Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(London, early October — cool wind, warm lights, that soft kind of loneliness)

The cursor blinks at the bottom of the Google Doc like it’s mocking him.

For the seventeenth time this week.

Charlie stares at the sentence on page 212:

“They locked eyes across the crowded room, and in that moment, every bad memory between them simply melted away.”

Jesus Christ.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rolls his chair backwards until it bumps the radiator, and finally unmutes himself on Zoom.

“Okay, Alex,” he says, voice diplomatic but carrying that familiar undercurrent of restrained despair. “We need to talk about this… moment.”

On the other side of the screen, Alex Hartley — thirty-five, bestselling romance author, irritatingly handsome in a smug writerly way — leans back in his chair and grins.

“What?” Alex says. “Too much?”

“Too much?” Charlie repeats. “Alex, it’s physically illegal in at least seven countries to have this much cheese in a single paragraph.”

Alex presses a hand to his chest. “Are you… accusing me of dairy-based crimes, Charlie?”

“I’m accusing you—,” Charlie says, pointing at the highlighted sentence with his pen, “—of writing an exes-to-lovers reunion that assumes trauma evaporates the second someone has good hair and emotional availability.”

Alex bites his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. “I do have good hair.”

“And your characters do not have emotional availability,” Charlie says. “They have unresolved issues and a tendency to communicate exclusively via dramatic pauses.”

Alex groans dramatically, slumping forward. “You wound me.”

“Good,” Charlie replies. “Maybe channel the pain into fixing chapter fourteen.”

Alex squints at him. “Have you always been this cynical about love, or is this a new 2025 edition?”

Charlie taps his pen against his mug. “I’m not cynical. I’m realistic. Readers want things that feel true. Breakups don’t dissolve because two people make intense eye contact at a party. Pain doesn’t just—”

He snaps his fingers. “—evaporate.”

Alex’s smile softens into something annoyingly knowing. “Who hurt you?”

Charlie deadpans. “You. When you sent me this draft.”

Alex bursts out laughing. “You know, if you ever get tired of editing, you should try stand-up. You’ve got the timing.”

“I’m funny because I’m suffering,” Charlie says calmly.

Then he adds, because Alex is looking far too amused. “And I will continue suffering unless you give me a reunion scene with actual emotional honesty.”

Alex raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll revise it.”

Charlie narrows his eyes. “Properly. No magic eye contact.”

“I promise.” A beat. Then, lightly, “Don’t worry, I’ll make the pain feel good.”

Charlie stares.

Alex winks.

Charlie exhales slowly. “This is why I edit fiction instead of dating.”

“Your loss,” Alex says lightly. “I’d treat you right.”

“And yet you think trauma dissolves via party lighting.”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Alex leans forward. “Send me the notes tonight?”

“I’ll send them,” Charlie says. “But only if you avoid writing any more emotionally fraudulent scenes.”

“Can’t guarantee that.”

“Then I can’t guarantee keeping my sanity.”

They stare each other down for three seconds before Alex sighs. “You win. End our suffering. Hit the button.”

Charlie allows himself the faintest, barely-there smile. “Goodnight, Alex.”

“Night, Charlie. Don’t dream about me too much.”

“Goodbye, Alex.”

He ends the call.

The apartment goes quiet in an instant.

The sudden silence that follows Zoom calls always feels too loud.

Charlie leans back in his chair, letting his head fall against the wall. His laptop screen reflects faintly in the window — the soft orange glow of London streetlights rippling across the glass. Autumn wind pulls at the bare branches outside, scattering crisp leaves along the pavement below.

He exhales — long, shaky, tired.

Editing an exes-to-lovers book on a Thursday night was a uniquely masochistic choice.

He shuts his laptop with a soft click and stands, stretching until his spine gives a small satisfying crack. His living room is warm, lamplight golden against the cool evening outside. He’d redecorated last year — cream walls, a dark green sofa, stacks of books everywhere. It’s a cozy space. A nice space.

A space built for one.

He walks into the kitchen area, barefoot against hardwood floors, and starts making tea — chamomile, because he’s trying to be gentle with himself these days. The kettle hums quietly.

He catches his reflection in the microwave door— shorter hair than he used to have, cut lazily at a cheap barbershop last month; curls less defined now, slipping into soft waves because he couldn’t be bothered to put product in. His eyes are tired. The kind of tired that isn’t from lack of sleep.

The kettle clicks.

He pours, lets the steam warm his face.

He tries — genuinely tries — not to think about the part that hurt the most.

But he’s spent the entire call telling an author to make heartbreak believable, so of course his brain drags him back to the one heartbreak that was.

Ten years.

Ten stupid, impossible years.

He hasn’t thought of Nick Nelson in…

Well. He thinks of him too often for someone who claims he doesn’t.

He takes his tea, walks to the sofa, and sinks into the cushions. A blanket lies crumpled beside him; he pulls it over his legs. Outside, a bus rattles past. The city hums.

Charlie sighs into the quiet.

He’s built a good life.

A comfortable one.

A busy one.

Friends who check in occasionally.

Work that keeps his mind full.

A two-bedroom apartment that smells like Earl Grey and old books.

A normal life.

But every now and then — like tonight — a line in a manuscript, or a joke from an author, or autumn wind twisting through London…

It hits him, low and soft and unavoidable—

He has loved once. Only once. And he has never quite stopped missing it.

Missing him.

He takes a slow sip of tea, lets the warmth settle in his chest.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters to himself.

“It’s been ten years.”

Still, the quiet stretches just a bit too long.

Just enough for loneliness to slip in through the cracks.

He reaches for his phone almost on instinct — a muscle memory born from nights like this, when the silence presses too close and his brain refuses to sit still.

Hinge.

He never opens Hinge at this hour.

Not really.

It’s a morning thing for him — a soft scroll while making iced coffee, still half-asleep and emotionally anaesthetised.

But tonight, his thumb taps it open anyway.

The app blooms to life.

A little too bright.

A little too hopeful.

A little too wrong for his mood.

He sighs.

The first profile loads— a guy with gym selfies, a long paragraph about ambition, and an alarming number of inspirational quotes. Charlie stares at it for five seconds — generous, really — before gently swiping left.

Next, a smiling man with a cat and a caption about loving long walks and wanting someone “not complicated.”

Charlie huffs a soft laugh under his breath. “Good luck,” he murmurs. He means it kindly. Truly.

But he swipes left anyway.

Then another. And another. And another.

None of them feel like anything.

They never have.

People think Charlie is picky — and he is — but not for the reasons they assume.

He’s not looking for perfection.

He’s not looking for fireworks.

He’s just trying not to hand his heart to someone who won’t handle it gently.

And that list… that list is short.

His uni years flash through his mind — the so-called slag era his friends teased him about.

All those nights in dim bars, hazy kitchens at house parties, someone pushing a drink into his hand and leaning too close.

All those boys with urgent hands, assignment deadlines, and identical expectations.

He tried it.

He tried all of it.

The fun.

The flirting.

The physicality.

It never felt right.

Not because he didn’t want touch — he did.

Not because he disliked attraction — he didn’t.

But because every time someone kissed him like it was a shortcut, he pulled away inside.

Too guarded.

Too aware that letting someone in meant letting someone hurt him.

And he had already been hurt once.

So thoroughly that it left a permanent softness under his ribs.

Charlie scrolls through another profile.

A guy with a lovely smile who says—

“Looking for something easy. Drama-free.”

Charlie snorts.

“Good luck finding that,” he mutters, swiping left.

He pauses.

His thumb hovers over his own profile icon.

He rarely touches it.

He hates thinking about how he presents himself — hates the vulnerability of it.

But something nudges him tonight.

Maybe boredom.

Maybe loneliness.

Maybe the emotional whiplash of editing an exes-to-lovers novel.

He opens his own profile.

His prompts stare back at him.

• “I’ll fall for you if…” - you know the difference between genuine affection and performative charm

He hesitates, rereading it.

A part of him whispers—

Too harsh. Too defensive. Too revealing.

He edits it.

Just a small thing.

A tiny shift in tone.

Something gentler.

Something a little more open.

He replaces it with—

• “I’ll fall for you if…" - you mean what you say

He stares at the sentence for a long moment.

It feels dangerous.

But honest.

He hits save.

The app refreshes.

He locks his phone.

And suddenly, the weight of the day catches up to him — the manuscript, the Zoom call, the loneliness he pretends he doesn’t feel. He sinks into the sofa, blanket tucked under his chin, tea cupped between his palms.

London hums outside his window.

Autumn wind rattles the loose pane.

Leaves skitter down the street like tiny messengers.

He lets his eyes drift closed.

It’s been ten years.

Ten years of silence, distance, growing up, moving on, pretending.

Ten years without the one person he never really stopped…

Well. Thinking about.

Charlie exhales softly.

He has no idea — none at all — that the tiny edit he just made, that gentle tilt of vulnerability, has shifted his profile just enough for the algorithm to reconsider him.

To widen his matches.

To adjust his visibility.

To place him in the path of someone he hasn’t seen in a decade.

A single sentence changed.

A single parameter nudged.

Charlie doesn’t know it yet.

But that small change is about to change everything.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

CHARLIE’S HINGE PROFILE

Name: Charlie Spring

Age: 27

Job Title: Editor at Lark & Finch Publishing

Education: BA English Literature, UCL

Location: Hoxton, London

Height: 5’10”

Lifestyle: Non-smoker, introverted extrovert, caffeine enthusiast

Intent: “Not in a hurry, not opposed to miracles.”

PROMPTS

“I’ll fall for you if…”

•You know the difference between genuine affection and performative charm

•You mean what you say

“My simple pleasures:”

• Quiet cafes 

• First lines of books

• Overpriced pastries

• Walking home with noise-cancelling headphones

“Unusual skills:”

• Cutting 20k words without blinking

• Detecting romantic cliches within 0.3 seconds

• Guessing someone’s attachment style from their emoji use

“Pet peeves:”

• People who say ‘I’m not like other guys’

• Insta-deep quotes

• Men who write five paragraphs about themselves and call it a prompt answer

“Most irrational fear:”

•Accidentally liking someone I shouldn’t.

“One thing I’ll never shut up about:”

•Books that should’ve had a better editor

(the shade is implied)

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Chapter Text

Camden, London. 4:12 p.m. after school.

The last bell of the day rings with the kind of exhausted enthusiasm only primary school children can achieve. Backpacks zip, chairs scrape, and the corridor fills with the sound of small bodies running toward freedom.

Nick stands outside his classroom door, giving high fives as the kids spill past him.

“Good job today, Elijah.”

“Remember your water bottle tomorrow, Ava.”

“Nice teamwork in football, Max.”

He’s tired — the kind of bone-deep tired that comes from caring a little too much — but he’s smiling. He always is. The kids deserve that.

“Nick!” a voice calls.

He turns. Amelia, his colleague from Year 2, rushes toward him with wide eyes and a lanyard swinging wildly.

“Please tell me you’re free,” she says breathlessly.

“I mean… I’ve technically just been released from Year 3 captivity,” Nick says with a grin. “What’s up?”

“It’s Jamie. He won’t talk to anyone. He’s in the reading corner refusing to move.”

Jamie.

Curly dark brown hair.

Blue eyes too old for seven.

Sweet, sensitive, easily overwhelmed — like a lot of kids who grow up quicker than they should.

“I’ll go,” Nick says immediately.

Amelia sags with relief. “You’re a saint.”

“I’m just the idiot who can’t say no,” he jokes — but they both know he means yes. Every time.

The Year 2 classroom is dimmer now, the overhead lights turned off, the late-afternoon sun slanting across the carpet. Jamie sits curled in the corner behind a beanbag, knees hugged to his chest.

Nick crouches down a few feet away.

“Hey, buddy.”

No response.

Nick softens his voice. “Can I sit here?”

A tiny shrug. It’s permission.

Nick sits cross-legged on the carpet, leaving space but not distance.

After a long minute, Jamie whispers, “Everyone went home already.”

“I know,” Nick says gently. “Sometimes that happens.”

Jamie swallows hard. His eyes shine. “My mum’s still not here.”

“Maybe she’s caught in traffic,” Nick offers.

Jamie shakes his head fiercely. “She’s… she’s always late. And she’s always tired. And she gets cross at me. I don’t think…”

He sniffs.

“I don’t think my mum loves me.”

Nick’s chest cracks open a little in that old familiar way.

“Jamie,” he says softly, “your mum loves you more than anything. She works really hard to take care of you. When grown-ups are tired, they sometimes forget to show how they feel. But I promise you—really promise—you’re safe, and you’re loved.”

Jamie’s lip trembles.

And then he shuffles forward, stands up, and walks right into Nick’s arms.

Nick hugs him gently, rubbing his back in slow circles.

“Mr Nelson?” Jamie whispers into his shoulder, voice small.

“Can you… can you be my dad?”

Nick closes his eyes.

His heart squeezes.

“Oh, buddy,” he says quietly, holding the boy a little tighter. “Families don’t work like that. But you’ve got me here at school, okay? You know where to find me.”

Jamie nods against him, sniffling.

And Nick swallows around the sudden ache in his throat — the one he’s gotten far too good at hiding.

Jamie’s mum arrives ten minutes later, frazzled and apologetic and smelling of long shifts and stress. Jamie brightens as soon as he sees her.

Nick watches them leave, shoulders heavy and warm at the same time.

“You okay?” Amelia murmurs behind him.

“Yeah,” Nick says with a small smile. “Just… wish the world was easier on some kids.”

“You make it easier,” she says simply. “Don’t forget that.”

He tries to believe her.

He really tries.

---

Tube ride home — 5:01 p.m.

Nick sinks into a seat, resting his forehead briefly against the cool window. Outside, London blurs by in streaks of grey and orange, autumn light fading into early dusk.

Jamie’s words echo faintly—

Will you be my dad?

He shouldn’t let it get to him — but he does.

He always does.

Because he wants that.

A family.

A home.

Someone to share small, quiet evenings with.

Someone to love in simple, everyday ways.

He dated in Leeds.

He tried.

But everyone treated uni dating like a temporary sport — not a future.

Then, after graduation, he dated a few more people.

Still nothing stuck.

They told him he was too much — too sweet, too steady, too boring, too homebody, too sincere.

But the truth he never said out loud was simpler— he felt the same, just in reverse.

Everyone felt like too little.

Too surface.

Too temporary.

Like he was showing up fully, and they were only ever half-there.

Like something was always missing — something real, something familiar, something that once felt like home.

He glances down at his phone.

His thumb hovers over the Hinge icon for a moment before he shakes his head and pulls his hand back.

He’s not in the mood.

Not tonight.

But then—

without warning—

a thought slips in like a draft under a door.

Charlie would have been good with kids.

He freezes.

He shouldn’t think about him.

He doesn’t.

Not really.

Not anymore.

It’s been ten years.

Ten years without updates.

Ten years without messages.

Ten years of blocked socials and blocked feelings and growing up separately.

Still.

The ache flickers.

Has he changed?

Is he doing well?

Does he still look at the world the same soft way?

Nick closes his eyes, shutting the thoughts down like someone switching off a light.

He exhales sharply.

No.

No more of that.

He’s had a long day, he’s emotionally wrung out, and his brain is clearly playing tricks on him.

He pulls out his phone — screen dim, battery at 2%, the red sliver pulsing like a warning.

Perfect. Exactly the mental state he deserves.

He unlocks it anyway.

He opens Hinge.

He never opens it on the Tube.

But he needs something — anything — to distract him from the ache uncoiling in his chest.

A banner appears—

“Your profile is paused. Resume?”

Nick sighs. “I shouldn’t,” he mutters.

He hits Resume anyway.

The app stutters.

Lags.

Freezes.

His battery icon flickers ominously.

“Come on,” Nick whispers, tapping the screen like encouragement will revive it.

The profiles begin to load.

First up—

A guy with six gym selfies, all filtered to hell and back, captioned “Work hard, play harder.”

Nick sighs.

Charlie would have said something snarky like,

‘Play harder at what? Looking at himself?’

Nick shakes his head hard, as if it’ll shake Charlie’s voice out of it.

Next profile—

A man posing with a yacht he absolutely doesn’t own. Prompt answer: “Looking for someone fun! No emotional baggage lol.”

Charlie’s voice again—

‘Red flag. Capital R.’

Nick covers his mouth, groaning.

He never thinks of his other exes like this.

Never hears their voices in his head.

Never feels their presence like some phantom limb.

Why today?

Why now?

Why is Charlie’s memory crawling back into the cracks of his mind like it never left?

Nick scrolls again.

Another pretentious profile.

A guy with a list of requirements longer than his bio.

Nick mutters, “Charlie would hate this one.”

He freezes.

He hates that he knows that.

Hates that he remembers the way Charlie could dissect a person’s intentions with surgical precision.

Hates how often he wonders what Charlie would think.

Ten years, and his heart is still ridiculous.

He scrolls one more time.

And then—

Like the universe heard him.

Like his thoughts summoned it.

Like fate has a sense of humour—

Charlie’s profile appears.

The world drops out.

Nick’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

His vision tunnels.

The blood drains from his face.

He forgets how to breathe.

Because it’s Charlie.

It’s really, actually, impossibly Charlie.

Older.

Sharper.

More handsome than Nick’s memory ever prepared him for.

His hair isn’t really curly anymore.

It falls in soft waves around his forehead — effortlessly stylish, like he stopped trying and somehow got better.

His few days' worth of stubble.

His jawline is stronger.

His expression calmer, more mature.

Charlie used to be cute and radiant and sometimes heartbreakingly beautiful in that teenage way.

But now—

Nick swallows hard.

Now he’s… hot.

Like unfairly, stupidly, jaw-droppingly hot.

Like punch-in-the-gut hot.

How?

How did Charlie Spring grow up like that?

How did he turn into this version of himself?

Nick’s thumb trembles.

He wants to zoom in.

He wants to read every word.

He wants to memorise every line of his face.

He wants—

The screen goes black.

Dead.

Nick stares at it, horrified.

“No. No no no no—COME ON—”

He mashes the side buttons like that will magically resurrect the battery.

Nothing.

Nick tries again.

And again.

His thumb hits the side button so hard it aches.

He shakes the phone like sheer force and panic will spark life into it.

Nothing.

The screen stays black.

Silent.

Final.

Unforgiving.

His reflection stares back at him—

pale, wide-eyed, breath shallow, like he’s just been punched underwater.

A man seated opposite looks up, curious.

Nick looks away too quickly, swallowing hard, trying — failing — to school his expression into something neutral.

He grips the dead phone in both hands, knuckles whitening.

He wants to scream.

To slam the phone into his forehead.

To crawl into the floor.

To burst into tears.

To stop the train and run back in time ten seconds.

Instead, he just… sits there.

Frozen.

Shaking ever so slightly.

Clutching the dead device like a lifeline he fumbled and dropped.

His heart is beating like it’s trying to climb out of his chest.

Charlie.

He saw Charlie.

After ten years.

Ten years of distance.

Ten years of silence.

Ten years of blocked accounts, missed birthdays, swallowed feelings, and pretending he’d grown past it.

