Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a curious young boy and his introverted older sister.
Okay. It wasn't that long ago. And not really a kingdom. It was Truham, a quiet town in Kent. It only felt far away because on the greyest days, the mist and smog blurred the edges of everything. But to Charlie Spring, growing up, it was still his kingdom.
He didn’t have many friends. Being the closeted, sensitive, book-loving kid at an all-boys grammar school didn’t exactly win you allies. At home, things weren’t much easier. His mum was distant, cold in ways that didn’t always make sense. She acted like loving her children was an obligation rather than a choice. His dad was gentle, quieter than most, kind in the moments that counted, but he rarely stood his ground when her voice turned sharp.
But he had Tori. His sister. He was her best friend. And she was his.
Tori was everything. His sister. His best friend. His protector. She was sarcastic, cynical, borderline terrifying when she wanted to be, but for Charlie, she was soft. Gentle. A lighthouse on the foggiest days. He was the luckiest boy in the world.
Their dad owned a little cafe in town, Once Upon a Spring . A cozy corner tucked into the high street that always smelled of cinnamon, croissants, and something warm you couldn’t quite name. Plants lined the windowsills, light poured through the glass in soft golden streaks, and music drifted lazily through the air—usually something indie or nostalgic, like The Strokes or Muse. Tori’s picks.
She’d been made manager by the time she was sixteen, running the place with a sharp eye, a quicker wit, and a pen always tucked behind her ear. Her sense of calm and control gave the cafe its pulse. She wasn’t bubbly or soft-spoken—in fact, she rarely smiled unless it was at someone’s stupidity—but she had this quiet kind of gravity that made people feel safe. Under her watch, nothing ever ran out, no one ever waited too long, and the oat milk was always stocked. She remembered names, orders, even allergies. She never tried to be warm. She was efficient. But in that quiet efficiency was a form of care.
Customers came in for a quiet tea, a buttery scone, a break from the world, and they stayed because of Tori. She ran the place like she was protecting it from the chaos outside. And maybe, in a way, she was.
Charlie used to sit at the counter after school, legs swinging from a barstool, watching her like she ran the universe. She showed him how to steam milk properly, how to swirl delicate flowers into foam—but his flowers always ended up accidentally resembling a certain female anatomy. His mum would chastise him, calling him a pervert, but Tori just smirked, knowing full well Charlie had zero interest in that department.
When the house got too loud, when Jane started yelling or slamming doors, Tori would take him out for a drive. Usually to Herne Bay. They’d lay on towels near the pebbled shore, headphones tangled between them, Charlie with a book in his hands and Tori scribbling in her notebook like she had the whole universe in her head.
"You are such a nerd,” Tori drawled one afternoon, nudging the spine of his beat-up Greek mythology book. “Seriously. I turn my head for five minutes and you’re either reading about ancient philosophers or ranking Greek heroes based on trauma.”
Charlie laughed. “Some lads dig the nerds.”
Tori raised an eyebrow. "Right. And how many out gay lads are there at Truham?"
Charlie shrugged, still smiling but a little softer now. "Doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly lining up for a boyfriend anytime soon."
“Don’t count yourself out just yet, nerd.” She smirked and ruffled his curls.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that always sat easy between them. But then Charlie sighed, his eyes drifting out toward the sea. “Mum said I was wasting my time this morning.”
Tori looked over, her smile fading. “What?”
“I told her I wanted to apply to Oxford one day. She laughed. Said I was setting myself up for disappointment.”
Tori sat up straighter. “That’s bullshit.”
Charlie blinked.
“Charlie, you’re smarter than anyone in that house, including her. You’re going to Oxford if you want to. And you know what?”
He looked over at her.
She grinned. “‘Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.’”
Charlie frowned. “That’s a baseball quote.”
“It’s a life quote, you gremlin,” she said, smacking him with her notebook. “It means don’t let fear stop you from going after what you want.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
Tori shrugged. “I dunno. Something Lucas said at Becky’s party. Guess he’s all into the great American pastime now.”
