soft now, hung heavy between his legs, the cold doing its job for once. He scrubbed quick with Rocket’s soap, the lavender sharp in his nose, rinsing off the night’s chaos.

It helped. A bit. Enough that when he got out of the shower, he didn’t feel like he was crawling out of his own skin anymore. The cold had done its job, washing away the beer stickiness and the sweat, leaving him clean and a touch clearer-headed.

Then Nick froze.

Jet stood by the lockers, completely naked except for the towel slung loose over one shoulder, water still beading on his tanned skin from his own shower. He was turned halfway, reaching for something in his bag, and Nick’s eyes, traitorous, bloody stupid eyes, went straight to that arse. The one everyone went on about. Round and firm, sculpted from water polo and God-knows-what-else, golden under the harsh locker-room lights, a faint sheen of water tracing the curve like it was highlighting it for him. Nick couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop admiring it, the way the muscle flexed subtle as Jet shifted weight, the dimples at the base of his spine, the smooth line leading down.

His mouth went dry. Heat pooled low again, that same insistent pull from the dance, stronger now with nothing in the way, no trunks, no crowd, just Jet bare and perfect and oblivious. Nick’s cock twitched, half-interested despite the cold shower, and shame slammed into him like a rugby tackle.

Bloody hell. Not Jet too. Not here, not now.

Jet turned then, catching Nick staring, and flashed that easy grin, no shame at all. “Good shift, Brit? You killed it out there.”

Nick forced his eyes up, face burning, grabbing his towel quick to wrap round his waist. “Yeah. Cracking. You too.”

He turned away fast, fumbling for his clothes, heart hammering. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t let it spread. Jet was just a mate, just fun. But the image stuck, burned in like Beto’s had, and Nick knew, with a sick twist in his gut, that shaking it off wasn’t going to be easy.

Not tonight.

Not anymore.

“Hey, Nick,” came Jet’s voice from behind him, quieter now, the easy edge gone. “We’re cool, right?”

Nick was half-bent over his rucksack, fingers fumbling for his shorts. He hoped he had some forgotten underwear there, something to act like an extra barrier between his cock and Jet’s arse, but no such luck. He never used underwear these days. “Huh?” he asked, distracted.

“I mean, that Roosters’ time tonight. I didn’t overstep, right?”

Nick stopped what he was doing. Fuck. Had Jet felt it too? That same heat, that rush of something forbidden? Had he noticed Nick’s cock twitching against his arse during the grind?

“It’s just… I know we do that shit all the time and it’s no big deal,” Jet went on. “But your man was here tonight. Didn’t wanna be disrespectful, you know?”

Fuck. Charlie. Fucking Charlie. His man. Nick’s chest tightened like someone had punched him square in the sternum. How could Jet, of all people, be this considerate, this aware, when Nick had spent the whole dance letting his mind wander places it had no business going? When he’d felt that spark, that pull, and hadn’t shut it down fast enough? Other people respected Charlie without even trying, and Nick, who loved him more than anything, kept forgetting him in the worst moments.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He straightened up slow, shorts in hand, forcing his face into something neutral. “Nah, mate,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “We’re cool. Just the usual Roosters madness. Charlie knows it’s all show.”

Jet leaned against the lockers, towel slung low, that perfect body still on display without a shred of self-consciousness. He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. Didn’t wanna make shit weird. You two are solid, everyone sees it.”

Solid. Yeah. Nick swallowed, the word tasting bitter. He yanked on his shorts commando and pulled his tank over his head, movements sharp. “Appreciate it,” he muttered.

Jet flashed that easy grin again, slinging his towel over his shoulder like he hadn’t a care in the world. “One thing I know for sure, Charlie’s a better man than me. If you were my man, I’d never let you work here.”

“Charlie isn’t jealous,” Nick answered, feeling his cheeks burn proper hot, the words coming out a bit defensive even to his own ears.

“Like I said, better man than me,” Jet echoed.