Ten years of convincing himself the past was a closed book with no missing pages.

Out of nowhere —

there he was.

Older.

Different.

Beautiful in a way that knocked the air from Nick’s lungs.

Was that real?

Was it hallucination?

A trick of the algorithm?

A fever dream from a long day and too much emotional exhaustion?

His mind spirals.

Is this fate?

Is this some cruel joke?

Is the universe dangling the one thing he’s never truly moved past — only to rip it away before he can even breathe?

His palms are damp.

His chest is too tight.

Where is Charlie now?

How long has he been in London?

Has Nick walked past him a hundred times without knowing?

Has he been out there, living his life, existing in the same city, breathing the same air — while Nick had no idea?

Did Charlie see him too?

Will the app show Nick back to him?

Does Charlie even want that?

Does Charlie still hate him?

The thought hits with a brutal punch.

That night —

that stupid, sharp, painful row at the party a decade ago —

the words they said, the hurt they left hanging between them, the anger and confusion and heartbreak—

God.

Is Charlie still upset?

Does he still think Nick walked away?

Does he still think Nick abandoned him?

Does he still believe Nick didn’t fight hard enough for them?

Nick bites the inside of his cheek to keep his breathing steady.

It doesn’t work.

Please, his mind whispers helplessly,

please let me find him again.

Just once. Just one more chance.

His thumb drags across the dead screen again.

Pointless.

Still black.

He squeezes the phone to his chest, bowing his head slightly, trying to hold himself together.

Is Charlie nearby?

On another Tube line?

Walking above him?

Sitting in some cafe he walks past every morning?

How many times has Nick missed him?

How many near collisions?

How many almosts?

His thoughts keep slipping, unraveling, crashing against each other.

What if this was it?

What if that glimpse was the only chance the universe was going to give him?

What if he never sees Charlie’s profile again?

What if Charlie already saw him once and swiped left?

What if Charlie wants nothing to do with him?

What if he’s happy?

What if he’s in love?

What if he’s moved on completely?

Nick’s throat closes around the ache.

He presses the phone to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

Please…

please let fate be kinder this time.

Please let this mean something.

Please let Charlie see me.

Please.

Nick drags in a sharp breath, forcing down the rising panic. The Tube jolts, lights flickering overhead, and he lifts his head just enough to keep from visibly falling apart in front of strangers.

He wipes his palms on his trousers.

Stares at the dead phone again.

Feels the ache thud once—hard—under his ribs.

He needs to calm down.

Needs to breathe.

Needs to remind himself he didn’t imagine it.

That he saw Charlie’s face.

Older. Softer.

Still undeniably him.

His heart twists.

Would the algorithm show Nick’s profile to him now?

He doesn’t know.

He can’t know.

All he can do is clutch the useless phone as the train slows, and hope—quietly, desperately—that this wasn’t just another almost.

That this time, fate won’t slam the door shut.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

NICK NELSON — HINGE PROFILE

Name: Nick Nelson

Age: 28

Job: Year 3 Primary School Teacher

Location: Dalston, London

Intent: “Looking for something real.”

Prompts:

"My real-life superpower:"

• Making kids laugh even when they shouldn’t.

"Green flags I look for:"

• Kindness. Patience. Someone who wants a future.

"Typical Sunday:"

• Rugby, groceries, lesson planning I procrastinate.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Nick doesn’t know it yet—

but that single, flickering glimpse was not an ending.

It was the first crack in the universe shifting.

Chapter Text

Northern Line. 8:07 a.m.

Nick stands on the platform, shoulders rounded, thumb absently tapping the strap of his backpack. His eyes are unfocused — that soft, unfixed stare of someone who barely slept and doesn’t want to think about why.

The train pulls in.

He steps inside.

He leans against the pole, head ducked down, earphones in but no music playing. His mind keeps circling the same place—

The moment he turned on his phone last night, breath held tight—

only to find nothing.

No Charlie.

No trace.

No answer to whether that glimpse had been real.

He barely remembers falling asleep.

Now the carriage rattles forward, humid with morning breath and heavy coats and the rustle of people trying to wake up. Nick exhales through his nose, closing his eyes as if he can stop the memory from replaying again.

He can’t.

---

Old Street — same train line, same time.

Charlie steps into a different carriage two stops down, coffee in hand, shoulders a little hunched against the morning. His hair is still slightly damp from a too-quick shower; the curls are waves now, falling across his forehead in a quiet mess he didn’t bother fixing.

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He has a meeting today — a YA author, teenage boys in love.

Great. Exactly what he needs after Alex Hartley’s exes-to-lovers manuscript shredded his emotional stability like a blender. 

Now queer teen romance?

Fantastic. Sure. Let’s pile it on.

He sips his coffee, grimaces at the bitterness, and tips his face toward the carriage doors as the train jolts forward.

He looks exhausted in the way people do when they’ve been carrying something for too long.

---

8:11 a.m.

The train glides into the next station.

Doors open.

A wave of commuters spill onto the platform.

Nick steps out, weaving through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this hundreds of times. He keeps his head lowered, mind elsewhere.

A few carriages down, another door slides open.

Charlie steps out.

Same platform.

Same moment.

Same train.

But they move like parallel lines — close enough to brush past someone the other jostled, close enough to feel the same draft from the same departing carriage.

Nick adjusts his backpack strap.

Charlie tucks his chin into his scarf.

One turns left.

The other turns right.

Neither looks up.

The crowd swallows the gap between them.

A tiny pause.

At the escalators, Nick hesitates — barely.

Just long enough to press two fingers to his temple, as if trying to remember something.

Behind him, further down the platform, Charlie slows too — adjusting his grip on his coffee cup, frowning at a feeling he can’t name.

For half a heartbeat, both of them are still.

The Tube hums.

A breeze rushes through the tunnel.

Someone coughs.

Someone laughs.

A train screeches into the opposite track.

And then they move again.

Nick steps onto the escalator.

Charlie walks toward the exit.

The moment passes, unnoticed.

But not unfelt.

---

Bloomsbury. Friday Morning.

By the time Charlie reaches the office, the sky has turned a flat sheet of grey — the kind of gloomy autumn light that makes everything feel slightly underwater. Cool air hangs in the hallways of Lark & Finch Publishing, mixed with the familiar scent of paper, old radiators, and someone’s half-burnt toast.

Charlie shrugs off his coat, already exhausted.

It isn’t the weather.

It isn’t the commute.

It isn’t even the fact he slept poorly.

It’s the meeting.

He knows what’s in the manuscript.

He read it last night when he couldn’t sleep — every chapter, every emotional beat, every messy, teenage heartbreak scene.

And the idea of having to walk Owen through those exact scenes again feels like emotional sandpaper.

He drags himself toward the glass meeting room with the begrudging shuffle of a man walking to his own execution.

Inside sits Owen Walsh — twenty-something, eager, friendly, clutching a notebook like it contains his soul.

“Oh! Charlie! Morning!” Owen beams, too bright for the hour. “I’m so excited to hear your thoughts. I re-read the party chapter last night — I’m nervous to know what you think.”

Charlie swallows a sigh.

Of course it had to be that chapter.

“Morning,” he says instead, lowering himself into the seat opposite. “Don’t worry. I’ve got notes.”

He flips open the printout — not because he needs to, but because pretending to reference something feels safer than making eye contact with raw emotion.

He has underlines, margin notes, highlighted passages.

He did those last night.

At midnight.

When he should have been asleep.

When he should not have been thinking about anything remotely resembling the past.

Owen leans forward eagerly. “So? First thoughts?”

Charlie rests an elbow on the table, rubbing the corner of his brow with a tired thumb.

“You’ve captured teenage intensity really well,” he says. “The emotions… hit hard.”

Owen beams again. “Great! That’s what I was going for.”

Charlie forces a smile.

He keeps flipping pages he already knows by heart.

He lands on a highlighted scene—

"Kai standing in a kitchen at a house party, hurt and drunk and defensive, lashing out at the boy he loves before either of them can stop it."

Charlie’s throat tightens in that unwelcome, too-familiar way.

He clears it.

“This scene—” he begins, voice too even, “—is strong, but maybe too fast on the escalation. Panic doesn’t usually come out of nowhere. It brews.”

Owen nods earnestly. “So more build-up?”

“More… context,” Charlie says carefully. He keeps his eyes on the page, refusing to let any memory surface properly. “Fear makes people do stupid things. You want readers to understand where that fear comes from, so the moment hurts the right way.”

Owen scribbles a note, enthusiastic. “I love that. That’s exactly the nuance I want.”

Charlie wishes he felt proud of giving good advice.

Mostly, he just feels tired.

They move on.

More notes.

More scenes he already dissected last night.

More reminders he didn’t ask for.

At one point, Owen laughs nervously. “You look like you’re in pain. Is it that bad?”

Charlie sits up slightly, startled out of a thought he never should’ve let himself drift into.

“No — sorry. Just… long night,” he lies smoothly. “And I’ve gone through these scenes already, so revisiting them feels… heavier than usual.”

Owen smiles sympathetically. “They are pretty emotional.”

“You have no idea,” Charlie mutters under his breath.

Owen doesn’t hear.

They go through the reconciliation chapter next — the one Charlie skimmed twice last night because his chest had felt too tight the first time.

It’s sweet, hopeful, painfully sincere.

Charlie taps his pen against it.

“This is good,” he says softly. “But maybe… let them sit with the hurt a little longer. Healing isn’t instant. Even when people still care.”

Owen nods hard. “Yes! Yes, I can add that.”

Charlie drops the pen, suddenly conscious of how long he’s been clenching it.

Rain begins to tap against the window — soft, persistent, like someone drumming their fingers thoughtfully.

By the time the meeting ends, Charlie’s head aches.

Not a sharp pain — more the distant throb of something old and unsaid.

Owen thanks him enthusiastically and leaves with a hopeful smile.

The door clicks shut.

Charlie exhales.

A long, quiet breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding since he walked in.

He presses his fingers into his temples.

He tries to shake off the thoughts.

The echoes of a version of himself he doesn’t want to revisit.

But the manuscript lingers.

The rain lingers.

The ache lingers.

He stands eventually, gathering his notes, feeling older than thirty minutes ago.

“Why that project today,” he mutters to himself.

Why that story.

Why that author.

Why those scenes.

Why this week.

He doesn’t dare finish the thought.

Not out loud.

Not even in his own head.

---

Charlie returns to his desk with the sluggish drag of someone moving through emotional fog. The office hums softly around him—phones ringing somewhere in the distance, keyboards clacking, someone quietly laughing near the kitchen.

Normal.

Ordinary.

Safe.

He wishes he could feel normal with it.

He sets his notes down.

Sits.

Exhales.

The manuscript pages stare back at him from the corner of his desk, pastel cover peeking out from his folder like it’s deliberately mocking him.

He rubs his palms down his trousers, trying to shake off the lingering weight of the meeting.

He has edited dozens of YA romances.

Hundreds of arcs about miscommunication, breakups, reconciliation, finding one’s way back.

But this one—

Kai and Jonah—

felt too familiar.

Too close.

Too much like a story he lived once and never got the ending to.

He leans back in his chair.

Lets his head tip toward the ceiling.

Something he thought he’d buried cracks open again.

The what-ifs.

The ones he kept a lid on for years.

The ones that still slip through when he’s tired or lonely or reading about two fictional boys who fight and forgive and choose each other again.

What if?

The thought slips in quietly — unwelcome, but persistent.

What if he and Nick had reconciled the way Kai and Jonah do in Owen’s manuscript?

Messy but honest.

Scared but trying.

Painful but hopeful.

What if he’d apologised earlier?

Before everything spiralled.

Before the space between them widened into something impossible.

What if he hadn’t pushed Nick away?

What if he’d let himself trust that Nick loved him — really loved him — enough to survive the distance?

Another softer, sharper thought threads in—

What if they’d stayed friends?

Friends who texted occasionally.

Friends who saw each other on holidays.

Friends who didn’t have to avoid entire streets and memories just to function.

Friends who didn’t flinch when the other’s name came up.

His chest tightens.

He’d spent years convincing himself he’d moved on — that time and logic had smoothed everything into something manageable.

But a teenage manuscript with too much heart and too many parallels has cracked something in him wide open.

And now?

Now the questions won’t stop coming back, no matter how hard he tries to shove them away.

No matter how much he tells himself it’s pointless.

Because at the end of the day—

He still doesn’t know what hurts more—

What happened with Nick.

Or everything they never got the chance to be.

Teenagers don’t know how to handle heartbreak.

They lash out.

They panic.

They fear abandonment so deeply they choose it first, just to have some control.

He knows that.

Logically, he knows.

But logic doesn’t erase the reality that he hurt Nick.

That he said things he wishes he could rewrite.

That he broke something fragile in both of them.

His fingers drift to the edge of the manuscript again.

He lifts it slightly, staring at the underlined passages in the margins.

The reconciliation chapter is hopeful.

Earnest.

Soft.

Charlie’s chest tightens again.

“That’s fiction,” he murmurs to himself.

Real life doesn’t wrap itself neatly.

Real boys carry their wounds into adulthood.

Real first loves don’t always survive the fear that comes with growing up.

He sighs—quiet, tired, heavy.

He hopes Nick is doing well.

He really does.

Even if they never speak again.

Even if they never cross paths.

Even if the universe is done giving them chances.

He hopes Nick found people who treated him right.

People who saw his kindness and didn’t take advantage of it.

People who appreciated the steadiness in him, the big heart, the instinct to care.

People who didn’t run from him.

Unlike Charlie did.

He sits there for a moment, breathing slowly, letting the guilt and the softness and the what-ifs settle into the quiet space around him.

Then he straightens the manuscript pages.

Pushes the ache back down.

Gets ready to move through the rest of the day like every adult does—

with practiced composure and emotions tucked neatly out of sight.

---

By late morning, Nick is standing at the front of his Year 3 classroom, marker in hand, trying to teach fractions.

Trying.

Because his brain keeps drifting off — not dramatically, just in those small, traitorous flickers that knock him off rhythm.

He draws a circle on the board, divides it into thirds, explains how to shade one fraction—

“Mr Nelson? You drew four parts,” one of the kids says.

He blinks.

“Oh. Right. Yes. Good catch, Mia.”

The class giggles.

He normally laughs with them, but today his smile feels a little late, a second too slow.

It isn’t the kids.

He loves his job.

It’s the lingering fog from last night — the memory of Charlie’s face flashing across his phone screen like a ghost he hadn’t prepared to see.

All morning he’s been asking himself the same exhausting questions—

Did he imagine it?

Was it a glitch?

Did Charlie actually show up for a second?

Is it fate being cruel?

He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear it.

Focus on the lesson.

On the kids.

On the present.

He turns back to the board.

“And that,” he says, recovering smoothly, “is why double-checking your work is important. Even adults get sloppy sometimes.”

Mia grins. “Adults get sloppy all the time, sir.” 

He laughs genuinely at that. “Sadly true.”

---

Lunch Break — Staff Lounge

By lunch, the fog hasn’t lifted.

Nick sits alone at a corner table in the staff lounge, a half-eaten sandwich resting on its wrapper. Teachers chatter around him, but it all washes in and out like static.

He glances at the clock.

Two hours until pick-up time.

Two hours until he can go home and pretend he’s not waiting for a miracle.

His fingers twitch toward his phone on instinct.

He unlocks it.

Heart thumping stupidly.

Hinge.

He scrolls.

Refreshes.

Scrolls again.

Nothing.

Charlie’s profile is gone.

Like it never existed.

Nick sinks back in his chair, pressing the heel of his palm to the center of his chest to steady the pressure there.

He feels ridiculous.

He feels like a teenager.

He feels—

He turns the phone face down and shuts his eyes for three seconds.

That’s all he can afford before he starts spiralling again.

He stands.

He needs air.

---

When Nick returns to his classroom, he stops in the doorway.

Jamie is sitting in the middle row, lunchbox open, quietly picking at his sandwich.

Nick’s heart softens immediately.

“Hey, buddy,” he says gently. “Everything okay?”

Jamie looks up, eyes wide like he’s been caught doing something forbidden.

“I didn’t want to sit in the hall,” Jamie mumbles. “Can I… can I eat here?”

Nick’s expression melts.

“Of course you can. You don’t have to ask.”

Jamie relaxes.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, swinging his legs under the table.

Nick sits at the desk at the front, quietly opening a packet of crisps he’d forgotten he brought. He watches Jamie for a moment, making sure everything is alright.

Jamie looks up shyly.

“Mr Nelson?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever eat lunch alone?”

The question lands heavier than Jamie intends.

Nick’s hand pauses on his crisp packet.

“Sometimes,” he says honestly. “When I need space.”

Jamie nods slowly, as if that confirms something.

Nick’s chest tightens — that same ghost of a memory slipping in again, the one he hasn’t been able to shake since last night.

Someone who used to disappear during breaks at school.

Someone who retreated to the art room with his headphones and a book when the world felt too big.

Someone Nick found more than once, quietly eating away from everyone else because silence felt safer than attention.

Charlie.

The memory flickers fast and sharp, like a match being struck.

Nick blinks it away, gently anchoring himself back into the room.

Jamie pokes at his carrots.

“My friends were being loud,” he mutters. “And I didn’t want to sit next to Oscar today. He chews weird.”

Nick bites back a smile.

“That’s fair. Loud friends can be… a lot.”

Jamie nods vigorously.

“Yeah! And my mum said I should tell teachers if something bothers me. So… I told you.”

Nick’s heart folds in on itself, soft and warm.

“I’m glad you did,” he says gently. “You can always sit here if you need to. No questions asked.”

Jamie brightens.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Jamie grins — a big, gap-toothed grin — and lifts his juice box triumphantly.

“You’re the best, Mr Nelson.”

Nick laughs, the sound lighter than anything he’s managed all morning.

“Well,” he says, shrugging with an exaggerated flourish, “someone has to be the best.”

Jamie giggles. “Not Miss Amelia?”

Nick gasps dramatically.

“Don’t tell her, but between you and me… I think she’s trying to steal my title.”

Jamie giggles harder, covering his mouth.

The tension in Nick’s chest loosens a little — not gone, but lighter, softened by the kind of moment that makes his job worth everything.

He finishes his crisps.

Jamie finishes his sandwich.

The room feels warm and safe.

Before Jamie leaves to join recess, he pauses at the door. “Mr Nelson?”

Nick looks up.

“Thanks for… letting me stay.”

Nick smiles. “Anytime.”

Jamie runs out, backpack bouncing behind him.

Nick stays in the quiet classroom for a few seconds longer than necessary, leaning on the edge of his desk.

The hum of children playing outside filters faintly through the windows — laughter, shouts, a whistle from the playground monitor. Normally, the sound grounds him. Today it feels distant, like he’s listening from underwater.

He straightens slowly.

Puts on his teacher-face.

Steps out into the hallway.

---

The rest of the day passes without really passing.

He helps Ava glue a worksheet that tore down the middle.

He reminds Noah to use indoor voice “for the sixth time, mate — that’s a record.”

He marks a stack of spelling tests, circling letters he doesn’t actually see.