Charlie nodded and smiled softly. “I like it.”
Tori flicked his ear. “Good. Because it’s true.” She flipped to a fresh page, scribbled the quote down, and tore it out, tossing it at him. “Read it until you believe it.”
Charlie held up the wrinkled paper. “This is rubbish.”
“How dare you!” she shouted, launching herself at him.
They tumbled onto the pebbled blanket, laughing so hard it hurt. Tori wrestled the paper out of his grip, waving it dramatically in front of his face. “This, dear brother, is wisdom.”
Charlie squirmed beneath her. “This is aggressive motivational speaking, is what this is!”
Tori snorted, finally rolling off of him, still laughing as she sprawled out beside him on the now messed up towel.
A comfortable silence settled between them, the sound of the ocean moving before them.
Charlie turned his head to look at her, the paper still clutched in his hands. He wanted to believe it, wanted to hold onto the idea that he could reach for something bigger than what life had already given him.
“You really think I can do it?” he asked, voice quieter now.
Tori didn’t hesitate. “I know you can.”
And for that moment—for that perfect, fleeting moment—Charlie believed her.
That was the last summer Charlie ever truly felt like a kid.
Two months later, there was a fire at Higgs School for Girls. Something about a bunch of kids playing what they thought was a harmless prank.
Tori never made it out.
She was seventeen. Charlie was twelve.
And suddenly, the world got colder. Quieter. Smaller.
His protector. His compass. His sister. Gone.
Worst of all—Charlie never got to say goodbye.
His dad, once gentle and soft-spoken, collapsed under the weight of it. He started drinking. Then disappearing. And one day, he stopped coming back entirely.
Which left Charlie with Jane.
Jane stopped pretending. She stopped hiding her bitterness behind the facade of motherhood. Charlie became the errand boy, the cleaner, the employee. He worked the cafe when he should’ve been at the park, folding napkins while other kids folded paper planes.
And so, he stopped believing in happy endings. Stopped believing in magic or fate or the idea that people got what they deserved.
What Jane taught him was that nothing came for free. That hard work was the only way forward. That grief didn’t make you special—it made you weak. But beneath it all, hidden under the grief, the hurt, the sheer loneliness of it all, Charlie clung to Tori’s words like a lifeline.
Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.
That crumpled scrap of notebook paper, creased and yellowed, edges curling, ink beginning to fade, was the one piece of her he could still touch. Even when it hurt to believe in anything. Even when the world told him to stop.
Because if he gave up, it would mean she was wrong.
And Charlie couldn’t bear that.
He wasn’t at Higgs the day of the fire, but sometimes he imagined she went back in to save someone. That maybe one of the girls who escaped had Tori to thank. That even in her final moments, she was brave.
If this were a fairytale, he’d be proud of that. He’d see the value in being the hero. In taking risks. In opening up.
But this wasn’t a fairytale.
This was the story of a boy who’d spent his whole life afraid to take a risk—until he met another boy who’d never been given the chance until now.
Eight Years Later
“Charlie!” His mother’s voice carried up the stairs to the attic bedroom where Charlie was slumped over his desk, dead asleep, the blue light of his laptop still glowing harshly in the dim morning.
“Charles...” Jane sing-songed from below. “Charlie!”
He jolted awake with a start as her shrill screech hit its final, agonizing note. Groggy and disoriented, Charlie blinked at his screen, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His limbs felt heavy with exhaustion.
“It’s breakfast time!” Jane called out cheerfully. “So bring me my breakfast.”
Charlie let out a long, tired sigh. He yawned, dragged himself upright.
“Charlie!”
“I’m coming!” He called back.
Out back by the pool, Jane reclined under the morning sun in a designer robe, sunglasses perched on her nose, flipping through a glossy magazine that read "The Salmon Diet: Eat Like Royalty!"