Then he took a long look down Nick’s body, slow, deliberate, appreciating the view without a shred of shame, eyes lingering on chest, abs, the heavy line of his cock hanging soft now but still obvious. Nick felt the heat surge back, despite the cold shower, and he stood there frozen for a second, caught in it.

“Um,” Nick said, dumb as anything, shaking his head sharp like he could snap whatever spell Jet had cast. He grabbed his sleeveless shirt quick, yanking it over his head, and sat down hard on the bench to lace up his trainers, fingers fumbling a bit.

Jet just chuckled soft, turning back to his own rucksack, pulling on shorts without bothering with underwear either. “Night, Brit. Killer moves tonight.”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered, standing fast, bag slung over his shoulder. “Night.”

Nick stepped out of Roosters into the Los Angeles night, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud that cut off the thump of music and laughter like flipping a switch. It was well past midnight on a hot spring evening, the kind where the day’s heat clung stubborn to the air, thick and humid, refusing to let go even under the stars. The boulevard stretched wide and empty now, palm trees lining the kerb like silent sentinels, their fronds rustling faint in the warm breeze that carried the distant tang of salt from Venice Beach a few blocks west. Neon signs from closed shops buzzed low and flickering, pink and blue glows from a tattoo parlour, the faded red of a late-night taco stand still doing brisk trade for the stragglers. A couple of punters stumbled out of a bar across the street, laughing loud as they piled into an Uber, the car’s headlights slicing bright through the dark before it pulled away. The pavement was littered with the remnants of the night: a stray flip-flop abandoned by some pissed tourist, glitter from someone’s hen party catching the streetlamps like cheap confetti.

The air felt heavy on Nick’s skin, sweat from the shift cooling slow under his tank, the lavender soap from the shower mixing with the city’s night smells, exhaust, grilled meat from a food truck idling at the corner, that underlying ocean brine that never quite left you in this part of town. A lowrider cruised past slow, bass thumping deep from the speakers, the driver nodding at Nick like they shared some secret. Overhead, the sky was a deep indigo scattered with stars you could actually see on a clear night like this, the city glow not quite drowning them out.

Nick slung his rucksack higher on his shoulder and started walking, trainers quiet on the pavement, the buzz from the shift still humming in his veins but fading slow under the night’s warm hush. The street felt alive in that after-hours way, quiet but not empty, promise lingering in the air like the heat itself wouldn’t let the day end proper.

He needed to get home to Charlie. Needed that familiar anchor to chase away the night’s lingering chaos.

But as he walked, the memory of Jet’s grind clung stubborn, warm and unwelcome, refusing to fade with the neon lights behind him.

It was all his fault. Beto. All his bloody fault.

Nick never acted like this before. He noticed other blokes, sure, of course he did, he wasn’t blind, but it never messed with him like this, never dug in deep and twisted until he couldn’t think straight. Charlie had always been the one thing in Nick’s mind, the love of his life, the one man he truly ever wanted. From that first proper kiss at the cinema to crossing an ocean together, Charlie was it. Home. Everything.

But Beto… Beto had unlocked something in him, some twisted part that wanted more. Wanted Jet, with that perfect arse and cheeky grin. Wanted Ryan, the fly-half with the sharp jaw and easy laugh that lit up the locker room.. And above everything else, wanted Beto, golden skin, dark eyes, that infuriating smirk, like a hunger Nick couldn’t starve out no matter how hard he tried.

Beto had kept his distance after what had happened in the bathroom at the Eaton Arts building. Nick still saw him on campus, all the bloody time, like the universe was taking the piss. In the Lift District, loading a bar while Nick spotted Harp on bench; striding across the quad with a group of international lads, laughing loud in that annoying way of his; even once in the library cafe, nursing a coffee with some book open, looking all focused and golden under the lights. But never when Charlie was with him. When they were together, holding hands on the path or grabbing lunch at the union, Beto always made himself scarce, vanishing round a corner or ducking into a building like he’d sensed them coming. Maybe he was feeling guilty too, going after his mate’s bloke like that. Nick hoped so. He was grateful for it, at least. Facing Charlie again after that day had been difficult enough, walking into the dorm that night, heart in his throat, praying the guilt wasn’t written all over his face. Charlie had just smiled, pulled him into a hug, asked about practice like nothing was wrong. Nick had held him tight, buried his face in those curls, and promised himself it was over. Done.