He ties someone’s shoelace.

Settles an argument about who stole whose blue crayon.

Answers questions he forgets the moment the kids walk away.

He smiles when he needs to.

Laughs when expected.

Teaches from muscle memory.

But his mind drifts in loops, always circling back to the same orbit —

that flash of a profile picture,

the shock in his chest,

the absence of it after.

By the time dismissal comes, he’s exhausted in a different way than yesterday.

---

Nick closes up his classroom and walks into the staffroom to grab his jacket. A few of his colleagues are gathered by the noticeboard, already halfway into their post-weekend buzz.

“Nick! We’re going to The Horn & Crown later,” Amelia says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Come with us?”

“Yeah man, join,” Lewis chimes in. “We’ll have a pint for every meltdown we survived today.”

A few teachers laugh.

Nick manages a small smile. “Sounds tempting,” he says. “But… I think I’ll skip this time.”

Amelia frowns lightly. “You sure? You look like you could use one.”

I could use a hundred, he thinks.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just need some air today.”

They don’t press him.

They know him well enough.

“Alright,” Amelia says. “Next time.”

They wave, chatter spilling out the door with them.

Nick stands there a moment longer — an island in the quiet — then decides he really does need the air.

He walks home.

---

Camden is alive with end-of-day bustle — street musicians warming up, teenagers laughing too loudly, the smell of takeaway drifting from shopfronts. Nick threads through it, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

It helps.

Not much.

But enough to loosen the knot in his chest.

His mind drifts — slow, reluctant, tender.

Is Charlie doing well?

Is he still in London?

Would he even want to see Nick?

Would he run the other way?

Nick tries to imagine it — bumping into him on a street corner, or at a station, or in a cafe accidentally.

Would Charlie smile?

Would he freeze?

Would he look angry?

Would he walk away?

Would he still feel anything at all?

Nick exhales sharply through his nose, breath fogging the air.

He hates how much he cares about the answers.

Hates how quickly ten years collapsed into a heartbeat last night.

---

His flat is quiet when he steps inside — keys in the bowl, shoes kicked off, coat hung up on the same hook he’s used for years.

He showers longer than he needs to, steam fogging the mirror, warm water loosening muscles he didn’t realise were clenched.

He makes a simple dinner — pasta, nothing fancy — and eats at the kitchen counter, fork moving on autopilot as his thoughts wander.

He doesn’t check his phone.

Not yet.

He’s not sure if he’s ready to feel that drop in his stomach again if Charlie’s profile still isn’t there.

But he thinks of him.

Of course he does.

Is Charlie the same?

Is he different?

Does he still tuck his hair behind his ear when he’s focused?

Does he still read?

Does he still laugh in that quiet way when he’s trying not to smile?

Does he still… remember?

Nick sets his fork down.

Presses a hand to the back of his neck.

Feels the ache settle again — softer this time, but deeper.

---

Later, after he’s rinsed his plate and dimmed the kitchen lights, Nick finally picks up his phone.

He opens Hinge.

His thumb hesitates over the settings.

He expands the radius by 1 km.

It’s a tiny change.

Barely anything.

Almost meaningless.

But it feels like something.

A nudge.

A quiet, hopeful push against the universe.

He saves the setting.

Locks the phone.

Exhales slowly.

Maybe nothing will change.

Maybe everything will.

He doesn’t know.

He just knows he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Not after seeing Charlie.

Not after feeling everything he thought he’d grown out of come rushing back.

Nick turns off the lamp and sits in the soft glow of the city outside his window — waiting for nothing, hoping for something.

And somewhere across London, the algorithm shifts again.

One kilometre closer.

One inch nearer.

---

The rain has stopped by the time Charlie leaves the office, but the air is still damp, the pavements slick with thin reflections of streetlights.

Bloomsbury buzzes quietly in that Friday-night way — people heading to pubs, bookstores closing, warm windows glowing against the grey sky.

He meets Tori at their usual spot— a tiny ramen place tucked between a stationery shop and a vintage bookstore. It’s dim, warm, comforting in the way old routines always are.

She’s already seated, coat still on, hands curled around a steaming mug of green tea.

When Charlie approaches, she looks up — and frowns immediately.

“Why is your face like that?”

Charlie slumps into the seat across from her.

“This is just my face.”

“No,” Tori says flatly. “Your face face. The ‘I’m thinking about something I don’t want to think about’ face.”

He stares at her.

She stares back.

He gives up first.

“I’m working on two manuscripts,” he sighs. “One about exes-to-lovers. The other about two queer boys falling in love at school.”

Tori’s expression softens in the way only siblings can pull off — equal parts sympathy and blunt understanding.

“Oh, Charlie…”

He stares into his water glass.

Tori leans forward slightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

She doesn’t push.

She never does.

Their food comes — steam rising from bowls, chopsticks clinking.

It’s warm, cozy. But not enough to quiet the ache under Charlie’s ribs.

After a few minutes of quiet eating, Tori breaks the silence.

“So how’s Hinge going?” she asks, voice dry.

Charlie groans into his bowl.

“Terrible.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Everyone is… fine.” He lifts his head. “Just… blah. Bland. Trying too hard. Or not trying at all. Or lying about trying. I don’t know.”

Tori sips her tea.

“Maybe you’re being too picky.”

“I’m not picky,” Charlie says immediately. Then, quieter— “I’m just… not finding anyone who feels right.”

She gives him a look.

The sibling kind.

The “I know exactly what you mean but I won’t say it out loud” kind.

Charlie pokes his noodles.

Tori raises an eyebrow. “You’re still on it, though. So you haven’t given up hope completely.”

“I haven’t given up,” he mutters. “I’m just… realistic.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Easy to say when you’re determined to be miserable.”

He glares half-heartedly.

“Easy for you to say. You have Michael.”

She shrugs. “Yes. And once in a while, miracles happen to miserable people too.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, but a small reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Tori continues, gentler—

“You deserve something good. It’s okay to want that.”

Charlie goes quiet.

He wants to say, It didn’t work last time,

but he doesn’t.

He wants to say, I messed it up,

but he doesn’t.

He wants to say, I don’t think I can do that again,

but he doesn’t.

Instead, he shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says softly.

Tori lets it sit.

They finish dinner in comfortable silence, the kind only siblings can make feel safe.

---

Back home, Charlie changes into a soft jumper, lights the little lamp near the sofa, and sinks down with his phone.

He opens Hinge reluctantly — not expecting anything, not really wanting to expect anything.

Another profile.

Another guy giving “overly curated.”

Another pair of photos that look like they were taken on the same holiday everyone else went on.

He sighs and swipes left.

Another profile appears — grainy black-and-white photo and a prompt—

“Searching for someone who understands my soul.

Charlie actually snorts.

He does not have the energy to babysit a tortured poet.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, swiping left again.

He scrolls a bit more, but his thumb grows impatient.

Restless.

Frustrated.

He goes to Settings.

Stares at the options.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for.

Maybe something new.

Maybe something different.

Maybe something less… suffocating.

He hovers over photos.

He hesitates.

Then he does something he hasn’t done in over a year—

He changes his first profile picture.

Not dramatically —

just swaps it for a softer one.

A newer one.

The one Tori took of him laughing at the cafe last month.

It’s small.

Barely anything.

But the algorithm sees it.

And shifts.

Charlie closes the app.

Exhales.

Stares at the ceiling for a moment in the dim light.

He tells himself it means nothing.

That his life isn’t suddenly changing.

He doesn’t know —

not yet —

that a tired primary school teacher across the city just expanded his radius by 1 km.

That the world is about to get smaller.

That they are drifting closer again.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning arrives colder than the forecast predicted — a crisp, sharp kind of autumn chill that turns breaths into fog and leaves patches of frost clinging to the grass.

Charlie doesn’t usually jog on Saturdays.

But something about last night — talking to Tori, changing his Hinge photo, the heaviness that followed him home — makes him lace up his shoes anyway. Moving feels easier than thinking.

Hoxton Park is quiet at first, just a scattering of dog walkers and parents with prams. Charlie slips his earphones in, pulls up a soft indie playlist, and starts his slow warm-up jog.

By the time he reaches the open field, the sun is barely above the horizon.

That’s when he sees them.

A small group of kids — maybe seven, eight years old — already on the grass, tossing a rugby ball between them. Laughing. Chasing. Tripping over their own feet.

That familiar blue-and-white ball arcs through the air, spinning.

Charlie’s chest tightens instinctively.

Rugby.

Kids.

Morning training sessions.

A whole chapter of memories flickers up — Nick coming off the pitch with muddy knees, Nick laughing with his mouth and eyes at the same time, Nick tossing a ball to him with that easy confidence Charlie always envied.

No.

Not today.

Charlie lifts a hand to the volume button on his earphones and turns the music up — not loud enough to hurt, but loud enough to drown out thoughts trying to surface.

He speeds up, cutting across the path that curves behind a line of tall trees.

He keeps his head down.

He doesn’t look at the boys again.

He doesn’t want to remember how happy Nick always was around kids.

He doesn’t want to remember anything at all.

At the same moment — the boys look toward the park entrance

“Where’s Coach Jack?” one of them asks, bouncing the rugby ball off his knee.

“Coach Jack’s sick today,” another boy answers with relish, clearly repeating something he overheard. “My daddy said so.”

“So who’s coaching?”

Before anyone can guess, a figure jogs into view through the gate — hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from a rushed shower, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Nick.

He’s out of breath, jogging toward them with a bright, apologetic grin.

“Sorry, lads!” he calls out, voice carrying across the field.

“Jack messaged thirty minutes ago — I’m filling in this morning!”

His voice echoes lightly across the park.

If Charlie didn’t have his earphones in —

if his music wasn’t swelling in his ears —

if he hadn’t taken the tree-lined path —

He would’ve heard him.

Clear as day.

---

Charlie keeps jogging, the path curving behind a row of old oaks that block the field from view. The music is so loud now it thumps softly in his chest.

He doesn’t notice Nick’s voice.

Doesn’t hear the apology.

Doesn’t see Nick jogging into the sunlight, sleeves shoved up, smile wide and familiar.

He doesn’t know that if he glanced left —

just once —

his entire world would stop.

Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on the gravel path, focusing on rhythm, breath, movement.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s nearly out of the park.

Only then does he pull out one earphone, letting cooler air touch his ear.

The faint echoes of kids laughing drift through the trees.

Nothing else.

Charlie wipes sweat from his brow, breathes out sharply, and chooses to ignore the small, inexplicable flutter in his chest.

Just a jog.

Just a morning.

Just a memory he refuses to entertain.

He leaves the park.

---

Nick drops his backpack on the grass, claps his hands, and blows into them to warm up.

“Alright, team! Spread out! Let’s get moving!”

The kids run off, shouting happily, chasing the ball across the dewy field.

Nick turns to scan the perimeter, just a habitual look over the surroundings.

He glances past the trees.

The path is empty.

Quiet.

Nothing strange.

He doesn’t know he missed someone by seconds.

He smiles faintly, unaware of the near-collision life just staged for him.

“Right then,” he calls out. “Who’s ready to run drills?”

The kids cheer, and Nick laughs, heart feeling a little lighter — though he doesn’t know why.

---

Charlie doesn’t know how long he’s been running.

Fifteen minutes?

Twenty?

An hour?

It feels like an hour — long enough for the cold morning air to burn off, long enough for his mind to quiet down, long enough for the ache in his chest to settle into something bearable.

He slows to a jog and eventually to a walk as he reaches the edge of Hoxton Park. His breath steams in front of him, sweat sticking to the back of his neck.

He should go home.

Instead, he veers toward Little Finch Cafe, a tiny corner place with wobbly metal chairs outside and the best iced coffee in East London.

He never sits here.

Takeaway only.

Routine only.

But today, he drops into one of the outdoor tables, chest still rising and falling, cheeks flushed, earphones hanging loosely around his neck.

He orders an iced coffee and lets the cold cup rest against his wrist.

The park is still visible in the distance.

Kids are still playing.

He pointedly doesn’t look.

He opens Hinge.

Just something to scroll through.

Just something to keep his mind busy.

A profile appears.

He snorts.

Then another.

He rolls his eyes.

Then another—

Someone looking for a “partner in crime.”

He laughs into his straw.

And then—

He swipes again.

And the world stops.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

NICK’S HINGE PROFILE

Name: Nicholas Nelson

Age: 28

Job Title: Year 3 Primary School Teacher

Education: BEd (Primary Education), University of Leeds

Location: Dalston, London

Height: 6’1”

Lifestyle: Non-smoker, dog lover, deeply normal but charming

Intent: “Looking for something real.”

“My real-life superpower:”

•Making kids laugh even when they’re trying very hard to be dramatic.

“I’m known for:”

• Being patient

• Being too honest

• Making the best hot chocolate

• Saying yes to everything my friends plan

“Green flags I look for:”

•Kind eyes, good communication, someone who doesn’t play games.

“Typical Sunday:”

•Football in the park → grocery run → lesson planning I procrastinate → dinner with friends

“The dorkiest thing about me:”

•I cry at feel-good sports movies. Every time.

“Let’s make sure we…”

•Walk somewhere pretty. I like talking while moving.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Charlie forgets how to inhale.

He just sits there, eyes huge, mouth parted, iced-coffee straw touching his lip like someone hit pause on him mid-motion.

His heart slams so hard he feels it in his teeth.

His body reacts first — adrenaline flooding hot and sharp, chest tightening, stomach dropping.

He scrolls down with shaking fingers.

He rereads the name.

And rereads it again.

Because it can’t be.

It can’t be Nick.

The hot chocolate thing.

The crying during sports movies.

The dog photos.

The walk-and-talk dates.

It is him.

Nick.

Nick.

NICK.

Charlie swipes right so fast his thumb stings.

Swipe first.

Panic later.

Holy shit.

The app spins.

Loading.

IT’S A MATCH!

He slaps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

“Oh—my—fucking—god,” he whispers. “Oh my god, oh my god—”

His knee bounces under the table. His brain is white noise.

Is this what the universe has been screaming at him all week?

What the hell is happening?

He doesn’t think.

He types.

Charlie: oh my god

Charlie: nick?

His fingers hover.

He adds—

Charlie: please tell me this is real

He hits send before he can overthink it.

Then he panics properly.

---

“Good session, lads! Go easy on your parents, yeah? Saturdays are sacred.”

Nick gives the kids a grin as they run off toward the car park. He picks up a stray rugby ball, brushes mud off it, and drops it into the equipment bag.

Coach Jack’s absence meant a chaotic morning, but there’s something about the bright sky that makes Nick stay behind for once.

He walks toward an old fallen tree at the edge of the field — the one he always passes but never sits on.

Today, he sits.

He leans back against the bark, looks up at the sky, and exhales.

He doesn’t know why, but he feels hopeful.

Ridiculously hopeful.

Like something in the air shifted.

He pulls out his phone.

He opens Hinge.

He isn’t expecting anything.

Not after Thursday.

Not after the dead battery disaster.

Not after scrolling last night and finding nothing.

But—

A notification pops up immediately.

“You have a new like.”

His stomach drops.

He taps it.

And sees-

"Charlie Spring liked your photo."

Nick’s breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

“No,” he whispers. “No way. No—”

He taps again.

IT’S A MATCH!

Nick’s whole body ignites.

He lets out a strangled noise that sounds nothing like a real human sound — half hysterical laugh, half “WHAT THE FUCK.”

He genuinely considers throwing himself onto the nearest patch of grass and screaming into the sky.

Instead he paces in a tiny, frantic circle.

Hands in hair.

Then on his hips.

Then gripping his phone like it might disappear.

His reflection flashes on the screen — wide-eyed, stunned, wrecked with disbelief.

He can’t look away from the screen.

He actually found Charlie again.

And it’s a match.

A real match.

He feels like he might pass out.

Charlie.

Older.

Softer.

Still gorgeous.

Still him.

Nick swallows.

He doesn’t know what to do.

What to feel.

He feels everything at once.

A message pops up—

Charlie: oh my god

Charlie: nick?

Charlie: please tell me this is real

Nick’s throat closes.

He types with shaking hands.

Nick: it’s real

Nick: hi charlie

Nick: um

Nick: i’m at hoxton park right now

Nick: just finished coaching the kids

He hits send before he stops himself.

His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his fingertips.

---

Charlie's POV : 

Charlie nearly drops his phone.

His iced coffee wobbles so violently that a cold splash hits his wrist.

At Hoxton Park.

Nick is at the park.

Right now.

His pulse spikes.

He types with shaking fingers—

Charlie: what??

Charlie: i was just there

His brain short-circuits.

Before he can stop himself, another message slips out—

Charlie: you coach

Charlie: rugby?

The moment he sees it on the screen he presses a hand over his face.

“Oh god,” he mutters under his breath. “Why did I type that? Why am I like this?”

His heart is rattling against his ribs like it wants out.

A reply buzzes through immediately.

Nick: yeah

Nick: i’ve been coaching for a few years

Nick: where are you now?

Charlie’s stomach flips.

Where is he now?

In a cramped cafe, sweating from his run, hair in chaos, looking like he lost a fight with humidity.

Fantastic.

He types—

Charlie: at little finch

Charlie: the cafe near the south gate

He panics, adds quickly—

Charlie: please tell me you’re not right around the corner

Because if Nick turns up—

right now—

when Charlie looks like this?

He might actually pass away.

He waits.

His foot bounces uncontrollably. He tries sipping his coffee to distract himself but the ice clinks so loudly it feels incriminating.

His phone vibrates again.

Nick: i… actually walk past there on my way home

Nick: small world

Small world.

Small world???

His breath stutters.

That’s practically next door.

And then Nick adds—

Nick: are you okay?

Charlie’s breath catches.

He wasn’t expecting gentleness.

He wasn’t expecting anything at all except maybe awkwardness, silence, avoidance.

Not… concern.

He swallows, hard.

He types—

Charlie: nick

Charlie: i don’t think i’m ready to see you yet

His thumb hovers, trembling.

He hits send.

And immediately squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn’t know if he’s more terrified of Nick turning up…

or Nick agreeing with him.

The typing bubbles appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

His stomach twists painfully.

The reply comes—

Nick: that’s okay

Nick: i didn’t expect to see you today

Nick: i just… didn’t expect to talk to you at all

Nick: this is already more than i thought i’d get

Charlie’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale.

Warmth blooms under his ribs — the familiar, terrifying kind he has spent ten years trying to smother.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, trying to calm down, but his thoughts won’t slow.

He types—

Charlie: i’m sorry

Charlie: i’m kind of freaking out

Charlie: i didn’t think you were real

Charlie: or that this was real

His chest squeezes.

One more message slips out— raw, honest—

Charlie: i don’t know what i’m supposed to say to you

He almost deletes it.

Doesn’t.

He sends it.

Silence presses around him — the cafe suddenly too loud, too bright, too full of people who are not Nick.

His phone buzzes gently.

Nick: you don’t have to say anything you’re not ready for

Charlie’s throat tightens.

Nick: i’m freaking out too

Nick: in case that helps

A shaky laugh escapes him — unexpected, small, disbelieving.