Charlie approached with a plate, placing it beside her carefully. On it, a perfectly cooked piece of salmon, Jane’s latest dietary obsession.
She didn’t look up. “Is this the Norwegian salmon I asked for? I need my Omega-3s.”
Charlie bit the inside of his cheek. “Only the best,” he said flatly.
Jane stabbed her fork into the fish and took a delicate bite, chewing with exaggerated pleasure. “Mmm. I can tell,” she said smugly. “You know, it costs a fortune to fly that stuff in from Norwegia.”
Charlie blinked. “Norwegia?”
Jane looked over the top of her sunglasses, unbothered. “Well, whatever. The point is, it’s imported. You’re welcome.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again. Not worth it.
“Well?” she snapped. “Why are you just standing there like a lemon? Get to work.”
“I can’t right now, I have my AS exams this week. I really need to study—”
“Oh, Charlie,” Jane cut in, setting her magazine down with a sigh as if he were the inconvenience. “People go to school to get smarter so that they can get a job. You already have a job. So it's like skipping a step.” She smiled, proud of her twisted logic. “Now off you go.”
Charlie didn’t argue. He just rolled his eyes and turned toward the house, muttering under his breath.
As he crossed the lawn, the sprinklers suddenly burst to life, drenching his jeans instantly. Charlie shrieked and ran for the valve, twisting the knob furiously.
“No, darling, leave those on!” Jane called lazily. “The lawn’s looking a bit brown.”
“Mum, we’re supposed to be conserving water. There’s a drought!”
“Droughts are for poor people,” Jane replied airily. “Do you think Kate Middleton has a brown lawn?”
Another spray of water hit him square in the chest. He gave up and staggered back inside, soaked and annoyed.
“People who use extra water,” she added, sipping her cucumber water, “have extra class.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He dried off quickly, grabbed his bag, and slipped out the front door. Outside, he stared at their neighbor’s dry, brittle yard, then glanced back at their own unnaturally lush, bright-green lawn.
With one final eye roll, he got into his beat-up Peugeot 206, tossed his backpack into the passenger seat, and drove off.
The cafe was still dark and quiet when Charlie arrived, unlocking the front door and flicking on the dim overhead lights. At this hour, the place always felt too big, too still. The silence settled deep into his bones. He exhaled slowly, tied his apron around his waist, and got to work.
After his dad left, Jane took over the cafe and in her petty, all-consuming crusade to erase every trace of Julio Spring from her life, she rebranded it with an effortless lack of imagination.
Jane’s
Big, looping cursive letters printed across the window in flaking gold vinyl. Like she was trying to sell expensive handbags instead of burnt coffee and reheated paninis.
There was no music anymore. No plants in the windows, no soft lighting, no warmth. Just stark white walls, laminated signs, and boxes of pre-packaged biscuits stacked like afterthoughts behind the counter. A place that used to have life in it, now sterile and empty, like Jane wanted it to match her personality.
For the next hour, Charlie moved on autopilot, wiping tables, stocking the pastry case, prepping the espresso machine, doing everything he could to avoid thinking too hard about the truth:
He didn’t have a choice.
By the time the place smelled like fresh coffee and the sky outside had grown to an inky blue, he still had two hours before school started. He’d finish this shift, pick up Tao and Aled, and then head off to another place where he’d continue being invisible.
But at least, for now, he had time for his only real escape.
Charlie slumped onto the old couch in the backroom, pulled out his phone, and opened up the one conversation that made it all feel bearable.
@OxfordBoy
made it to work before the big boss so you know what im doing?
hiding in the backroom while playing tiny towers
@Nomad
Woowww.
And here I am, lazing in bed when I could be managing a virtual hotel.
@OxfordBoy
its not my fault my life is better than yours 🤷
@Nomad
So true.
When does the big boss show up? So I know when to kick his ass.
Charlie smiled, his shoulders loosening just a bit.