A few nights later, he’d taken Charlie to their secret spot on the beach, the little cove behind the dunes, fairy lights in a jar and a blanket spread out under the stars. They’d made out right there, slow and tender, waves whispering in the background, Nick focusing on him and only him, kissing every inch, hands gentle, whispering how much he loved him, how Charlie was everything. Cherishing him, trying to convince himself that this was enough, that this was the only thing he really wanted.

It hadn’t worked.

The want for Beto lingered, dark and stubborn, creeping in even then, flashes of that smirk, that hand, that almost-kiss, turning what should’ve been perfect into something tainted. And it hadn’t gone away since.

Nick was starting to think it never would.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. Waiting for it to stop hadn’t worked. Keeping his distance hadn’t worked. Talking with Harp hadn’t worked. Nothing worked. It was like his cock was determined to be inside Beto, no matter how much his heart and brain tried to stop it, screaming at him that Charlie was everything, that this was wrong, that giving in would wreck the best thing he’d ever had.

The boulevard stretched quiet under the streetlamps, palms rustling faint overhead, the warm night air clinging to his skin. Nick walked faster, trainers pounding the pavement, trying to outrun the thoughts, but they kept pace easy, Beto’s smirk in the art class, that hand in the bathroom, Jet’s arse grinding back tonight like an echo. His body felt traitorous, heavy with want he couldn’t kill, cock half-interested again just from the memory, like it had a mind of its own and Beto held the reins. The dorm loomed ahead. Charlie would be there, waiting, trusting. And Nick would smile, kiss him goodnight, pretend it was all fine.

But it wasn’t. And deep down, in the dark corners he didn’t dare look, Nick wondered how much longer he could keep lying.

To Charlie, to himself.

Before it all came crashing down.

Nick’s trainers scuffed to a halt outside the familiar door of Seaview Hall. The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and someone’s burnt microwave popcorn from earlier, the overhead fluorescents buzzing low and tired. He stood there longer than he meant to, bag heavy on his shoulder, the weight of the night pressing down harder than the humid air still clinging to his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool wood, letting the faint thump of music from inside, some soft indie track Charlie loved, the one with the gentle guitar and lyrics about missing someone who was right there, seep into him. The sound was muffled, intimate, like Charlie had turned it low just for himself. Nick breathed in slow, deliberate, trying to shove everything else out. Out here, it didn’t belong. In there, with Charlie, none of it existed.

He straightened, rolled his shoulders once like he could shake off the day, and forced the smile onto his face, the one Charlie always called his “everything’s fine” smile, even though they both knew when it was real and when it was armour. Tonight it felt like armour, but it would hold. It had to.

I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

Nick knocked, three soft taps, their little rhythm since freshman year.

The door swung open with a soft creak, revealing Lucas Adams framed in the warm spill of light from inside. For a split second, his eyes widened behind the thin frames of his glasses, that familiar flicker of old wariness crossing his face: shoulders hunching just a fraction, weight shifting back onto his heels as if ready to retreat. Nick knew the look well, and knew it wasn’t personal, not really. Charlie had explained it once, quiet and careful, after Nick had asked why Adams always seemed to shrink a little whenever he showed up unannounced. He had a rough time in high school, Charlie had said, voice low as they lay tangled in bed one night. Jocks like the ones who look like you made his life hell. Shoved him into lockers, called him names, the usual bullshit. He knows you’re nothing like them, but… it sticks, you know?