Of course Nick is freaking out too.

Of course he is.

Nick: we can just talk

Nick: slowly

Nick: or not today

Nick: whatever you need

Charlie presses the cool side of the cup to his cheek again, grounding himself.

He inhales.

Exhales.

He types slowly—

Charlie: talking sounds okay

Charlie: slowly is good

Charlie: i think i can do slowly

His thumb hesitates.

The next message fills his chest with dread even before he writes it.

Charlie: where are you now?

The moment it sends, panic flares hot in his stomach.

Why did he ask that?

Does he actually want to know?

His phone buzzes—

Nick: walking home

Nick: just left the park a few minutes ago

Nick: i’m not far

Charlie’s heart leaps into his throat. Then —

Nick: i’m not coming over or anything

Nick: don’t worry

Nick: just answering honestly

Relief crashes through him so fast he nearly sags in his seat.

He types—

Charlie: okay

Charlie: thank you for not just showing up

Charlie: i wouldn’t survive that lol

He stares.

Bites his lip.

Then truth slips out before he can rein it back—

Charlie: i don’t think i’m ready to see you yet

Charlie: but i… want to talk

His pulse is pounding everywhere — wrists, throat, stomach.

One last line appears, fragile—

Charlie: if that’s okay

The vulnerability of it makes him wince.

He sends it anyway.

He holds his breath.

The reply is immediate.

Nick: it’s more than okay

Nick: i want to talk too

Nick: we’ll go slow

Nick: no pressure

Nick: no rushing anything

Then —

Nick: i’m just really glad you’re here

Charlie closes his eyes.

That line alone feels like hands around his heart.

He swallows and stands abruptly — too warm, too loud, too much all at once.

He tosses the melted ice in the bin and heads out of the cafe, walking fast, like movement will help him breathe again.

Charlie grips the phone tighter.

He types—

Charlie: i left the cafe already

Charlie: heading home now

Charlie: needed some air

His thumb hovers. Then—

Charlie: this is… a lot

Charlie: but i’m okay

He sends it.

He hopes he sounds okay.

He definitely doesn’t feel okay.

Nick: okay

Nick: get home safe

Nick: do you want company in the form of… texting companionship?

Charlie stops walking.

A stunned laugh escapes him.

Oh my god.

He types—

Charlie: companionship?? wow ok victorian gentleman

He smiles — genuinely, helplessly — as a ripple of warmth spreads through his chest.

Nick responds instantly—

Nick: i panicked

Nick: i’m new at… this

Nick: again

Nick: with you

The last two words hit him like a soft punch.

With you.

Charlie’s legs nearly give out.

He presses back against the cool brick wall beside the corner shop, heart ricocheting wildly.

He types, slower this time—

Charlie: i don’t know how to do this either

Charlie: i don’t know what the rules are

Charlie: do we pretend we’re strangers?

His thoughts spin — too fast, too full.

He adds another before Nick can answer—

Charlie: because we’re absolutely not strangers

Charlie: and pretending we are feels… wrong

He’s breathing too fast.

He presses send.

And stands there on the pavement, staring at the screen, hands shaking, heart thundering.

Talking to Nick again feels terrifying.

But not talking feels impossible.

For the first time in ten years —

he doesn’t run.

He doesn’t shut down.

He doesn’t push it away.

He waits for Nick’s reply, chest open, vulnerable, hopeful, terrified —

and ready.

---

Nick's POV :

Nick pauses at the corner of Hoxton Street, phone warm in his hand, breath still uneven from the string of messages he and Charlie have been throwing back and forth. He keeps rereading that one line—

Charlie: because we’re absolutely not strangers

His chest twists. God, no—they’re not strangers. Not even close. He feels almost dizzy from it.

He exhales slowly, then types something, backspaces, types again. Every version is wrong. Too much. Too honest. Too… him.

Nick: I’m still not over you

Nick: Strangers? I’ve been having dreams about you for the past 10 years

He deletes everything.

It’s too much. This is insane. Am I hallucinating again? 

What if we don’t work out? 

What if we’re not on the same page? 

What if he’s changed and he doesn’t like me like he once did? 

He keeps walking, trying to breathe normally.

Finally, he types something that doesn’t make him want to fling himself into the Thames.

Nick: yeah

Nick: we’re not strangers

Nick: and i don’t want to pretend we are

His thumb hovers—then he adds the truth he can bear to give—

Nick: but we’re not the same people we were either

Nick: so maybe we start somewhere in the middle?

He hesitates, then adds softly—

Nick: i’d like to know who you are now

He hits send before he loses his courage.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs. God, he hopes he didn’t push too far.

A few seconds later, Charlie replies—rapid, frantic, adorable in a way that hits Nick right in the solar plexus.

Charlie: who i am now??

Charlie: uh okay let’s see

Charlie: i jogged this morning voluntarily so that’s new

Charlie: i drink iced coffee year round

Charlie: i hate romance novels but somehow edit them for a living

Charlie: i still read on the tube

Charlie: and i’m still very awkward apparently

Nick laughs under his breath, leaning his shoulder against a shopfront.

Awkward. Right. Charlie was awkward in the way flowers turned toward sunlight—soft, involuntary, impossible not to look at.

Then comes—

Charlie: your turn

Nick tightens his grip on the phone. His hands are shaking. He pushes open his flat door but doesn’t go inside, just stands in the corridor as if movement might break whatever this is.

Nick: okay my turn

Nick: i coach rugby kids on weekends now

Nick: i still love dogs more than most humans

Nick: i’ve become the boring friend who goes home early

Nick: i make an amazing roast dinner

Nick: and apparently i still panic when talking to you

He winces. God. Too honest. Too much. But he leaves it.

Nick: some things don’t change i guess

He finally steps inside his flat, leaning back against the closed door. His heart is still hammering.

Seconds later, Charlie replies, and Nick can practically hear the shy, small laugh through the text.

Charlie: i don’t mind the panic

Charlie: i’m kind of panicking too

Charlie: it’s weirdly comforting

A breath escapes Nick—relief and something softer.

Then—

Charlie: um

Charlie: thank you for messaging back

Charlie: i thought you’d be angry

Charlie: or… not want to talk

Nick sits down at his kitchen table, phone balanced between his palms.

God, he’s not angry. He was never angry. Hurt, yes. But never angry at Charlie. Not really.

He types slowly, wanting to get this right—

Nick: i’m not angry

Nick: i never was

Nick: i was hurt, yeah

Nick: but that was a long time ago

Nick: and we were kids

Then he lets his guard slip just a little—

Nick: i’m here now

Nick: if you want me to be

Sending that feels like stepping off a ledge.

While he waits, he fills a glass of water, tries to swallow around the knot in his throat. His reflection in the window looks like a man trying not to hope too loudly.

Then—

Charlie: i want that

Charlie: but i’m scared

Charlie: is that okay?

Nick feels something warm and helpless melt inside him. He presses his fingers to his forehead, steadying himself.

Nick: yeah

Nick: it’s okay

Nick: we can be scared together

Nick: and still talk

Nick: and still try

He adds before he can overthink it—

Nick: i’ve missed you, charlie

---

Later, when Charlie jokes about being slightly less disgusting after a shower, Nick laughs into his pillow and fires back without thinking—

Nick: glad you survived

Nick: and i’m sure you’re more than slightly less disgusting

Then immediately regrets it—

Nick: sorry that sounded like flirting

Nick: or insulting

Nick: oh god i can’t tell which

Charlie’s reply—dry, fond—makes Nick grin helplessly.

And when Charlie says he looked at Nick’s pictures too—calls him warm, safe, beard-suited—Nick’s pulse jumps, throat tight.

He types—

Nick: i’m glad you like it

Nick: i looked at your pictures too

Charlie’s frantic text spiral makes Nick laugh again.

Nick: charlie

Nick: breathe

Nick: you’re fine

Nick: and you look…

Nick: really good

---

Hours later—tiny domestic texts, laughter, quick confessions—Nick finds himself lying across his bed, scrolling through Charlie’s Hinge photos.

Not because he’s checking.

But because he can’t quite believe any of this is happening.

He zooms in on Charlie’s first picture.

Older.

Still boyish in the eyes.

Sharper jaw.

Hair wavy now, falling in quiet shapes around his face.

Nick’s breath deepens.

He moves to the next photo.

Charlie smiling — small, private, almost shy.

Nick feels something soften painfully in his chest.

God, I missed that smile.

He scrolls further.

Charlie reading on the Tube.

Charlie with headphones, staring at the rain through a cafe window.

Charlie in a jumper too big for him.

He notices the dimples.

The one on the left that always appeared deeper when Charlie was trying not to laugh.

He zooms in again.

Fingers hovering over the screen.

The hair looks softer now.

Still chaotic.

Still Charlie.

He can almost feel it under his fingers again —

the way he used to push curls back from Charlie’s forehead, tucking them behind his ear.

The way Charlie leaned into the touch, barely, like a secret.

Nick swallows.

He finds the picture where Charlie’s head is tilted slightly, exposing the small mole on his neck.

His fingers still.

He remembers kissing that spot.

Teasing it.

How Charlie gasped.

How it made Nick feel something he still hasn’t felt with anyone else.

He clears his throat, pushing the memory away.

Not now.

Not yet.

He scrolls back to the top, trying to ground himself.

He wishes — stupidly, achingly — that they had met up years ago.

Back home in Kent during holidays.

On a walk.

In town.

Anywhere.

But then he breathes slowly.

Enjoy the present, he tells himself.

One day at a time.

His phone buzzes.

Charlie: nick?

Charlie: don’t disappear in the morning please

He sits upright, heart in pieces.

He types carefully, deliberately—

Nick: i’m not going anywhere

Nick: i’ll be here in the morning

Nick: promise

Nick: you don’t have to worry about that anymore

Then—

Nick: i missed talking to you

Nick: more than i realised

And when the conversation slows into something tender and quiet, Nick lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, letting the truth settle inside him—

He’s talking to Charlie Spring again.

And it feels like the first inhale after being underwater too long.

---

Charlie's POV :

Later that evening, Charlie tosses himself onto the sofa, hair slightly messy from cleaning. The flat smells faintly of laundry powder, warm and clean and ordinary in a way that doesn’t match the way his heart is behaving.

He sinks back into the cushions and opens Hinge again.

He scrolls up to Nick’s first photo.

Zooms in.

God.

The beard is immaculate. Not too long, not too dramatic — just clean, neat, framing the softness of his mouth. Older. Handsome in a way that hits low in Charlie’s stomach.

He moves to the next photo— Nick laughing at something out of frame, laugh lines fanning around his eyes.

Charlie’s throat constricts.

He always loved those.

He always loved being the reason for them.

He slides to the next one. Sun freckles across Nick’s nose. New ones. Different from before.

He traces them on the screen, barely touching it.

Stupidly, hopelessly, he thinks—

I want to kiss those.

His chest tightens.

Too soon.

Way too soon, Charlie.

He scrolls again. Another picture — Nick in a hoodie, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold.

Charlie imagines the beard under his fingers. Against his palm. At the side of his neck.

He shuts the thought down instantly, heart pounding.

No, Charlie.

Stop it.

He locks his phone and lets it fall onto his chest, staring at the ceiling.

It’s still surreal that Nick is talking to him at all.

And under all that warmth, shame flickers. Ten years ago, he hurt Nick. Badly. He’d talked about it with Geoff, back then — how to sit with guilt, how to stop punishing himself, how to forgive the scared, messed-up kid he used to be.

But even now, one thought stays—

One day. One day, I’ll apologise properly. In person. He deserves that. He deserves so much better than what I gave him.

His eyes sting.

He wipes them quickly.

He stares at the blank message box for a long time, debating.

Then he types—

Charlie: still awake?

His thumb hovers, then he hits send.

His heart climbs straight into his throat.

The reply comes quickly—

Nick: yeah

Nick: i’m awake

Charlie exhales, tension loosening just a fraction.

Nick: couldn’t really sleep even if i tried

Of course he couldn’t, Charlie thinks. He can’t either.

Charlie: yeah

Charlie: me too

Charlie: my brain’s too loud tonight

He bites his lip, then adds—

Charlie: want to talk a bit more?

Because it isn’t really the noise keeping him awake.

It’s the quiet in between messages.

Nick: i’d like that

Nick: talking, i mean

Nick: if you want to

A small, helpless smile tugs at Charlie’s mouth. He curls sideways into the sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs.

Charlie: okay

Charlie: um

Charlie: what are you doing right now?

He cringes a little — obviously Nick is texting — but it feels like safe small talk. Like saying stay with me a bit longer.

Nick: lying in bed

Nick: staring at the ceiling

Nick: and maybe at your messages a bit too much

Charlie presses his fist to his mouth to muffle a laugh.

Charlie: don’t worry

Charlie: i keep rereading yours too

Charlie: just to check they’re real

Honest. Too honest. He doesn’t delete it.

Nick: today still feels unreal

Nick: but in a good way

Nick: i didn’t think we’d ever talk again

Charlie swallows.

Charlie: me too

Charlie: even though i’m scared

Charlie: but talking to you feels… safe?

His face burns.

Charlie: is that weird?

He stares at the screen, pulse in his ears.

Nick: no

Nick: it’s not weird

Nick: i feel safe talking to you too

Nick: even after everything

Nick: maybe because we grew up a bit

Grown up. Older. Not those terrified teenagers at a party anymore.

Nick: and because i know you’re trying

Something in Charlie cracks open, soft and painful.

Charlie: i am trying

Charlie: i want to do this right

Charlie: whatever “this” is

He winces and hammers out the next messages—

Charlie: not that i’m defining anything!!

Charlie: god 

Charlie: ignore me

He shoves his face halfway into the cushion.

Nick: we don’t have to define anything

Nick: we just… talk

Nick: and see where things go

Nick: slowly

Nick: together

Charlie stares at that last word.

Together.

His fingers move before he can talk himself out of it.

Charlie: you’re really good at this

Charlie: being gentle with me

He hesitates, then types what’s been gnawing at him underneath everything—

Charlie: i don’t deserve it

Charlie: but i’m grateful anyway

His chest feels too small.

Nick: charlie

Nick: you don’t have to earn kindness

Nick: you just get it

Charlie swallows hard.

Nick: especially from me

He has to close his eyes for a second.

Charlie: i don’t know what to say to that

The response comes steady, grounding—

Nick: you don’t have to say anything

Nick: it’s enough that you’re here

Nick: texting me at 11pm on a saturday

Nick: it’s… really nice

Nice is ridiculous. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Charlie: nick?

Nick: yeah?

He takes a breath.

Charlie: thank you

Charlie: for today

Charlie: for talking to me

Charlie: for not disappearing

His thumb hovers over send on the last line, then he taps anyway.

Charlie: i forgot how much i liked talking to you

He feels almost dizzy after he sends it.

Nick: i liked talking to you too

Nick: more than i expected tonight

Nick: in a good way

Charlie presses the back of his wrist to his eyes.

Nick: we should get some sleep soon though

Nick: it’s getting late

Nick: good night, charlie

Nick: sleep well

Charlie’s breath catches at the sight of his name.

Charlie: good night, nick

Charlie: talk tomorrow?

The dots appear almost immediately.

Nick: yeah

Nick: tomorrow

A warmth blooms in Charlie’s chest.

Charlie: okay

Charlie: good night :)

He sends it, locks his phone… then unlocks it again straight away.

He can’t help it.

He opens Nick’s profile once more. His thumb trembles just slightly as he scrolls back to the second photo — Nick laughing, head tilted back, eyes bright, beard neat, freckles warm under autumn light.

He zooms in.

Close enough to see the freckles.

Close enough to see the laugh lines.

Close enough to feel the ache of memory.

His heart does something embarrassing — tender and ridiculous all at once.

He presses the phone into the pillow beside his face, still staring at that one picture, vision going hazy at the edges as sleep creeps up on him.

A breathless little laugh slips out, half-muffled in the duvet.

God, imagine being a romance book editor and then falling like this. Hypocrite behaviour, Spring. Absolute hypocrite.

He falls asleep smiling, phone still in his hand, Nick’s face the last thing he sees.

Chapter Text

Charlie wakes to sunlight warming the side of his face, the soft hum of London outside his window, and… the immediate thud of his heart remembering everything that happened yesterday.

His phone buzzes when he shifts, the screen lighting faintly against the duvet.

Charlie blinks against the morning light, reaches for it, and unlocks it out of habit— and his stomach flips.

It opens straight back to Hinge. Straight back to the page he fell asleep on.

Nick’s picture fills the screen.

Right. That happened.

Charlie rubs his eyes, pushes himself upright, and sits there for a long moment, blanket pooled around his waist, hair flattened on one side.

His chest feels full. Too full. And his brain— well. His brain gets loud fast.

Is it too soon to meet? Probably. Definitely … is it though?

He chews the inside of his cheek.

It’s been ten years. Ten years. If it’s too soon now, what does 'not too soon' even look like? A week? A month? Ten more years?

He groans into his hands.

Okay, no. No. If I have to apologise — and I do, I really, really do — then sooner is better. Dragging it out would make it worse. And I can’t apologise properly over text. I won’t.

He presses his palms to his eyes until stars pop behind them. He knows himself too well. If he has to say sorry over a screen, he’ll water it down.

He’ll abbreviate the pain. He’ll joke. He’ll self-deprecate. He’ll ruin it.

No — it has to be in person.

Has to be real.

But the thought of sitting across from Nick — the Nick Nelson — makes his stomach flip violently. He glances at his phone again.

Nick’s face stares back. Older now. Sharper jawline. Warm eyes softened by laugh lines. A stupidly nice beard that shouldn’t make Charlie feel as many things as it does at nine in the morning.

Hot.

That’s the word. That’s the problem.

He was hot ten years ago, obviously—freckled, golden, unfair — but now? Now he’s… Properly hot. Grown-man hot.

Hot in a my type evolved around you way.

Hot in a way I probably shouldn’t think about in the morning sunlight.

Charlie drops the phone onto his duvet and covers his face again.

This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

I need to see him in real life. I have to. I can’t trust these photos—

Maybe the beard looks different in person. Maybe the freckles look brighter. Maybe his shoulders are broader. Maybe he smells different.

Christ, why am I thinking about how he smells?

He sinks into his pillow.

Is it desperate? Asking him today? Immediately? Probably. Yes.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

But also… he texted me until midnight. He promised he wouldn’t disappear. He said he wanted to talk. He sounded like the same Nick — soft, careful, patient — but ten years is enough time to change anyone.

Maybe he’s different. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m building a version of him that isn’t real anymore.

Charlie swallows hard.

He sits upright abruptly.

I need to know. I need to ask. Just… ask if it’s even possible he wants to meet up. If he says no, I’ll pretend I was joking. If he says yes…

His heart kicks. He doesn’t finish that thought.

Too dangerous.

Charlie grips his phone with both hands, thumbs hovering, heart pounding like he’s about to detonate.

He whispers to himself, “Fuck it… okay. Okay. Just ask. You’ve been a functioning adult for years. You can do this. Act normal.”

He types—

Charlie: good morning

Immediately feels nauseous.