He’d met Nomad a few months ago on an Oxford Uni online forum. They’d started talking casually—exchanging opinions about books and classes—and somehow, it turned into something more. Every message, every late-night conversation, had become a tether. A lifeline. Even if Charlie had no idea who Nomad was in real life, even if they were just usernames behind screens, this boy had a way of making everything feel lighter. Like Charlie mattered.
Even if it was just for a little while.
@OxfordBoy
i never know anymore
ever since his girlfriend dumped him he’s been coming in earlier and acting like a prick
@Nomad
Ugh. I kind of have a mate like that.
He’s going through a rough breakup and he’s been a proper knob about it.
I say ‘kind of’ because I don’t really like him lol
Charlie let his head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Lately, Ben had been getting worse, sharper with his words, colder with his stares. Charlie could feel it creeping closer. Like something was going to break.
His phone buzzed again.
@Nomad
…But if I had someone like you to talk to every day, I think I’d be fine forever.
Charlie grinned.
@OxfordBoy
bold statement
aren’t you tired of me already? we talked till 2am last night
@Nomad
Never.
I'd talk to you all day if I could.
Charlie bit his lip, a familiar warmth creeping up his neck.
@OxfordBoy
i think you’re getting soft on me professor
@Nomad
Me? Soft? Never. I’m rugged and manly.
But if I were to fall for someone, it’d probably be someone with your kind of humor. And your kindness. And your stubborn refusal to take compliments.
Charlie laughed quietly, cheeks pink.
@OxfordBoy
hmmm rugged and manly... yep that narrows it down to five boys at our school. i’ll discover your true identity soon enough.
@Nomad
Oi!
He stared at the screen, that now-familiar thrill curling through his chest. The fact that they went to the same school—maybe even passed each other in the halls, sat one desk apart, shared the same air—was electrifying.
And terrifying.
Because Nomad had been asking him to meet. For weeks now. Little hints, teasing suggestions, outright offers. He wanted more than texts and emojis and vague, flirt-filled nicknames. And Charlie knew it. He knew Nomad was waiting for him to say yes.
But Charlie always dodged it.
Because he knew the boy behind the screen better than anyone, knew how deeply Nomad felt things, how he chose his words. How he dreamed of escape. Of Oxford. Of freedom. Charlie knew Nomad wanted more from life, not for the prestige, but to finally breathe.
Charlie knew everything—except his name.
And Nomad knew everything about Charlie… except the part that mattered.
Because if Nomad ever discovered who he really was, the barista stuck in an attic, the boy invisible at school, the boy who always says no because he’s convinced reality can’t live up to the fantasy, then maybe the magic would break.
And Charlie wasn’t ready to lose that.
Not yet.
His phone buzzed again.
@Nomad
Say the word angel, we’ll meet in the courtyard.
Charlie’s breath caught. Angel.
Nomad’s not-so-subtle flirting had always wrecked him more than he liked to admit. It was effortless, like everything else about him—teasing, warm, sincere in a way that never felt performative. Just… real.
Charlie told himself it was just words. Just a game. A lovely, temporary daydream.
But the blush crawling up his neck said otherwise.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, mind spinning, heart racing—when the bell above the cafe door jingled.
And just like that, the spell shattered.
The air changed.
Footsteps echoed through the cafe—slow, heavy, deliberate. Charlie’s whole body went rigid. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. That creeping chill up his spine told him everything.
The backroom door creaked open.
Ben Hope.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood in the doorway, gaze sweeping over the room. When his eyes landed on Charlie, something flickered there—disdain, amusement, something darker. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t have to.
Charlie sat up straighter, thumb still pressed against the side of his phone, the screen now black.
“Spring,” Ben said flatly. His voice was always clipped around the edges, like politeness had to fight its way through his teeth. “Tell me you actually did everything right this time.”
Charlie said nothing. Just forced himself to his feet and tucked his phone into his apron pocket, the last piece of his daydream sealed away.