He’d made a point of keeping his distance after that, letting Charlie come to his room more often than not, never pushing. Adams deserved to feel safe in his own space. But tonight something was different. The initial flinch softened almost immediately, Adams’ shoulders easing as recognition settled in. A small, tentative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, genuine this time, not the tight, polite curve Nick was used to seeing. His eyes didn’t dart away like they once would have; instead, they met Nick’s for a steady beat, warm under the hallway light. He was happy to see they were making progress.

“Hey, Nick,” Adams said, stepping back to hold the door wider. “Charlie’s just gone for a shower. Come on in.”

“Thanks, mate,” Nick replied softly, slipping past him into the room, careful as always not to crowd the doorway.

The room smelled like Charlie: books and that faint vanilla candle he loved, mixed with the lingering spice of whatever takeout Adams had earlier. The music still played low from Charlie’s speaker, something soft and acoustic that wrapped around Nick like a hug he desperately needed. He dropped his bag by the door, rolling his shoulders once, the ache from the shift and the walk home settling deep into his muscles.

Nick’s eyes flicked over Adams as the door clicked shut behind him and was glad to see that Adams was dressed to leave, no doubt about it: faded black hoodie with a pixelated Space Invaders graphic stretched across the chest paired with baggy cargo jeans that had seen better days and scuffed Converse high-tops, one lace untied like he’d been in a rush. A bulky backpack slung over one shoulder, stuffed to bursting with textbooks and what looked like a half-eaten bag of crisps poking out the side pocket. He and Charlie would have the room to themselves soon.

“Uh, congrats on the Sharks win, by the way,” Adams said, voice gaining a touch more confidence as he met Nick’s eyes properly this time. “Heard you rocked. That last try sounded insane.”

Nick’s smile came easier at that, genuine warmth cutting through the fog in his head. “Cheers, mate. Yeah, proper close one. Nearly bottled it till the last second.” He tilted his head, keeping his tone light, casual. “You alright for finals? Charlie said you’ve been pulling all-nighters in the lab.”

Adams huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tic Nick had clocked months ago. “Yeah… it’s rough. Comp sci modules are kicking my ass this semester. But I’ll live. Probably.”

“You will,” Nick said, nodding with quiet certainty. “You’re clever as hell. Charlie’s always banging on about how you fixed his laptop that one time it died mid-essay.”

A faint flush crept up Adams’ cheeks at that, but he didn’t look away this time, just gave a shy, lopsided grin that felt like a small victory. “Yeah, well… anyway. I’ve got a study group thing. Should head out.”

“Cool,” Nick said, stepping aside to clear the path to the door. “Good luck with it, yeah? Smash those algorithms.”

Adams nodded, slinging his bag higher as he moved past

“Thanks. Night, Nick.”

“Night, mate.”

Nick toed off his trainers with a quiet kick, letting them thump softly against the wall before he sank onto the edge of Charlie’s bed. The door hadn’t been shut for five minutes when it creaked open again. Nick looked up, and there he was: Charlie, padding out barefoot on those ridiculous white socks he insisted on wearing to bed no matter how sweltering the California nights got. Blue boxer shorts rode low on his hips, and he had on one of Nick’s old Truham rugby shirts, faded navy, the hem hanging loose almost to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up because it still swallowed him even after all these years. His curls were damp and wild, darker where the water clung, a few droplets tracing down his neck and disappearing under the collar.

Charlie’s face lit up the second he spotted Nick, proper lit up, that soft, open smile that always punched the air from Nick’s lungs. No hesitation, no questions. Just pure, uncomplicated joy at seeing him there. He crossed the room in a few quick steps, slinging his wet towel over the windowsill to dry. Then, without a word, he climbed straight into Nick’s lap, knees bracketing his thighs, hands sliding up to cup Nick’s jaw as he leaned in and kissed him. It was soft at first, familiar, Charlie’s lips warm and a little hesitant, like he was tasting how the night had been on Nick’s mouth. But Nick felt it hit him like a wave: relief, love, that fierce ache of home. His hands came up instinctive, settling on Charlie’s waist under the loose shirt, thumbs brushing bare skin. Charlie hummed into the kiss, pressing closer, and Nick let himself sink into it, let it chase the shadows back, just for a moment.