He adds—

Charlie: so… what are you doing today?

The second one sends before he can take it back. He stares at the screen.

Blue ticks appear instantly. Charlie feels his pulse rocket. And then—

Nothing. No reply. No dots. No hesitation bubbles. Just silence.

His chest tightens painfully.

Nick saw it. but he isn’t replying.

All the warmth from last night twists into panic. He hears his own heartbeat in his ears.

He shouldn’t have texted first. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have hoped.

Of course this would happen. Of course he ruined it by being too eager, too obvious, too… him.

Last night Charlie texted— “Don’t disappear in the morning please.”

Nick said he wouldn’t. So why—

Charlie presses his palms to his eyes, breath short and uneven.

His phone buzzes. He jumps like he’s been shocked. He stares.

Not a text. A voice note.

And Charlie’s stomach flips violently.

A voice note.

Not avoidance. Not disappearance. Nick chose to speak. But why a voice note? Why now? Why this?

Charlie’s hand trembles as he raises his phone. He can’t breathe as he hits play—

There’s a soft crackle.

A faint clatter in the background — a pan? A kettle? Something domestic and warm and unbearably Nick.

Then— “Charlie— hi. Good morning!”

Charlie’s breath leaves him in one sharp, stupid, helpless exhale. He presses a hand to his mouth.

Nick’s voice…

Nick’s voice has changed.

Deeper. Richer.

A low warmth threaded through every syllable, like sunlight soaked into sound.

The boyish undertone is still there — but now softened into something grown, something steady, something that hits Charlie like a physical thing.

Hot.

Dangerously hot.

In the background, something sizzles — eggs, probably — and Nick huffs a soft laugh, the same laugh Charlie remembers from sixth form, just… deeper now.

“Sorry I didn’t reply right away. I was literally mid-whisk when your text came in and I dropped the bowl. Like— actually dropped it. Batter everywhere. I panicked—"

A pause. The clink of a spatula.

“I’m… still cleaning it— while trying not to burn my scrambled eggs. I’d text properly but my hands are kind of… occupied.”

Charlie’s heart is in his throat.

Nick continues, a little sheepish, a little shy. “Um… I don’t really have plans today.”

A tiny tap — probably the stove being turned down. “Maybe TV later. Gym in the evening.” Then, quieter— “What about you?”

The note ends.

Charlie covers his mouth to stop from laughing out loud. His pulse steadies— slower, softer. He feels stupid for panicking. But also— he’d been so scared.

Now? He’s okay.

Nick’s voice does that. Always did.

He plays it again.

And again.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

But Nick’s morning voice — the rasp, the warmth, the gentleness — it hits somewhere deep inside him he hasn’t touched in years.

His cheeks are hot. His stomach flips. His chest feels too full.

His voice changed, Charlie thinks, dazed. He grew up. He actually— God. He sounds…

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.

He presses his phone to his forehead and exhales shakily, half-laughing, half-spiralling.

Okay. Okay. Fuck.

I can’t just sit here replaying Nick Nelson’s morning voice like some lovesick idiot. I need to say something. Anything.

He types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Deletes again.

His fingers hover, his heart thudding. Then—

Charlie: you sound different

He stares at it. Cringes. Then he adds—

Charlie: i mean in a good way

Charlie: i mean— your voice

He shuts his eyes. Wants to die. Wants to hide under his duvet forever. Then, before he can spiral further, he adds one more message — tiny, terrified, hopeful—

Charlie: and i’m free today too

Charlie: if… y’know

Charlie: you wanted company

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it. And drops the phone onto the bed like it’s about to explode.

The moment Charlie sends the message, he regrets every letter of it.

If you wanted company.

Who even says that? What does that even mean? Is it an invitation? A hint? A cry for help?

He buries his face in his pillow. “Kill me,” he mumbles into the fabric.

His phone buzzes— another voice note.

Oh god.

Charlie forces himself upright, thumb hovering before he hits play.

There’s a soft rustle, then Nick’s voice — warm, slightly breathless, like he recorded it while crossing the kitchen. “Uh… company?”

Nick sounds confused. Gently confused. Not annoyed. Just— unsure.

Charlie’s heart flips.

Nick clears his throat, voice softer this time— “I mean— I… yeah. I’d like that. I just don’t know if you meant… like… now? Or later? Or if you meant something else entirely.”

There’s a tiny, nervous laugh.

Beautiful.

Painfully Nick.

“Sorry, I’m rubbish at guessing things. Ten years and I still overthink everything.”

Charlie’s chest pulls tight.

Nick pauses, then adds, quieter— “But… yes. I’d like to see you. If that’s what you meant.”

Charlie’s breath catches.

He scrolls up. Reads his own messages.

And realises — oh god. He absolutely did not make it clear. He types quickly before he loses his nerve entirely—

Charlie: no— i meant… us

Charlie: spending time together

Charlie: today

He re-reads it. Panics. And sends a follow-up—

Charlie: i mean if you want to

Charlie: no pressure

Charlie: but maybe… lunch?

His fingers go numb.

His entire body goes numb.

He has just asked Nick Nelson — golden boy, first love, heartbreak, ten-year silence — out for lunch on a Sunday like he’s someone normal, someone brave, someone not on the verge of fainting.

His phone buzzes.

A text this time.

Nick: lunch sounds really nice

Nick: where are you?

Charlie’s lungs forget how breathing works. He stares at the message, stunned.

Nick wants to meet.

Nick wants to meet him.

Nick wants—

His phone buzzes again, and he nearly drops it.

Nick: i’d really like to see you, charlie

Charlie closes his eyes.

A soft, overwhelmed sound escapes him — the kind that isn’t quite a laugh, isn’t quite a gasp, isn’t quite a sob.

Something in his chest finally, finally loosens.

He fumbles out a reply—

Charlie: i’m in hoxton

Charlie: there’s a cafe nearby

Charlie: i can meet you there?

There’s a short pause. Then—

Nick: send me the name

Nick: i’ll get ready now

Charlie presses a hand to his mouth, trying not to smile too hard.

His heart feels too big.

Too bright.

Too loud.

For the first time in ten years, the day feels like possibility.

---

Nick's POV :

Nick stares at his own message for a full three seconds before the reality hits him—

He’s going to see Charlie. Today.

Not someday. Not hypothetically. Not maybe soon.

Today.

He drags both hands down his face, “Okay… okay, breathe,” he mutters to himself.

His heart is pounding so hard it feels audible, thudding against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His body suddenly has too much energy and nowhere to put it.

He shovels the last of his scrambled eggs down in three frantic bites, dumps the plate in the sink without looking, then starts pacing across his room—back and forth, back and forth—like he’s preparing for a rugby match instead of a lunch date he absolutely did not wake up expecting.

His pulse is wild. His hands won’t stay still.

Charlie.

He’s going to see Charlie. And he has no idea what to do with any of it.

He slept terribly — tossing, replaying messages, replaying that moment on the Tube, replaying the profile, replaying him.

He woke up still half-in disbelief.

He found Charlie yesterday. After ten years of nothing. And now he’s about to see him.

His pulse jumps again.

He glances at himself in the mirror. Oh god. He is a mess.

His hair has gone rogue on one side, crushed weirdly from sleep, refusing to lie flat no matter how many times he drags a hand through it. And his beard—

Yeah. Suddenly that feels like a whole situation all on its own.

Nick leans closer.

It’s longer than it looks in his Hinge pictures. A little fluffier. A little more weekend rugby coach than soft, neat primary school teacher.

“Nope. Absolutely not. Not like this.”

He speeds to the bathroom yanks open the cabinet, grabs his trimmer, and switches it on.

The buzz fills the small flat.

His hands shake as he lines the edges, trims the moustache, cleans up the jawline.

Normally he does this without thinking. Now his brain is running laps.

Charlie’s going to see me in person. In daylight. Close enough to see every freckle. Close enough to notice if my beard is uneven.

He trims again, closer this time.

I haven’t seen him in ten years. Do I look older? Do I look tired? Do I look… good enough?

The trimmer slips a little, and he swears softly, adjusting.

He rinses his face, pats it dry, and reaches for the aftershave he only uses on days he cares about.

He splashes a little too much on.

The scent rises — warm, clean, familiar — and something tightens in his chest.

Charlie used to love this one.

He grips the sink and closes his eyes.

This is real. He’s actually going to see him. Not through a screen. Not in a memory. Not by accident in a Tube carriage.

In front of him. Breathing the same air.

Nick exhales shakily.

Then the panic sets in. His wardrobe.

He rushes to the bedroom and flings open the closet door. He has two types of clothes:

- teacher clothes

- rugby clothes

Neither feel good enough.

He pulls out a jumper, stares at it, throws it on the bed.

Pulls out a flannel. Throws that too.

A soft navy T-shirt. A cream hoodie.

Half his wardrobe ends up in a pile. “Get it together,” he whispers, hands on his hips.

He tries on the navy T-shirt. Looks in the mirror. Too fitted?

He switches to the cream hoodie. Looks again. Too casual?

Back to the navy. Then the hoodie over the navy. Off again. On again.

He looks at himself, cheeks flushed.

It’s just lunch. It’s just Charlie.

His stomach flips.

That’s exactly the problem.

His phone buzzes with Charlie’s reply.

Charlie: cafe called The Attic Bean

Charlie: does that work for you?

Nick freezes for half a second, rereading the name.

A cafe. Public. Safe. Neutral. Grounded.

Something about it steadies him— Good. Good, that’s good. No pressure. No jumping into anything too fast. No being alone before they know how this even feels.

He types back immediately, thumb shaking just slightly—

Nick: perfect

Nick: The Attic Bean it is

Nick: i’ll head over as soon as i’m ready

Ready.

He glances at the explosion of clothes on the bed.

He is absolutely, definitely, profoundly NOT ready. But he will be.

For Charlie? He will be.

Nick pulls on the navy T-shirt, the cream hoodie over it, jeans that fit well, trainers that aren’t scuffed.

He runs a hand through his hair once, twice. Grabs his keys. Checks his reflection one more time.

Ten years later, he’s about to see the boy he never stopped thinking about.

No amount of getting ready will feel like enough.

But he’s doing this.

For real.

---

Charlie's POV :

Charlie stands frozen in front of his bedroom mirror, phone still warm in his hand.

The Attic Bean. Lunch. Nick.

He looks at himself. And instantly regrets doing so.

His hair — shorter now, wavier, less defined without product — sits in a sad, confused shape between accidentally soft and I just woke up.

He pushes it back. It flops forward.

He rakes his fingers through it. It puffs out on one side.

He tries flattening it. It sticks up instead.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters at his own reflection.

He opens the bathroom cabinet.

Empty. No gel. No curl cream. Not even the cheap mousse he buys when he’s desperate.

“Brilliant,” he whispers.

“Love that for me.”

He leans closer to the mirror, inspecting the waves — softer than they used to be, less defined, more grown-up, less intentional.

What if he hates it?

The thought slips out before he can stop it.

He swallows.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

But God, he wants to look… good. Not perfect. Just— good enough.

For Nick.

He pushes the front pieces back again, trying to make it look purposefully messy. It doesn’t cooperate.

He groans softly and steps back.

Whatever.

Too late now. He’ll have to deal with this reformed birds-nest version of me.

He grabs his phone, thumbs moving before he fully thinks it through—

Charlie: text me when you’re on your way?

The reply comes shockingly fast.

Nick: i’ll be there in about 30 minutes?

Charlie’s stomach drops.

Thirty minutes. Oh god.

He types again, lightly, hoping he sounds casual—

Charlie: where are you coming from?

There’s a pause. Then—

Nick: i’m in dalston

Nick: been here about… 3 years now?

Charlie stops breathing.

Dalston.

Charlie stares at his own reflection in the mirror, jaw falling open.

Dalston is — what — a fifteen-minute walk from Hoxton? Two Tube stops? Practically next door?

He’s been that close?

For three years?

THREE YEARS?!

Charlie drops his face into both hands. “Oh my god. Are you kidding me…”

All the near-misses hit him at once — the Tube station, the park, the boys’ rugby group, the coffeeshops, the stupid algorithm on Hinge.

He lets out a noise that is half-laugh, half-despair. He’s been around the corner this whole time. We’ve been ghosts brushing past each other for YEARS. And now—

now— thirty minutes??

He lifts his head, cheeks hot, hair still a mess. This is real.

This is happening.

Charlie swallows hard, picks up his jacket, and texts back—

Charlie: okay

Charlie: see you soon then

He looks at himself in the mirror one last time.

Wavy hair doing whatever it wants.

Eyes too bright. Chest too tight.

He exhales shakily.

“Please,” he whispers at his reflection, “just don’t make this a disaster.”

---

Nick's POV :

Nick steps out of his building, hoodie zipped, backpack slung over one shoulder even though he doesn’t need it.

He takes three steps. Then stops.

Checks his reflection in a shop window.

Hair: decent.

Beard: trimmed.

Sweat: not visible—yet.

He starts walking again. A bit too fast. Okay— a lot too fast.

He slows down immediately.

Do not arrive sweating. Do not arrive red. Do not arrive looking like you sprinted from Dalston to Hoxton because you are desperate to see your ex of ten years.

He forces himself into a normal pace. It lasts about thirty seconds.

Then his legs naturally speed up again, betraying him.

His thoughts race even faster— Charlie lives in Hoxton. HOXTON.

He grips his phone tighter.

How long? How long has Charlie been right there? How many mornings were they standing on opposite sides of the same platform? How many Saturdays did they walk the same streets, half an hour apart? How many times did Nick pass this exact park, this exact intersection, with no idea Charlie Spring was breathing in the same damn postcode?

His chest squeezes.

It’s overwhelming. It’s surreal. It’s terrifying in a way that makes his stomach flip and twist and flutter all at once.

He exhales slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself.

Then unlocks his phone. He types without thinking—

Nick: i’m walking over now

Nick: should be there in 15–20

His thumb hesitates. Then he adds, quieter, braver, more vulnerable—

Nick: how long have you lived in hoxton?

He pockets his phone and keeps walking. He tries to keep a steady pace. Fails.

Starts walking too fast again. Slows down again.

Repeat.

Every few seconds, he wipes his palms on his jeans.

How long has he been that close to me? How long have we been orbiting each other like idiots? How many chances did we miss?

His heart lifts—just a little. Because today is not a miss.

Today he’s walking toward Charlie Spring. Toward a cafe. Toward something that feels both terrifying and inevitable.

A decade later, he’s finally taking the steps toward him again.

Literally.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check yet. He can’t.

If he looks now, he’ll start sprinting.

He keeps walking, every step tight with nerves, the pavement passing under him in a blur of grey and sunlight. The closer he gets to Hoxton, the harder it is to breathe properly — not in a bad way, just in that I’m-about-to-walk-into-something-irreversible way.

His fingers twitch toward his pocket again.

No. Not yet.

Not when he’s this close to losing control of his legs entirely.

He forces himself to slow, to inhale through his nose, steady and even. It doesn’t help.

Nothing is helping.

Because he’s about to see Charlie. Charlie, after ten years. Charlie, in real life. Charlie, not in a profile photo or a memory or a ghost of a thought.

He reaches the corner near the cafe, the orange awning of The Attic Bean just barely visible across the street.

This is it. Now he checks.

He pulls out his phone with shaking fingers, unlocks it, and reads Charlie’s message—

Charlie: i’ve been in hoxton about four years

Charlie: i’m just reaching the cafe now actually

Nick stops walking. His heart slams into his ribs.

Four years. Four years?

Charlie has been this close for four whole years, and Nick never knew. He lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath — something between a laugh and a choke.

Then he looks up. And freezes.

Because Charlie is there.

Right there.

Across the small stretch of pavement. Colliding with him in the exact same second the message lands.

Charlie steps up toward the cafe from the opposite direction, phone in his hand, hair soft and wavy in the morning light, jacket half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he might’ve speed-walked too.

He sees Nick. Nick sees him.

And the world tilts.

Charlie stops dead in his tracks.

Nick does too.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

No one speaks. No one breathes.

Nick’s chest caves in on itself — a rush of recognition so fierce it almost knocks him backwards.

He’s the same. He’s different. He’s older. He’s exactly Charlie.

Charlie’s lips part, just a little, like he’s forgotten how to form words.

Nick can’t form any either. His throat has closed up, tight with something he can’t name, something aching and warm and overwhelming.

They both step forward at the same time.

Then stop again.

Then step again, awkwardly, nervously, helplessly synced.

They meet in the middle of the pavement — close enough for Nick to see the tremble in Charlie’s hands, close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, close enough that ten years collapses into a single heartbeat.

“Hi,” Charlie breathes.

It’s barely a word. Barely sound. Almost a memory.

Nick’s reply is just as quiet. “Hi.”

Silence holds them for a beat longer — thick, fragile, painfully tender.

Then Charlie shifts his weight. Nick does too. And before Nick can think, before he can stop himself, before he can decide whether it’s too much—

Charlie leans in. A tiny motion. A hopeful one. An instinct.

Nick doesn’t even realise he’s moving too.

Their arms open at the same moment, their bodies meeting in a soft, hesitant, trembling hug — not tight, not rushed, just there.

A decade of distance folded into one impossible, aching point of contact.

Nick’s breath catches against Charlie’s shoulder.

Charlie’s fingers curve lightly at Nick’s back, like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

Nick closes his eyes.

God. He still smells the same.  Still feels the same.

For a second — just one second — Nick feels the ghost of muscle memory tug him forward, the gravitational pull toward Charlie’s jaw, Charlie’s cheek, Charlie’s mouth—

He stops himself. Charlie stops too.

They pull back at the exact same moment, startled, breathless, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” Charlie blurts. “No, sorry—” Nick says at the same time.

And even though the words are clumsy, the air between them hums.

Alive. Charged.

Full of something they both felt but didn’t dare follow.

Nick swallows, his voice low and unsteady. “Hi,” he says again, softer.

Charlie smiles— small, shy, wrecking. “Hi.”

The ten years don’t disappear.

But for the first time, they feel surmountable.

---

Charlie's POV :

Charlie steps into The Attic Bean with Nick beside him, and for a terrifying, disorienting second, he thinks he might actually cry.

Not cute-teary. Not watery-eyed. Not oh wow, this is emotional.

No.

Full-on, throat-closed, chest-tight, actual tears threatening to climb up his stupid neck and spill out of his stupid eyes.

He forces himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Slow.

Steady.

He’s not going to cry. He’s not. He is an adult. He is fine. He is absolutely bloody fine.

Except he isn’t. Because Nick is here.

In a hoodie that fits him unfairly well, hair mussed from walking, beard trimmed, eyes warm and nervous and familiar in a way that makes Charlie’s ribs ache.

Because Nick hugged him.

Smelled like that same aftershave from ten years ago. He felt solid. Real.

Because the moment Nick’s arms came around him, ten whole years melted like they were nothing.

Oh god.

He swallows the lump again, but it refuses to budge. It sits heavy and hot in his chest, right between nostalgia and regret and something terrifyingly close to relief.

They walk toward the counter. Nick says something about the menu.

Charlie hears it. Sort of.

But his brain is a useless fog of— he’s here. i’m not imagining this. i’m not dreaming. he’s really here

“Charlie?” Nick says softly, nudging him with a gentleness that hits like a punch.

Charlie blinks up at him. “Hmm?”

He realises the barista is waiting. Staring directly at him. He has no idea how long. “What can I get for you?”

Charlie’s voice comes out thin— “Oh—uh. The chicken pesto sandwich. And… an oat flat white. Please.”

Nick orders right after him — something simple, a grilled cheese and a cappuccino— and they move to the side to wait.

Charlie focuses on his breathing.

He tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat. It doesn’t move.

Nick steals a glance at him. Not prying—just seeing him.

It makes Charlie’s chest twist painfully.

Nick stands beside him, close enough that their sleeves almost brush.

Charlie looks down at his hands, forcing them to stop shaking. But his fingers betray him, tapping lightly against his palm, a familiar anxious rhythm he hasn’t indulged in since he was sixteen.

Nick notices.

Of course he does.

“Hey,” Nick murmurs.

Quiet. Careful. Like the word is made of silk and he’s trying not to tear it. “You okay?”

Charlie nods too quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just—fine.”

Nick’s brows pinch slightly, the concern soft and deep and so painfully Nick that Charlie’s throat tightens again.

He looks away. Out the window. Anywhere but Nick’s eyes.

Hold it together. Do not cry in a coffee shop. Not today. Not the first five minutes. Come on, Charlie.

He breathes in sharply through his nose.

The barista calls their order. Their drinks come first, then two plates. Nick picks up both without being asked (muscle memory), handing Charlie his sandwich with a shy, polite smile.

They sit at a small table near the window.

Charlie sits. Nick sits across from him.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Charlie’s heart is doing pirouettes and backflips and possibly dying.

Nick’s fingers curl around his cup, knuckles pale with nerves.

This silence should be awkward.

It isn’t. It’s overwhelming. Too much.

They eat quietly for a few moments — the soft clink of cutlery, the gentle hum of the cafe, the sound of people talking at other tables — all of it muted compared to the roaring in Charlie’s chest.

Charlie’s hands shake slightly as he unwraps his sandwich. He hides it by taking a sip of his coffee.

Nick notices. Charlie pretends he doesn’t.

Nick takes slow, careful bites of his grilled cheese.

Charlie forces down a bite of his pesto, hoping the act of chewing disguises the lump rising in his throat, the wave of emotion he’s trying so hard to keep down.

After a moment, Nick sets his sandwich down gently. “Charlie…” he says softly.

Charlie looks up, breath caught halfway.

Nick isn’t smiling. He isn’t teasing.

He’s looking at him like he’s trying to piece together ten years of distance and damage in one glance.

The lump in Charlie’s throat swells.

He clears his throat, voice barely a whisper— “Sorry. I just… didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Nick’s breath stutters — almost imperceptibly. “Me neither,” he admits, quiet, earnest.

Charlie looks down again, blinking too fast.

Don’t cry. Not yet. Not here. Please, god, not here.

He wraps both hands around his cup, as if the warmth can anchor him, hold him steady while his world rearranges itself.

He inhales.

Exhales.

And finally manages— “I’m really… really glad you’re here.”

Nick’s expression softens more than Charlie can bear.

“Yeah,” Nick says, almost whispering. “Me too.”

The lump in Charlie’s throat loosens — just a fraction. Enough to breathe. Enough to hope.

They sit there, two plates between them, two cups cooling slowly, ten years of tension humming quietly in the air.

Charlie forces another sip of flat white past the tightness in his throat.

Nick hasn’t touched his grilled cheese in a minute. He’s just… looking at Charlie. Not staring — just seeing him.

Really seeing him.

Charlie’s cheeks warm. He looks down again.

Nick clears his throat softly — that little nervous sound he used to make when he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it was allowed. “Can I say something without it sounding… weird?” Nick asks, voice low.

Charlie looks up, heart lurching. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You can.”

Nick’s fingers curl around his cup like he needs something to hold onto.

“It’s just…” He pauses, blush creeping into his cheeks. “You look… good. Really good.”

Charlie blinks.

Oh.

His breath stutters. Nick notices the panic flicker behind his eyes and adds quickly, gently—

“I mean — not in a you weren’t before way. Not in a big way. Just… you. You look like you. Just… grown. Softer. In a good way. In a—” He cuts himself off, cheeks flaming.

Charlie can’t help it — a small, startled laugh escapes him. Barely more than a breath, but real.

Nick’s shoulders drop with relief at the sound. And something inside Charlie eases, just a little.

Nick smiles — sheepish, warm, impossibly sincere. “I’m messing this up, aren’t I?”

Charlie shakes his head. “No. You’re not.”

Nick lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for an hour.

He fiddles with the rim of his cup, then says, softer— “I just meant… it’s really good to see you. Properly. And know you’re… here. And okay. I wasn’t sure how today would feel, but… I’m glad I came.”

Charlie stares at him — at the way Nick’s lashes lower when he’s nervous, at the way his thumb presses into the cup sleeve, at the way he looks like he wants to say more but is trying hard not to overwhelm him.

Something warm spreads through Charlie’s chest.

He swallows.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

For a moment, they just… sit. Breathing the same air. Letting the silence settle between them like something fragile and precious.

Charlie moves his hand to adjust his cup. Nick does the same.

Their fingers brush — a brief, accidental touch. But it feels like an electric current.

Charlie freezes.

Nick does too.

Their hands don’t linger — they don’t dare — but the ghost of that touch hangs between them like a held breath.

Charlie feels it all the way to his spine.

Nick clears his throat again, this time flustered enough that Charlie feels it like a small, warm spark of affection.

“So, um…” Nick says softly, trying for composure and failing adorably, “tell me everything. I mean— everything you want to. How you’ve been. Your work. Your life. I wanna… catch up. If that’s okay.”

Charlie’s heart thuds.

Easy. Kind. Open. Still Nick.

He laces his trembling fingers together and tries to ignore the way his pulse jumps. “Yeah,” Charlie says, letting a shy smile soften his voice. “Okay. Ask me anything.”

Nick’s answering smile is small but bright — a quiet miracle in itself.

---

Nick's POV :

Nick can barely sit still.

He’s trying so hard — so hard to be composed, to be normal, to act like this is just a casual lunch with an old friend.

But it isn’t.

It isn’t even close.

He’s sitting across from Charlie Spring. After ten years.

Ten years of silence and wondering and wishing and trying not to wish.

And Charlie is right there. Real. Breathing.

Looking at him like he’s feeling everything Nick is feeling, only trying harder to hide it.

Nick’s heart is a mess.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to sob into his hands and say, Where have you been? I missed you so much.

He wants to reach across the table and take Charlie’s hand. He wants to trace the curve of Charlie’s cheek like he used to.He wants to bury his face in Charlie’s hair and breathe him in again.

And god — Charlie looks so good.

Nick keeps stealing glances, because he can’t help it.

The hair is different now — shorter, wavier, less styled. It softens Charlie’s face in a new way, makes his eyes look wider, his mouth gentler, his features more… god, Nick doesn’t even have the word.

Beautiful? Yes.

But also grown. And somehow even more Charlie.

Nick wants to touch it.

Wants to slide his fingers through it like he used to in sixth form when Charlie would tuck himself under his chin.

He wants so badly to know if it feels the same.

His breath gets caught in his throat. He takes a sip of his cappuccino to cover it.

Then Charlie looks up — just for a second — and Nick sees it.

The exact same chaos he’s feeling.

Tightness in his shoulders. Too-bright eyes. A half-smile he keeps swallowing down. A trembling he’s trying very hard to hide.

Nick’s chest aches.

He’s feeling it too.

Please let him be feeling it too.

He wants to talk about everything. Everything they missed. Their lives. Their work. What the past ten years did to them.

He wants to tell Charlie about school. About his students. About Jamie from Year 3 who hugged him and made him think about Charlie so sharply it hurt.

He wants to ask Charlie about his job. His home. His people. His heart.

But then there’s the other thing.

The breakup.

That awful, shattering, stupid, painful night. Ten years of guilt and bruised feelings buried under adulthood.

Nick knows they need to talk about it. Eventually. But not today. Not here.

Not when the air between them is fragile and new and humming with too many emotions.

Today is for breathing again. For rediscovering.

For the miracle of hello after a decade.

So Nick swallows, nods, and says lightly— “Okay. So… you said I can ask anything.”

Charlie meets his eyes, something soft sparking between them.

Nick feels his heart flip.

He picks the safest question he can find — one that won’t break either of them open too soon— “So… you’re living in Hoxton now? How’d that happen?”

Charlie smiles— small, shy, warm— and Nick feels something inside him melt.

Oh god. He’s here. He’s right here. And this isn’t just friendship. It can’t be.

Please let it not be.

Because Nick misses him.

Not in a nostalgic way. Not in a we were teenagers way.

He misses him in the deep, adult, aching way that sits in his chest and whispers—

I never stopped loving you. Not really.

And I hope to god you still feel something too.

Charlie starts talking, and Nick listens, drinking in every word, every expression, every tiny tremble in Charlie’s voice.

Whatever happens later— whatever hurts they need to untangle— right now, Nick is exactly where he wants to be.

Across from Charlie Spring. Trying not to fall apart. Trying not to fall in love again too fast.

Failing completely.

Nick nods along to whatever Charlie is saying— something about his flat, his street, the way the morning light hits his kitchen window— but the words slide warm and gentle around the edges of Nick’s mind instead of sinking in properly.

He’s trying. He’s really trying.

But he keeps slipping into his own head, caught between everything he’s feeling and everything he’s afraid to feel.

I can’t mess this up.

He blinks, realising belatedly that he’s just… staring.

Not even in a subtle way.

In a full lost in a daydream and forgot to be a human being way.

Charlie’s voice falters. A beat of silence.

Then, soft and tentative— “Nick?”

Nick snaps back to the present so fast he almost jolts. “Mm?” he says, too quick, too bright.

Charlie’s brows pinch, concern wrapping gently around his features. “Are you… okay?”

The question is small. Bare. Shy, like Charlie isn’t sure if he’s allowed to ask.

Nick’s heart stumbles.

He lets out an embarrassed breath and rubs the back of his neck, trying to look less like someone having a full emotional renaissance over a grilled cheese.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m— I’m here. Just… a lot.”

Charlie’s lips twitch into the tiniest smile. Not teasing. Understanding.

“A good lot?” Charlie asks softly.

Nick looks at him — really looks — and something warm and dangerous and hopeful unfurls in his chest.

He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, steady this time. “A good lot.”

Charlie’s shoulders ease, his breath loosens, and that small, shy smile curls just a little higher.

---

Charlie's POV :

Something loosens in Charlie’s chest — a quiet, glowing warmth that spreads all the way to his fingertips.

He swallows, tries to disguise the wobble in his voice with a small smile. “So…” he says lightly, “you’ve asked about me. Now it’s your turn. Catch me up. Everything. Or— everything you want to tell me.”

Nick’s eyes brighten in that familiar way — like someone switched on a lamp behind them. “Oh god,” he says with a tiny, nervous laugh. “Where do I even start?”

“Anywhere,” Charlie says, settling his elbows on the table. “I want to hear it.”

And he does. More than he wants to admit.

Nick exhales, scratches the back of his head in the same sweet, awkward way he used to, and begins talking. Softly at first.

Then more freely.

About his school. His class.

The Year 3 kids who drive him up the wall and make him melt on the same day.

A chaotic science project involving glitter.

A reading corner he decorated himself.

A little girl who insists on calling him “Mr. Nelskins” because she can’t pronounce Nelson properly.

Charlie listens — really listens — and something unfolds gently inside him, like a flower opening after years of frost.

Because Nick’s voice…

God. That voice.

He forgot — or maybe he just buried it too deep — how warm Nick sounds when he talks about things he loves.

How animated he gets. How his hands keep moving, even when he tries to keep them still. How he trips over himself when he’s excited, then laughs at his own nonsense.

Every word feels like stepping back into sunlight. Charlie feels a tingle under his skin — warm, familiar, terrifying.

He’s felt this before. Exactly this.

Ten years ago. In a school corridor. In a quiet kitchen. On Nick’s bedroom floor laughing over revision notes.

And now it’s happening all over again.

His breath catches.

He can’t remember ever feeling this way about anyone else.

Not in uni. Not in London. Not in any of the meaningless flings he forced himself through.

It was only Nick. Always.

He tries to shove the thought down. It doesn’t go anywhere.

Nick scrunches his nose while telling a story about a kid hiding under a table to avoid maths, and Charlie’s laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it — a real laugh, bright and helpless.

Nick grins at him. Charlie grins back.

The ice melts. The air warms. The last knots of tension begin to loosen.

When Nick finishes his story, both of them sit there with soft, stupid smiles neither can hide.

Charlie shakes his head gently. “I forgot how much I liked listening to you talk.”

The moment the words slip out, Charlie wants to bury himself under the table. Too honest. Way too soon.

But Nick just blinks — surprised, flushed — and his shoulders soften in a way that makes Charlie’s heart lose its footing.

Nick clears his throat, shy in that unmistakably Nick way. “Oh. Um… I actually love hearing you talk too.”

He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your voice sounds… different now. A bit. Deeper, maybe? I don’t know. Just… grown.”

Charlie feels heat crawl up his neck. “Oh.” It’s all he manages. His brain has turned to soft static.

Nick smiles — small, earnest, devastating. “And it suits you,” he adds quietly.

Charlie’s heart absolutely free-falls.

Nick shifts in his seat, fiddling with his cup sleeve. He looks like he wants to say more but is terrified he’ll go too far.

So Charlie jumps in, needing air, needing levity. “So… rugby,” Charlie says, nudging his knee against the table leg. “You still play? Or just boss children around with tiny rugby balls now?”

Nick’s eyes light up. “Hey, I do not boss them around,” he protests, pretending to be offended — failing completely. “I encourage them. Gently. Sometimes loudly.”

Charlie’s lips twitch. “Sounds like bossing.”

Nick gasps dramatically. “Wow. Wow, okay. First coffee together in ten years and you’re already accusing me of bullying eight-year-olds.”

Charlie bursts out laughing — bright, unrestrained, the kind that surprises even him.

Nick beams at the sound, proud of himself in the softest way.

Charlie shakes his head, still smiling. “Okay, okay. You don’t boss them. You encourage loudly.”

“Exactly.” Nick nods with mock authority, then laughs. “But yeah — I still coach. Kids’ league mostly. Saturday evenings. Sometimes mornings.”

“That’s… very you,” Charlie says.

Nick tilts his head.“What does that mean?”

Charlie shrugs, suddenly shy. “It just… suits you. The kids must adore you.”

Nick looks down, bashful. “I try my best.”

Charlie watches the pink rise in Nick’s cheeks and feels something warm unfold inside him, slow and unstoppable.

A pause. Soft. Comfortable.

Their knees bump under the table — not hard, not accidental enough to ignore.

Charlie goes still. Nick does too.

Neither moves away. Not really.

Nick shifts a little — not pulling back, just adjusting — and his knee brushes Charlie’s again, the slightest graze, but it sends a quiet shiver all the way up Charlie’s spine.

He forces himself to breathe.

“So,” Nick says gently, breaking the tension with a tiny smile, “what about you? Your job sounds intense. You’re editing books now? You always loved reading.”

Charlie swallows. “Yeah. Junior editor when I started. Full editor now. It’s… a lot. But good. I like shaping stories.”

Nick leans in slightly — barely noticeable, but Charlie feels it like a magnet at his ribs. “That fits you too,” Nick says warmly. “You always had this… way of seeing things. Like the little details no one else caught.”

Charlie looks down quickly, heat blooming in his cheeks. “Oh… Nick, you’re just saying that,” he mumbles — aiming for casual, missing by a mile. The tiny smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.

Nick smiles — soft, sincere, unshaken. “I’m really not.”

Charlie’s heart thuds painfully.

They look at each other a moment too long. The air shifts — warmer, closer, full of everything unsaid.

Charlie’s breath trembles.

Nick’s fingers tap nervously against the table.

And it hits Charlie, sharp and terrifying—

This is dangerous. And this is real. And I want him. Still.

---

Nick's POV :

Nick feels it building.

Not pressure. Not awkwardness. Something warmer. Heavier.

Like the air between them is slowly thickening with every smile, every too-long glance, every brush of their knees.

It’s not bad. Not uncomfortable. Just… a lot.

So much that Nick suddenly can’t breathe quite right in this tiny cafe.

He shifts in his chair, rubs a thumb along the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup, and forces out a small, nervous laugh.

“Um… do you wanna… maybe… go for a walk?” he asks, voice soft but hopeful. “Fresh air might be nice. It’s a bit… warm in here.”

Charlie blinks at him, then nods quickly — maybe too quickly — like he’s been thinking the same thing. “Yeah. A walk sounds good.”

They stand. Both hesitate.

Then both reach for their cups at the same time and stumble into a tiny, awkward mutual “sorry—no, you go—oops—” moment.

They laugh. The tension breaks just enough to breathe.

Outside, the air feels cooler, lighter, easier.

Nick exhales like he didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

They fall into step naturally — not touching, but close enough that Nick feels the warmth of Charlie’s arm every time they pass someone on the pavement.

Hoxton moves lazily around them — prams rolling by, friends sharing pastries on benches, a dog proudly carrying a stick twice its size.

Nick can’t stop looking over, and every time Charlie catches him, Nick blushes like it’s a secret he can’t keep.

It feels surreal — so simple and so impossibly big at the same time.

Charlie kicks a stray leaf as they walk. “So… you really go to Hoxton Park a lot?”

Nick nods. “Yeah. Loads. Coaching, or just… clearing my head. Too much noise at school sometimes.”

Charlie snorts softly. “Good noise, though.”

Nick smiles. “Yeah. Mostly.”

A beat. Then Charlie adds, with a little laugh that doesn’t quite hide the ache underneath— “It’s ridiculous we never saw each other there.”

Nick huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah. I keep thinking that too.”

He wants to say I would’ve run straight to you if I had. But he swallows it.

They walk past a row of brick flats, then toward the gravel path leading into Hoxton Park. The trees sway in the breeze, patches of sun flicker over the grass.

Nick shoves one hand in his pocket, needing something to anchor him.

He risks the question. “Have you… been in Hoxton long? You said four years?”

Charlie nods. “Yeah. Since I started at the publisher. It’s close to the office.”

Nick tries to keep his voice level. “It’s just… weird to think we were so close and didn’t know.”

Charlie’s laugh is tiny, breathy. “Maybe we weren’t meant to bump into each other back then.”

Nick bites the inside of his cheek. “…Do you think we are now?”

Charlie stops walking for a fraction of a second. A tiny hitch in his step. Barely noticeable — except Nick notices everything.

He swallows. Then resumes walking. “I… don’t know,” Charlie says softly. “But it feels like it.”

Nick’s chest tightens — painfully, beautifully.

They walk in silence for a moment, shoes crunching over gravel.

Now, Nick, he thinks. Ask something real. Not too deep. Just enough.