The kiss deepened in a rush, Charlie’s lips parting with a soft, needy sigh that Nick swallowed whole. Tongues met slow at first, tentative slides, tasting the lingering sweetness of ginger ale from earlier in Charlie’s mouth, then urgent, hungry, Charlie’s hands fisting in Nick’s curls to pull him closer, angling his head just so. Nick groaned low into Charlie’s mouth, the sound rumbling from his chest as he poured everything into it: love, desperation, the fierce need to drown out the night’s shadows in the one person who always made them fade. Charlie tasted like home, warm, and familiar clean in a way that went beyond the shower, pure, and Nick chased it, lips slanting harder, teeth grazing Charlie’s bottom lip in that way he knew made him shiver.

Without breaking the kiss, Nick stood, effortless, arms wrapping secure round Charlie’s waist as he lifted him. Charlie’s legs locked instinctive round Nick’s hips, ankles crossing at the small of his back, a soft whimper escaping into Nick’s mouth at the shift. Nick carried him the few steps to the bed like Charlie weighed nothing, the fairy lights twinkling soft above them, casting golden flecks across Charlie’s damp curls and flushed cheeks. He lowered him gentle onto the mattress, following without pause, straddling Charlie’s thighs as he settled his weight, knees bracketing slim hips, hands planting either side of Charlie’s head to cage him in.

Nick’s cock was already rock-hard again, straining thick and insistent against the thin fabric of his Adidas shorts. The lingering heat from Jet’s grind earlier hadn’t faded; if anything, it surged hotter now, that perfect arse pressing back in memory fueling the ache more than Charlie’s body beneath him ever could in this moment. Nick knew it, felt the twist of guilt sharp in his gut, the sick knowledge that this hardness, this desperate edge, owed more to the ghost of Jet’s firm curves than the boy he loved pinned under him. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The guilt would crash in later, like it always did, waves of self-loathing he was getting far too used to riding out. Right now, all he wanted was to lose himself in Charlie, pretend the fire was was their own.

He ground down deliberate, rolling his hips slow and heavy, the thin layers of fabric, his shorts, Charlie’s boxers, doing nothing to hide the drag of their hard cocks sliding together. Charlie moaned loud into his mouth, the sound breaking on a gasp as he arched up instinctive, grinding back desperate, hips bucking to chase the friction. Nick swallowed the noise, thrusting again, harder, deeper, feeling Charlie’s length twitch and leak against him, both of them straining, aching, the barrier of cloth only making it filthier.

“Fuck, Char,” Nick rasped against his lips, forehead pressed to Charlie’s as he rocked again, relentless. “You feel so good.”

Charlie laughed brightly beneath him, breathless, the sound bubbling up like it always did when they were tangled like this, easy and real and just them. Nick laughed back, the tension in his chest cracking open for a heartbeat. That was how it was supposed to be: simple, fun, loving, perfect in a way nothing else ever came close to touching. Just the two of them, bodies pressed close, the world locked outside. Nick pulled back just enough to look at him. Charlie’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide under the fairy lights, cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen and wet from the kiss. Desire burned there, open and hungry. He reached for the hem of his tank, fingers curling under the fabric to tug it up, slow, teasing, giving Charlie the show he usually loved. But before he could lift it past his midriff, Charlie’s hands shot out, slim fingers wrapping firm around Nick’s wrists.

“Wait, babe,” Charlie said, voice soft but firm. “No.”

Nick stopped, tank bunched halfway up his abs. “Clothes on today?” he asked, smirking.

Charlie’s gaze flickered, something shifting behind the desire, something Nick couldn’t quite read. “No, I… I’m not feeling it tonight.”

“Oh,” Nick said, the word slipping out small and startled. He let the hem drop, fabric falling back over his stomach as he sat up a little straighter, still straddling Charlie’s hips. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Charlie’s voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “Just feeling a bit tired.”