So he does. Gently— “Did you, um… date much? These past years?”

Charlie looks away toward the trees, posture stiffening just a little. Not defensive — just unsure.

“Some,” he answers. “Not… a lot. Uni was… messy. After that… I tried. A few guys. Nothing serious.”

Nick nods, trying not to look too curious. Too hopeful. Too obvious.

Charlie glances at him, eyes flicking over his face like he’s searching for something. “What about you?” he asks, tone too casual to be truly casual.

Nick swallows. “Same,” he echoes. “Nothing that stuck for me either.”

Charlie hums softly — thoughtful, quiet. “Were any of them… good to you?”

The question slips out small, almost whispered, but heavy with something Nick didn’t expect.

Jealousy. Concern. Both. Neither.

Nick’s breath catches.

“Some were,” he says honestly. “But… I don’t know. It always felt like something was missing.”

Charlie looks at him — really looks — and his eyes widen just barely at the honesty in Nick’s voice.

Nick holds his gaze. This is the moment.

He feels it shift between them, slow and delicate and dangerous.

Charlie’s voice comes out softer— “And… what do you think was missing?”

Nick’s pulse stutters. He could say something vague. Easy. Safe.

But the way Charlie is looking at him — open, uncertain, a little scared — pulls the truth out. Nick breathes in. “Someone who felt like…” He swallows. “Like home, I guess.”

Charlie’s steps falter. Nick’s throat goes tight. Too much. He shouldn’t have said that.

But then Charlie whispers, almost inaudible— “Oh.”

Nick glances at him. Charlie’s cheeks are pink. His lips parted. His eyes shining with something warm and cautious and impossibly vulnerable.

And Nick realises Charlie understood exactly what he meant. Exactly who he meant.

The air thickens again.

But this time… it feels right.

They walk deeper into the park, sunlight filtering through the branches in soft, dappled patches. The city hums in the background, but here it feels quieter — like the world is deliberately giving them space.

Nick’s heart is still pounding from what he just said.

Someone who felt like home.

He can’t believe he said it out loud. And yet… Charlie understood.

Nick can feel it.

The air between them has shifted — softer, heavier, pulling them gently toward something they’ve both been avoiding for ten years.

Charlie slows beside him, gaze lowered to the gravel path. Nick pretends not to stare at the way the wind plays with Charlie’s hair.

God, it’s so soft now. Different, but… still so perfect.

They walk until they reach a quieter stretch under a row of trees, the kind that form a small green tunnel.

Charlie stops. Nick stops too.

Not because he planned to — but because Charlie’s body halting makes his own stop automatically, instinctively, like he’s still tuned to Charlie’s gravity.

Charlie lets out a tiny exhale, one that sounds like courage trying to grow inside him and not quite knowing how.

“Nick…” he says softly.

Nick’s pulse jumps. “Yeah?”

Charlie looks down at his shoes, scuffing the toe lightly against the dirt. “I, um… need to tell you something. Just a little thing. But… yeah.”

Nick’s chest tightens — gentle, protective. “You can tell me anything.”

Charlie swallows. A small, shaky smile. But his voice is steady when he speaks. “I wasn’t… very good at dating either. After us.”

A pause. “People were fine. Nice, even. But I kept… comparing. And I know you’re not supposed to do that. It’s not fair. But I couldn’t help it.”

Nick’s breath catches.

Charlie continues, voice quieter— “It never felt right. With anyone. Not really.” Another swallow. “—And I thought maybe it was me. That I was broken. Or too guarded. Or too careful with my heart.”

Nick’s throat goes tight.

He wants to tell Charlie it wasn’t him. That he wasn’t broken. That Nick felt the same. That nobody matched, nobody fit, nobody felt like—

But Charlie isn’t finished. He looks up finally — meeting Nick’s eyes — and something raw flickers there. “And then yesterday…” Charlie whispers. “When I saw you on Hinge… it felt like something in me just… clicked. Like a missing piece I convinced myself didn’t matter anymore suddenly made sense.”

Nick’s breathing stutters. He tries to speak, but it comes out low, almost a rasp— “Charlie…”

Charlie steps back, embarrassed. “Sorry. Too much. That was— you don’t have to say anything.”

But Nick can’t let him retreat. Not after that.

He takes a tiny step forward — small, careful — and lifts his hand slightly. Not touching. Just offering.

Charlie looks at it.

Then slowly, very slowly, lifts his own hand. Their fingers brush. Barely. Just a whisper of skin against skin.

But it’s electric.

It shoots up Nick’s arm, tightens in his chest, makes his breath vanish in one sharp inhale. Charlie’s eyes widen at the same moment, like he felt the exact same spark.

Their hands don’t fully hold. Not yet. Just fingertips grazing, learning each other again after a decade apart.

But the weight of it — the meaning — is undeniable.

Nick’s voice is barely audible when he speaks. “I felt it too,” he says. “Yesterday.”

Charlie’s lips part.

Nick pushes a little further, voice trembling with honesty— “I tried to tell myself it was nothing. That it was just shock or nostalgia or something stupid.” He laughs softly, helplessly. “But it wasn’t. It wasn’t nothing.”

Charlie takes the smallest step closer.

Nick feels the world tilt toward him.

And for one breath — one suspended heartbeat — they’re standing under the trees, fingers almost intertwined, looking at each other like two people who know exactly what this is but are still too scared to name it.

Charlie’s voice is barely a whisper— “Nick… are we…?”

Nick finishes the sentence for him — not out loud, but in the soft, terrified, hopeful place inside his chest—

Falling again? Yeah. God. I think we are.

But he only says— “I don’t know. But… it feels like something. Doesn’t it?”

Charlie nods. Slow. Shaken. Beautifully vulnerable. “Yeah,” he breathes. “It does.”

Nick lets his fingers slide just a millimetre closer. Charlie mirrors it. Almost holding. Almost falling.

Together.

---

Charlie's POV :

The world feels suspended — like the air itself is holding them in place.

Nick’s fingers are just barely touching his. Not a real hold. Not yet. Just the softest brush of skin against skin. But Charlie feels it everywhere.

His pulse climbs into his throat. His breath stutters. His heart feels like it might just… burst.

He keeps his eyes on their hands because looking at Nick feels dangerous — like it’ll knock the last bit of air out of his lungs.

And then Nick — gentle, hesitant Nick — breaks the quiet with a shaky laugh. “Can I tell you something embarrassing?”

Charlie looks up. Nick’s cheeks are pink. His eyes soft. Hopeful. A little nervous.

Charlie’s chest aches. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Tell me.”

Nick takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair, and steps half a pace closer — just enough that Charlie feels the warmth of him settle over his skin.

“So… Thursday night,” Nick begins, eyes darting away for a second. “After work. I was on the Tube, and I—”

He stops. Laughs at himself. Shakes his head. “I saw you.” Nick keeps going, voice softer now— “On Hinge. Your profile. Out of nowhere. Just—” He exhales like he’s reliving it.

“Your face. Ten years later. And I swear to god my heart stopped.”

Charlie’s breath catches in his chest.

Nick laughs tightly. “I tried to zoom in, read everything, look at your prompts — just… anything. And then…” He lifts both hands helplessly. “My phone died.”

Charlie blinks. “Oh.”

“Completely dead,” Nick says, wincing. “I tried the side buttons. I tried shaking it like an idiot. I thought I imagined you. I thought my brain had finally snapped and was showing me what I wanted to see.”

Charlie’s heart cracks wide open.

Nick looks at him — really looks — and the rawness in his expression nearly floors Charlie. “I panicked,” Nick admits quietly.

“I went home and charged my phone like my life depended on it. And when it finally turned on… you weren’t there.” He gestures vaguely at the air between them. “I thought I missed you. Again. Like every other time.”

Something warm and sharp and overwhelming punches Charlie right in the ribs.

He thought he lost me again.

Charlie swallows the lump rising in his throat. “I wish you saw me earlier,” he says softly. “It would’ve saved us… a lot of missed moments.”

Nick’s smile is small — sweet and painful in equal measure. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It would have.”

The breeze lifts Charlie’s hair. He tucks a strand behind his ear with trembling fingers, suddenly feeling very young and very exposed.

He finally forces himself to meet Nick’s eyes fully. And god.

Nick looks at him like he’s something precious. Like he’s something Nick never thought he’d see again.

Charlie’s voice comes out barely audible— “If my phone died right when I saw you, I think I would’ve thrown it into the Thames.”

Nick laughs — a real one, bright and breathless — and the tension dissolves just enough that Charlie can breathe again.

They start walking slowly beneath the trees, neither pulling their hand away, their fingers still brushing in hesitant little touches that feel more intimate than any kiss Charlie’s had in years.

He clears his throat. “So… you really thought you imagined me?”

Nick blushes. “Yeah. I really did.”

Charlie feels his heart clench in the softest, deepest way. “Nick,” he murmurs, voice trembling but steadying with each word, “You didn’t imagine me. I’m here.”

Nick looks at him with something dangerously close to devotion. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

And Charlie realises — with terrifying, exhilarating clarity — that they’re not catching up.

They’re crossing a line.

A soft, trembling, invisible line he thought had vanished a decade ago.

They keep walking until they reach a bench under a cluster of trees—a quiet corner of the park with dappled shade and a view of the open field.

Charlie stops first. He doesn’t even think about it, his feet just… do it. Nick slows too, as if his body is tuned to Charlie’s movements.

Charlie sinks onto the bench. Nick sits beside him—close but not too close, close enough that the warmth of him skims along Charlie’s arm, close enough that Charlie’s breath stutters.

The world feels strangely still.

Children are laughing in the distance. A dog barks somewhere. The breeze rustles leaves overhead.

But right here… it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Charlie feels the weight of ten years settling against his ribs, heavy and insistent. He presses his palms together between his knees, trying to gather himself.

Nick leans forward a little, elbows on his thighs, looking out over the field. He looks calm.

But Charlie can see it—the tension at Nick’s jaw, the way his fingers keep curling and uncurling, the careful control he’s maintaining.

Charlie swallows.

There’s something he needs to say. Not the whole truth. Not everything. But enough.

Enough to breathe. Enough to stop pretending they’re just two people reconnecting casually over coffee.

His heart thuds painfully.

“Nick,” he whispers.

Nick turns immediately—soft, attentive, ready.

And that unravels Charlie completely.

He looks down at his hands because he can’t look at Nick while saying this. He’s not brave enough for that.

But he is brave enough for the truth. “I need to say something,” he murmurs. “Just a little bit. Not all of it. Not today. But… some.”

Nick shifts, giving him his full attention, his voice gentle— “Okay. I’m listening.”

Charlie’s throat tightens.

“I wasn’t… a great version of myself back then,” he whispers, voice trembling. “At the end. At the party. I hurt you. Badly. And I didn’t— it wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve how I acted. And I’ve thought about it for years.”

Nick’s breath catches. Barely—but Charlie hears it.

Charlie continues, his voice cracking— “I know we were young. I know everything was big and messy and terrifying. But I still did it. I pushed you away. I made you think you weren’t enough, and you were. You always were.”

Nick inhales sharply.

Charlie feels tears sting behind his eyes but forces himself to get it out.

“I’m sorry.” The words tremble.

“For that night. For saying we should break up before uni broke us. For… for punishing you for wanting something good. For leaving things the way I did. I’m so sorry, Nick.” A tear threatens to slip— he blinks it away quickly.

Nick doesn’t speak right away.

And for a heartbeat, Charlie thinks he’s messed everything up. That he’s ruined the softness of the day. That he should’ve waited. That he’s made it heavy, made it too soon, made it—

Then Nick’s hand moves.

Slowly. Carefully. He places it over Charlie’s. Not grabbing. Not holding. Just covering their joined palms with warm, steady pressure.

Charlie freezes.

Nick’s thumb brushes lightly over the back of Charlie’s hand—once, soft enough to feel like a sigh.

“Charlie,” Nick says quietly, his voice thick with something raw. “You don’t owe me that apology.”

Charlie looks up—really looks—and Nick’s eyes are glassy, shining in the filtered sunlight. “But I’m glad you said it,” Nick adds, voice breaking on the edges.

“I’ve—” Nick swallows hard. “I’ve thought about that night too. About what I said. What I didn’t say. What we were both going through. And I… I never hated you for it. Not once.”

Charlie’s lips part in a shaky breath. Nick squeezes his hand gently.

“We were kids,” Nick murmurs. “We were scared. We didn’t know how to do distance, or change, or… any of it. You weren’t the only one who made mistakes.”

Charlie blinks, a tear finally slipping free. Nick catches it with his thumb before Charlie can look away. The touch is so tender it almost breaks him open.

They sit like that for a moment—hands touching, knees almost brushing, hearts pounding loud enough to hear in the quiet.

Charlie whispers, voice tiny. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Nick leans in, barely, forehead nearly brushing Charlie’s temple. “I know,” he whispers back. “I always knew.”

Charlie exhales shakily, a soft tremor running down his spine. Nick’s hand stays over his.

Warm. Steady. Unshakably Nick.

And Charlie realises—painfully, beautifully—it’s still there between them—

The trust. The understanding. The ache. The pull. The thing they spent ten years trying to outrun.

It’s still there.

Alive. Breathing. Waiting.

And for the first time, Charlie lets himself believe—

Maybe this time…

they won’t run.

Chapter Text

Charlie's POV :

The moment Charlie closes his flat door behind him, the world seems to hold its breath.

He leans against the wood for a second, coat still half-on, fingers curled loosely at his sides like they haven’t figured out how to exist without Nick’s warmth pressed around them.

The flat smells like lavender detergent and old books. It should feel familiar. Safe. Normal.

It doesn’t.

It feels too small to contain everything buzzing through him.

He finally peels himself away from the door and folds onto the sofa, the cushions catching him like he’s been falling all day.

His hair is still wind-ruffled from the walk home, curls softer and looser now, making him look — he hopes — not as chaotic as he feels.

He retrieves the mug he left on the coffee table that morning, fills it with hot water, drops in a tea bag, returns to the sofa, sits— and immediately forgets about the tea entirely.

His hands are shaking. He hugs a cushion to his chest.

Nick’s hand over his.

Nick’s voice whispering “I always knew.”

Nick looking at him like ten years didn’t erode anything at all.

His thoughts flicker and loop—

How is it this easy? Why does it feel like slipping back into something familiar? Is it stupid to hope? He looked at me like I didn’t break everything.

A breath shudders out of him.

He’s doomed. Completely, beautifully doomed.

He grabs his phone just to hold onto something grounding — and because he’s been checking for a notification every thirty seconds like a lunatic.

Before he can spiral further, the screen lights. A message from Nick. 

---

Nick's POV :

Nick steps into his flat and closes the door quietly behind him, letting it click shut as he exhales a long, shaky breath.

He’s buzzing. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

He toes off his shoes without really noticing, drops his keys a little too carelessly on the entry table, and walks straight to the kitchen because his mouth is dry and he needs something — anything — to steady himself.

He fills a glass with water. Hands trembling. Takes a sip. Doesn’t taste it.

His mind is still full of Charlie—

That apology. The look in his eyes. The softness in his voice. The way he said “I didn’t want to hurt you.” The way the bench suddenly felt too small, too fragile, too intimate.

Nick presses the cold glass to his forehead for a moment and laughs under his breath.

He can’t stop smiling.

It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.

He sits down at the small kitchen table — elbows braced, shoulders tense, water glass half-full beside him — and reaches for his phone because he can’t help it.

His thumb hovers only a second before typing—

Nick: home safe. just sat down

He hits send. Sets the phone down. Immediately drags it back to him.

It vibrates almost instantly. Nick’s heart does a stupid little flip.

Charlie: good. you okay?

Nick lets out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “Am I okay?” He’s barely holding himself together. He types back—

Nick: yeah. just… i don’t know. still smiling, i think

Another immediate reply—

Charlie: same

Charlie: my hands are still shaking, actually

Nick drops his forehead into one hand, the other gripping his water glass to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter or tears — he’s not sure which. He types—

Nick: …mine too

His throat tightens. His chest feels light. Too full. Too everything.

He stares at his phone again, waiting, but in a way that feels soft instead of desperate.

He takes another sip of water, this time tasting all of it — cold, grounding, real.

He whispers into his empty kitchen, “Today happened.”

Then his phone lights.

Charlie: today was good

Nick feels the smile hit him like warm light. He types—

Nick: yeah. really good

He stays in his chair a moment longer, staring at their messages with an ache he can’t quite name.

He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t even set his bag down.

But something soft is blooming in his chest — cautious, hopeful — a feeling he hasn’t let himself touch in a very long time.

----

Both POVs :

Sunday carries on in quiet, domestic parallel.

And still— their phones don’t stop lighting up. A steady stream of messages. Not constant, not frantic… just there.

Easy. Warm. The kind of quiet company neither of them realised they’d missed until now.

Charlie pads around his flat barefoot, reheating leftovers, losing track of time.

Nick does laundry, marks worksheets, and forgets the tea he brewed twice.

Hinge flashes another message.

Charlie sends him a photo prompt—

A bowl of pasta, a book, a blanket over his legs.

Nick replies with his own—

A pile of worksheets, a stick-figure rugby drawing labelled “Mr Nel-sun.”

Nick: this one’s from leo. apparently i’m "very strong”

Charlie: leo is a gifted artist, clearly

Charlie: does he know you’re texting me? he’d faint

Nick: he would. he thinks i’m some kind of superhero

Nick: if he knew i was talking to someone who mattered to me, he’d combust

A pause.

Nick: i mean— not in a weird way— we’re just— reconnecting?

Nick: sorry. ignore me. i’m being weird

Charlie: i didn’t take it weirdly

Charlie: i’m glad you said it, actually

Nick: okay. good

Nick: because… it’s true

-----

Charlie: i was nervous you wouldn’t want to see me

Charlie: i almost didn’t ask you to lunch

Charlie: thought it was too soon

Charlie: thought you might say no

Nick: i wouldn’t have said no

Nick: not to you

Nick: i couldn’t wait to see you either

-----

Nick: i didn’t know if i’d remember your laugh

Nick: i did, though

Nick: it makes me so happy to hear it again, Char

Charlie: …i missed your voice too

Charlie: so much

-----

Charlie: i used to think about you when exam season hit

Charlie: hoping you weren’t stressed

Nick: 🥹

Nick: every time i attended pride soc in uni

Nick: or saw someone with headphones reading at lunch

Nick: i thought about you

Nick: i hoped you were happy

Charlie: nick... 🥺

Nick: i never said it to anyone

Nick: but i thought it.. all the time

-----

Nick: do you still run a lot?

Charlie: kind of, yeah... why?

Nick: so you’re still faster than me

Charlie: obviously

Nick: right okay rude

Charlie: you asked

-----

Charlie: do you still play rugby?

Nick: not as much

Nick: but coaching feels right

Charlie: that’s too bad

Charlie: wish i could attend another one of your matches

Nick: you just want an excuse to laugh at me in shorts again don’t you

---

Charlie: do you still bake?

Nick: only sometimes

Nick: why?