Nick stared down at him. Tired. The word landed wrong, clanging against everything he could still feel: Charlie’s cock hard and insistent beneath him, pressing up through thin boxers; the way Charlie’s thighs had flexed and spread instinctive when Nick settled his weight; the heat still radiating off Charlie’s skin, the flush high on his cheeks, the dark want still burning in his eyes. None of it matched tired. Not even close.

“Sorry,” Charlie said again, meekly, eyes flicking down for a second before coming back up, searching Nick’s face.

“No, it’s fine,” Nick answered, trying to sound more cheerful than he actually felt. He wasn’t mad at Charlie, course he wasn’t. Never could be. It was just… fuck, his cock was really hard, thick and throbbing against his shorts, the ache insistent and showing no sign of relenting. He shifted his hips back a fraction, easing the pressure, but it didn’t help much. “Come on, don’t be daft. We can just cuddle, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, and the smile that curved his lips was small but real. He reached up, brushing a thumb along Nick’s jaw like he was memorising the shape of it.

Nick willed his cock to soften, to behave, to stop pulsing like it had a mind of its own. He was very aware, painfully aware, that he and Charlie hadn’t had sex in a couple of weeks now. Their longest dry spell since they’d landed in California, easy. Finals, rugby, Roosters shifts, Charlie’s capstone project, it had all piled up, stealing time and energy until nights ended with exhausted kisses and falling asleep tangled together instead of anything more. It was fine. They’d catch up after finals. They always did. He shifted again on the bed until he was lying beside Charlie instead, rolling them so they faced each other on the narrow mattress. Their faces were so close Nick could feel Charlie’s warm breath against his lips, smelling faintly of mint toothpaste. He smiled, small and soft, the kind of smile he only ever gave Charlie.

“Hi,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

“Hi,” Charlie said back, trying to hold back his laughter but failing, the sound slipped out anyway.

“Probably for the best if I save all that energy for the match,” Nick said, plastering on a grin that felt a touch too stiff round the edges, trying to pass it off as a joke so Charlie wouldn’t clock just how wound up he was.

Charlie let out a quiet huff of laughter. “You’re already an absolute beast on the pitch. Bit greedy to be after more, isn’t it?” he teased.

Nick gave a low, playful growl in his throat and leaned in, catching Charlie’s jaw in a gentle nip, just enough to make him wriggle and let out that breathy giggle he tried to hide.

“Keep chatting like that and I’ll show you exactly how much of a beast I am.” Nick muttered, bumping their foreheads together.

Charlie’s smile flickered wider for a second, but then it softened again, something quieter settling behind it. Nick felt the shift like a change in the air, small, subtle, but there. He pulled back a fraction, searching Charlie’s face.

“You nervous?” Charlie asked, tilting his head, thumb brushing slow over the inside of Nick’s wrist.

Nick shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, I suppose. Bit mad, innit? This whole season’s been mental. No one thought we’d make the finals. Not even me, half the time.”

Charlie held his gaze, steady and warm as anything. “I never doubted you lot.”

Nick’s chest gave that familiar squeeze of fondness and gratitude, something that almost ached. He ducked his head slightly, then looked back up at him. “Yeah, well. You’ve always had more faith in us than I have, haven’t you, love?”

Charlie laughed again, soft and fond, but it didn’t quite brighten his face like it usually did. The sound fizzled out too quickly, and he dropped his gaze to where their fingers were still laced together, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks.

“There’s… something I need to tell you,” he said, quiet as anything. “Been meaning to for a few days now. I just…” He swallowed. “I’m a bit scared you’re gonna be cross.”

Nick’s smile faltered, then slipped away entirely. He narrowed his eyes slightly, really looking at Charlie now. He’d always prided himself on knowing him better than anyone. Every tiny shift in expression. Every tell. Every flicker that passed through those blue eyes before Charlie even realised it was there. But that was new. There’d been no warning, no tight shoulders earlier, no nervous rambling. No avoiding his gaze. Just this sudden, quiet sort of dread, dropped between them out of nowhere.

“I won’t get cross. Promise.”

Charlie’s eyes lifted to his for a split second, searching, then slipped away again.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured. “Not till you know what I’m actually on about, Nick.”

Nick blinked, taken aback. Charlie sounded… serious. Scared, yeah, but serious in a way that made the hair on the back of Nick’s neck prickle.

“Hey,” Nick said, softer now. He reached up and cupped Charlie’s cheek, thumb brushing gently over the warm, pinked skin, grounding him. “I’m not gonna get mad. Just tell me, yeah? What’s going on?”

Charlie sighed, resigned, motioning to sit on the mattress, and Nick followed. The fairy lights cast soft golden flecks across Charlie’s face, highlighting the faint tension around his eyes, the way his fingers kept twisting in the hem of Nick’s old rugby shirt like he was trying to anchor himself.

“I won’t be able to go to Houston with you,” Charlie said finally voice steady, like he’d rehearsed

Nick blinked.

Houston. The finals. The biggest game he’d ever played, the one he’d been dreaming about, training for, bleeding for. And Charlie wouldn’t be there?

“Oh,” he said, dumbly. “Why… why not?”

Charlie sighed again, deeper this time, shoulders dropping. ““There’s this lad, Reyes. He’s in English Lit major as well. And doing that interdisciplinary project on queer literature too. But… his mum’s got cancer. She’s having surgery to take the tumour out. And it’s just the two of them, Nick. No siblings, no one else. Just him and his mum. He wants to be there for her. Obviously.”

Nick’s stomach twisted. “He needed to change his presentation date.”

“He did. And when Professor Avery asked if anyone was willing to swap presentations… I said yes.”

“And your new date…”, Nick said, already knowing what the answer was gonna be.

“The twentieth. Same as your game.”

Nick stared at him. “I see.” He kept his tone carefully neutral, even as something cold bloomed in his chest. “Did Professor Avery ask you specifically to swap with him?”

Charlie winced, eyes squeezing shut for a second like the memory actually stung. He dragged a hand through his hair, then glanced up at Nick, guilt written all over his face.

“Not really.”, he admitted. “He just asked if anyone could swap. And I felt awful for him. I mean, he looked like he was gonna throw up when he realised the dates clashed, proper panicked… So I said I’d do it. I volunteered.

Charlie hesitated, swallowing dry.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I completely forgot about Houston.”

Nick’s jaw worked once, twice. He could feel the words piling up behind his teeth. You forgot? The finals? The one thing I’ve been working toward all season?, but he swallowed them down hard. Charlie looked miserable enough already, shoulders hunched, fingers still twisting in the shirt like he was waiting for the blow. He looked at Charlie for a moment. His eyes were still glassy, guilt written all over his face, and Nick hated it. Hated how small he looked in that moment, like he was waiting for the hammer to fall. But underneath the guilt, Nick felt something else rising, slow at first, then sharper. Frustration. Not the hot, explosive kind. The slow-burning kind that crept in quiet and stayed.

He thought about all the times he’d been there for Charlie.

The night Charlie had panicked about his first big presentation back in first term, heart racing, hands shaking, convinced he was going to bomb it. Nick had stayed up with him till three in the morning, running through slides, making him laugh when he started spiralling, kissing his forehead every time he nailed a point. He’d skipped morning training the next day just to sit in the back row and cheer when Charlie finished without throwing up. The time Charlie’s gran had passed, quietly and suddenly, back in Whitstable. Nick had driven them both home in the middle of the night, no questions, just held Charlie’s hand the whole way while he stared out the window, silent tears streaking down his face. Nick had stayed for the funeral, stood beside him at the graveside, arm round his shoulders when Charlie’s knees buckled halfway through the eulogy.

Every time Charlie had needed him, every panic attack, every bad day, every moment he’d felt too small for the world, Nick had been there. No hesitation. No second thoughts. He’d dropped everything, rearranged his life, because Charlie came first. Always. And now… now the biggest moment of Nick’s life was coming, the one thing he’d poured every ounce of himself into for months, and Charlie wouldn’t be there. Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he couldn’t. Because he’d volunteered. Because someone else needed him more.

Nick’s throat tightened. He tried to swallow it down, tried to keep his face neutral, but the frustration was building. He wasn’t angry at Reyes. Wasn’t angry at Charlie’s kindness. He was angry at how much it hurt anyway.

“You’re doing that thing”, said Charlie.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you go all quiet and your jaw does that clenchy thing. Like you’re trying not to say something.”

Nick exhaled through his nose. “I’m not trying not to say anything.”

“You are,” Charlie said gently. “And I get it. I’d be gutted if you missed something big for me.”

Nick looked away for a second, staring at the fairy lights strung across the ceiling. They twinkled soft and golden, mocking how tangled everything felt inside him.

“I’m not mad” Nick said, finally. “I’m not. The lad’s mum needs him. You’re doing the right thing. I just…” He dragged a hand over his face, frustrated. “I wanted you there. I wanted to look up after the final whistle and see you in the stands, grinning like an idiot, proud of me. That’s all.”

Charlie’s lip trembled. “I wanted that too.”

They stayed like that, Charlie looking up at Nick, pleading with wide eyes, searching for forgiveness in the lines of Nick’s face; Nick staring at the wall over his head, frustration simmering low and hot under his ribs like a kettle left too long on the stove. He wasn’t angry. Not really. He was just… disappointed. In a way that hurt more than anger ever could. And underneath it all, that small, ugly voice whispered again: He forgot. The finals. The biggest thing you’ve ever done. Nick shoved it down. Deep. That wasn’t fair. Charlie had done the right thing, even if it had been at Nick’s expense. He should be proud of him. Should be proud he was loved by someone generous enough to step up without thinking twice, someone who’d volunteer to help a mate whose mum was facing surgery because it was the decent thing to do. That was Charlie. That was always Charlie.

But frustration didn’t listened to reason. His mind kept circling back to Houston: The pitch, the roar of the crowd. The moment the whistle blew and, if they won, the trophy in his hands. He’d pictured it so many times: looking up into the stands, spotting Charlie jumping and screaming, grin so wide it lit the whole stadium. That image had kept him going through every brutal conditioning session, every early-morning sprint when his legs felt like lead, every hit that left him winded and bruised. Charlie in the stands. Charlie proud. Charlie there.

And now he wouldn’t be.

“I should head back to my dorm,” Nick said suddenly, pushing himself up from the bed.

“No, Nick, please!” Charlie pleaded, sitting up fast, one hand reaching out to catch Nick’s wrist. “Don’t go like that when you’re mad.”

Nick stopped, still half-turned toward the door, Charlie’s fingers warm and tight around his wrist. He looked down at him, those big blue eyes all wide and worried, curls still damp from the shower, the old rugby shirt slipping off one shoulder.

“I’m not mad, I promise,” Nick said, trying to sound steady, trying to convince both of them. “You’re doing the right thing, okay? You really are.” He swallowed, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just… sad you won’t be there. Guess I need a moment on my own. But I’ll be better tomorrow, yeah? I promise.”

Charlie looked like a lost puppy, head tilted to the side, bottom lip pushed out in that proper pout he did when he was trying not to cry. It was so ridiculously endearing that Nick couldn’t help the fond little laugh that escaped him, even through the heaviness in his chest. He leaned down, cupped Charlie’s face with both hands, and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, slow and careful, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Charlie’s for a second, breathing him in.

“Sleep tight, yeah?” he murmured, voice rough. He kissed him once more, quick and gentle. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Charlie’s fingers tightened on his shirt for a moment before letting go. “Love you, Nicky,” he whispered, voice small.

“Love you too, Char,” Nick said, pressing one last kiss to his forehead.

Then he turned, grabbed his bag, and slipped out the door before the lump in his throat could get any bigger. Nick shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressing heavier with every step.

—

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