Charlie: i miss your cupcakes

Nick: they’ve probably gotten worse 😬

Nick: but if you ever want to try them again… i could make some

----

Nick: do you still listen to radiohead?

Nick: do you still make playlists?

Charlie: …yeah

Nick: i’d like to hear one again someday

Nick: you used to make the best playlists

There’s a pause. Not long — a minute, maybe two. But long enough for Nick’s stomach to twist.

Nick: did i say something wrong?

Charlie: no nothing wrong

Charlie: i’m just remembering things

Charlie: and it’s overwhelming

Charlie: not bad-overwhelming

Charlie: just… a lot

Nick: oh

Nick: sorry

Nick: i didn’t mean to push

Nick: i just… liked your playlists

Nick: take your time

Charlie: nick—

Charlie: don’t apologise, please 

Charlie: i’m okay 🥹🥹🥹

Charlie: i just didn’t think you’d still remember those things

Charlie: it means more than you think

-----

Charlie: can i ask you something?

Nick: anything

Charlie: did you… recognise me right away today?

Nick: pretty much immediately

Nick: even with your hair different

Nick: but then you smiled and

Nick: I saw your dimples

Nick: anyway

Nick: yeah

Nick: i recognised you

Charlie: “and—?”

Charlie: what were you gonna say?

Nick: nothing!!

Nick: drop it!!

Nick: please

Charlie: you’re very bad at lying

Nick: i’m very aware 😭

Nick: can i ask you something else now?

Charlie: yeah of course

Nick: what do you think of my beard?

Nick: like

Nick: honestly

Nick: you don’t have to say you like it if you don’t

Nick: i’m still getting used to it

Charlie: oh

Charlie: um

Charlie: yeah

Charlie: it suits you

Charlie: hot. you look hot. god help me

Charlie: actually it suits you ridiculously well

Nick: yeah? 

Nick: so you like it?

Charlie: i mean

Charlie: it looks good

Charlie: very… grown-up

Charlie: and not in a bad “dad at a barbecue” way

Charlie: in a…

Charlie: nice way

Nick: i was worried you’d hate it

Charlie: why would i hate it??

Nick: i dont know!

Nick: you used to make fun of me during stubble week

Charlie: nick

Charlie: that was ONE week

Charlie: and your stubble was patchy

Charlie: you had like

Charlie: five hairs

Nick: it was SEVEN

Charlie: but this is different

Charlie: you look…

Charlie: really good actually

Charlie: like you have no business looking that good, nick nelson

Nick: oh

Nick: okay

Nick: good

Nick: because i…

Nick: kind of grew it hoping it made me look less

Nick: “schoolboy who still gets carded buying cider”

Charlie: nick

Charlie: you do NOT look like that

Charlie: trust me

Nick: thanks

Nick: that actually means a lot coming from you

Charlie: you don’t have to be nervous asking me things

Charlie: i’m nervous too

Charlie: but it’s a nice kind of nervous

Charlie: if that makes sense

Nick: it does

Nick: more than you know

-----

Charlie: i think i’m falling asleep on the sofa

Nick: go to bed, charlie

Nick: you’ll get a cramp

Charlie: bossy

Nick: worried

Nick: different thing

A beat. Then—

Charlie: i really liked today

A longer pause this time — like Nick is choosing his words with both hands.

Nick: me too

Nick: more than i expected

Nick: more than i probably should

Charlie stares at the message until his eyes sting.

Charlie: goodnight nick

Nick: goodnight charlie

Nick: sleep well

Charlie pushes himself off the sofa, book tucked under his arm, and wanders to his bedroom — still smiling in that dazed, slightly-disbelieving way he’s been wearing all evening.

He slips under his blanket, legs curling up automatically as he settles in.

He hesitates. Then lifts his phone.

Charlie: safely in bed. no risk of a midnight cramp this time

He snaps a quick picture — nothing revealing, nothing bold.

Just the soft folds of his blanket, his knees under it, the corner of his book by his thigh.

Warm. Comfortable. Gentle. He hits send before he can overthink it.

In another flat across the city, Nick has just set his phone on his bedside table — but the new notification lights up the lock screen.

He opens it. And he melts.

Not because it’s flirtatious. But because it’s… Charlie. Soft. Real. Close, in a way that makes Nick’s breath catch.

He doesn’t even realise he’s smiling until his cheeks hurt.

He angles his own camera toward his nightstand — the warm glow of his lamp, the slightly-worn photo frame beside it.

Sarah with one arm around Nellie, both mid-laugh — Sarah’s smile huge, Nellie doing her version of laughing— mouth open, tongue out, eyes sparkling.

Home, in a single picture. He sends it.

Nick: me too

Nick: nighttime essentials

Charlie: ☺️

Nick: 😌

Two different homes.

Two different beds.

Two tired hearts, finally lighter.

Across London — flats apart, ten years apart — they fall asleep wearing the same small, stunned smile.

Chapter Text

Nick's POV :

Monday morning greets Nick with a kind of brightness he hasn’t felt in years.

Dalston is washed in early sun, the air cool without being sharp, the streets humming gently with commuters, cyclists, a few sleepy cafes unlocking their shutters. He steps out of his building and breathes in, hands tucked in his coat pockets.

It feels… different.

Like the city tilted half a degree overnight. Like something small but important clicked into place.

He walks toward the Northern line, the same route he takes every weekday, but somehow his steps feel lighter. Less routine. More anticipation.

He wonders — not for the first time this morning — Is Charlie awake yet?

He tries not to check his phone every five steps. Tries. Fails.

He smiles at himself, head shaking, and keeps walking until the station swallows him into the morning rush.

He stands on the platform, scanning the crowd out of instinct — curly hair? headphones? that soft, familiar posture?

Nothing.

He steps into the train, his pulse picking up anyway, scanning each face like maybe, maybe—

No Charlie.

Still, something warm settles in his chest.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe someday soon.

The train rocks gently. Nick exhales. Can’t hold it in any longer.

He unlocks his phone and types—

Nick: good morning, charlie

Nick: hope you slept better than i did

Nick: in a good way

He hits send before he can overthink it.

The train pulls into the next station. His phone buzzes—

Charlie: morning nick

Charlie: and yeah… i slept pretty well

Charlie: what exactly kept you up?

Charlie: trying not to assume anything here

Nick stares at the screen, lips twitching into a quiet smile he can’t stop.

Nick: couldn’t fall asleep for ages

Nick: kept thinking about yesterday

Nick: …in a good way

A pause, then—

Charlie: same

Charlie: annoyingly good, actually

Nick’s stomach swoops.

He debates — just a heartbeat — then types—

Nick: can i give you my number?

Nick: hinge is great but

Nick: i’d like to text you properly

Nick: if you want

Three dots. Four. Then—

Charlie: …yeah

Charlie: i want that

Nick sends his number, heart hammering. Charlie replies with his.

Nick locks his phone, grinning like an idiot in a crowded Tube carriage.

He doesn’t even care.

Today is a good day. A very good day.

---

By the time he reaches school, he’s still smiling — which does not go unnoticed.

Morning briefing is held in the staffroom today, the usual Monday chaos of coffee mugs, half-open folders, and teachers pretending they did their weekend grading.

Nick stands with a clipboard tucked under his arm, pretending to read the announcements on the whiteboard.

He’s not reading anything. He’s replaying Charlie’s texts on a loop. He doesn’t hear his name until the third time.

“Nick?”

He startles. Looks up. Everyone’s staring. The deputy head raises an eyebrow. “You’re on playground duty first break.”

“Oh— right. Yes. Sorry.” He clears his throat. Smiles awkwardly. Brings the clipboard up too fast and nearly drops it. A few teachers exchange amused looks.

One in particular — Amelia — sidles up to him once the meeting breaks. She nudges his elbow. “You okay there, Nick? You look miles away.”

He tries to play it cool. Fails instantly. “Just… thinking.”

“Uh-huh,” Amelia says, smirking. “Thinking about someone, maybe?”

Nick freezes. “What? No— I just—”

“Nick,” she says, eyes softening. “You’re glowing. Something good happened this weekend, didn’t it?”

Nick’s ears burn. He ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “…maybe.”

Amelia grins like a cat who’s heard the best gossip of the year. “Well,” she says, patting his shoulder, “—it suits you.”

And she floats away.

Nick lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The bell rings. He heads to class.

Everything feels lighter.

Even when one of the Year 3 boys knocks over an entire pot of blue paint, splattering it across the table, the floor, and half of Nick’s trouser leg.

Even when he turns just in time to catch another child with a glue stick halfway to their mouth and has to say, “Please don’t eat the art supplies, buddy,” for the third time this term.

Even when a student loudly calls him “Mum” in front of the whole class and the room erupts in giggles.

Even when a rogue ladybug sends half the class into shrieks, the other half into a rescue mission, and one child into tears because “it looked at me funny.”

Every tiny inconvenience makes Nick’s lips twitch upward.

It’s absurd. It’s warm. It’s hope.

It’s Charlie.

---

Nick is halfway through tidying up the paint disaster when he hears a small knock on his classroom door. He turns.

Jamie stands there — lunchbox in hand — with another boy half-hidden behind him. Jamie beams. “Mr Nelson, can we eat here?”

Nick softens. “Of course, Jamie.”

Jamie marches in proudly, dragging the other boy by the sleeve. “This is Finn,” he announces. “Finn, this is Mr Nelson. He’s the best.”

Finn immediately goes pink. He mumbles something that sounds vaguely like hello and stares at the floor.

Nick kneels a bit to soften the height difference. “Hi, Finn. Nice to meet you. You okay?”

Finn shrugs, clutching his lunchbox to his chest.

Jamie — subtle as a fire alarm — leans over and stage-whispers (loudly). “You can ask him anything. He always listens.”

Nick’s heart squeezes.

Finn peeks up, eyes uncertain.

Nick smiles gently. “No pressure. We can just eat together if you want.”

Jamie plops down at his usual spot, already unpacking his lunch.

Finn inches forward, hesitates, then quietly sits too — still hugging his sandwiches like a shield.

They eat in silence for a minute.

Then Finn whispers so softly Nick almost misses it. “…do teachers get nervous too?”

Nick pauses. Then nods, warm and honest. “All the time, actually.”

Finn looks up, surprised. “Even you?”

“Especially me,” Nick admits with a grin. “Being nervous just means you care.”

Finn chews on that for a moment, shoulders relaxing just a bit.

Jamie beams at him like See? Told you.

Nick feels something glow quietly in his chest.

He thinks about Charlie — the way he listened on the bench, the way he admitted his own fears, the way he cared even when he was terrified.

Maybe Nick has always been like this. Maybe he’s been waiting to feel like this again.

Lunch passes gently. Finn finishes his sandwiches. Jamie launches into a story about someone throwing a shoe in PE.

And Nick, somehow, feels whole.

---

The school day winds down in a blur of noise and tiny crises — glue spills, pencil wars, Leo insisting superheroes absolutely do need snack breaks — and somehow Nick floats through all of it with a stupid grin.

Now the classroom is quiet.

Golden late-afternoon light spills over the rows of tiny desks.

He straightens a stack of worksheets. Wipes a smear of dried paint from his sleeve. Checks the blue stain on his trouser leg and sighs.

And thinks — Charlie.

How’s his day been? Is he editing from home? Is he tired? Did he think about yesterday even half as much as he did?

He closes his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and pulls out his phone, debating if he should text first.

Should he? Should he wait? Should he not be insane?

Before he can decide, his phone buzzes—

A photo. From Charlie.

Nick’s breath catches. He opens it with trembling fingers.

Charlie is clearly sitting at a cafe — a familiar one — the same one they went to yesterday.

The picture is taken from his table— warm lights, the wooden counter, the barista grinding beans in the background…

And right behind her, bold on the menu board—

BUBBLEGUM MILKSHAKE

⭐ new! ⭐

Nick lets out a strangled, helpless laugh right in the middle of his empty classroom.

Below it, Charlie’s caption—

Charlie: look what i found

Charlie: 🫣

Charlie: is this still your favourite or was that just a phase

Nick leans against the edge of his desk, covering his mouth with one hand.

Nick’s reply flies out of him before he can think—

Nick: omg. you remembered 😳

Nick: also i havent had that flavour in ages

Nick: are you still there??

Three dots appear instantly.

Nick’s pulse spikes.

Charlie: yeah

Charlie: why…?

Charlie: i’m editing here today

Charlie: didn’t realise they had this on the menu

Nick looks at the photo again — He’s barely a fifteen-minute walk away. Hope flares in him so bright it almost stings.

Should he…? Is that too much? Too soon? He just saw me yesterday.

He grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, locks his classroom door with hands that don’t feel like his. Should he ask?

His phone buzzes again.

Charlie: you okay?

Charlie: long day?

Nick laughs under his breath — giddy, warm, borderline lightheaded — and texts back while heading toward the school gate.

Nick: longish

Nick: someone turned my trouser leg blue

Nick: but im free now

Nick: and…

Nick: if youre still there

Nick: and you dont mind…

He swallows. Thumb hovering.

Nick: could i join you?

Nick: 😬

The moment he sends it, panic hits him like a train.

What are you doing? Your trousers are stained. You look like chaos. Stop being reckless—

His phone buzzes instantly. He freezes mid-step.

Charlie: …really?

Charlie: you want to?

Another message—

Charlie: i mean

Charlie: yeah

Charlie: yes

Charlie: please

Charlie: i’m here

Charlie: ❤️

Nick stops on the pavement. Presses a hand to his chest. Paint-stained trousers be damned. He types —

Nick: on my way

Nick: dont move

Then he starts walking faster. Not running.

Definitely not running.

But maybe… almost.

---

Charlie's POV:

Charlie has exactly ten seconds of peace after sending Nick the photo.

Ten seconds before his phone buzzes with:

Nick: could i join you?

Nick: 😬

And that’s it.

His entire body goes static. Like someone pulled the plug and plugged him back in again wrong.

Nick is coming. Here. Now.

Charlie looks down at himself in horror.

He is wearing his coziest jumper — soft, oversized, slightly fuzzy — but it is not the flattering one.

It’s the I’m editing alone in public and no one important will see me jumper.

Too late to change. Too late to run.

He tugs the hem down. Fixes the collar. Ruffles his hair. Fails at calming his heartbeat. He needs a distraction before he combusts. He opens his work email. Big mistake.

At the top of his inbox—

SUBJECT: Revisions???

From: Alex Hartley

Of course. Charlie groans. He clicks—

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Email from: Alex Hartley

Sent 9 minutes ago

Charlie,

I’m confused.

Last week you said my reunion chapter was ‘a war crime of cheddar proportions’ and now you’re telling me it ‘hits emotionally’??

Are you okay?

Are you in love?

Should I be worried?

Warmly (and somewhat concerned),

Alex

P.S. I stand by the line about their eyes meeting across the room. It’s cinematic.

P.P.S. If you are in love, tell me everything.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Charlie slaps a hand over his face.

He can’t tell Alex, “Actually, my ex-boyfriend of ten years just re-entered my life and I’m a puddle.”

He types quickly—

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Email to: Alex Hartley

[Draft]

Hi Alex,

Nothing dramatic happening here — I promise.

Turns out sometimes exes do find each other again and it isn’t stupid.

On second read, the emotional groundwork feels stronger. Perhaps I was too harsh last week. Let’s explore this direction further — but tone down the instant-eye-lock epiphany. Still too abrupt.

Thanks.

Best,

Charlie

P.S. Please don’t be flirty in your email sign-offs again. I’m immune.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Just as he hits SEND, the chair across from him shifts. Charlie looks up.

And there he is.

Nick Nelson, paint-stained trousers, hair rumpled from the wind, cheeks flushed from walking too fast — looking at Charlie like arriving here was the only logical thing to do.

Charlie’s stomach swoops.

Nick smiles, soft and shy. “Hi.”

Charlie returns it, helpless. “Hi.”

Nick glances at the laptop screen still open to the sent email. “What were you working on?”

Charlie exhales, almost laughing.

“Oh God. That’s— okay, so, there’s this author I’m editing. Alex Hartley. Writes exes-to-lovers. He sent me this dramatic reunion scene and last week I told him it was… illegal levels of cheese.”

Nick bites his lip, shaking with a silent laugh. “And today?” he asks gently.

Charlie groans into his hands. “Today I told him the scene was ‘emotionally effective.’ So now he thinks I’m either ill, in love, or having a personality crisis.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “In love, huh?”

Charlie goes bright red. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Zero love here. None. Shut up.”

Nick smiles like he’s holding something warm and fragile in both hands. “I like your jumper,” he says softly.

Charlie nearly forgets how to breathe.

He exhales shakily, forcing his shoulders to relax, even though his entire body feels like an exposed nerve. Nick’s soft compliment lingers in the air far too intimately. The cafe suddenly feels too warm, too small, too aware of them.

He clears his throat. “You came.”

Nick smiles — that same boyish, earnest smile Charlie remembers from sixteen, only deeper now, warmer, settled into a face that’s grown into itself. “Of course,” he says. “Had to try the bubblegum milkshake.”

He nudges his chin toward the menu board above the counter, where BUBBLEGUM sits in bright pink chalk, practically glowing at them.

Charlie laughs — actually laughs — the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and fondness. “Right. Should’ve known that would lure you in.”

They both get up to order, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the small queue. Nick smells faintly of chalk dust and aftershave, and a day of being around children — that sun-warm, lived-in scent. His hair is slightly mussed from running a hand through it on the way over. His shirt is creased at the elbows, and there’s a smudge of blue paint staining the right side of his trousers.

Charlie sneaks glances like it’s a compulsion he can’t shake.

Nick, in his just-finished-work state, is almost heartbreakingly endearing.

When they reach the counter, the barista gives them that look — that slightly amused, knowing, bordering-on-judgy smile that screams oh, these two. She takes their order with a little too much sweetness and tells them to sit, that she’ll bring their food when it’s ready.

Charlie tries not to combust.

Back at the table, Nick settles into his chair, stretching out a little, relaxing like he’s finally home. Charlie’s eyes flick down to the blue paint splatter again.

“So,” Charlie says, gesturing vaguely toward Nick’s trousers, “how was your day? Other than… that.”

Nick looks down, laughs. “Honestly? Chaos in a very Year 3 way. One kid called me Mum. Twice. Another tried to convince me a ladybug was possessed. And Leo—”

Charlie’s lips twitch into a soft, involuntary smile.

“— Leo put a towel around his neck and kept calling me ‘Sidekick Nelson,’ then tried to leap off the art bench. I almost screamed.”

Charlie snorts into his hand. “Sounds about right.”

Nick leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes warm and open. “What about you? Other than your tragic downfall into accidental optimism with that author of yours?”

Charlie makes a strangled sound into his hands. “He thinks something inspired me.”

Nick’s mouth curves, slow and warm. “Did something?”

Charlie turns bright red and immediately glares at his tea. “Don’t start.”

Nick bites back a grin — and absolutely fails. “How’s the book going?”

Charlie hesitates, picking at the edge of his sleeve.

“It’s… good. Mostly good. The cheesy bits are manageable. But I’m actually struggling with something else.”

Nick raises his brows, gentle but attentive. “What’s that?”

Charlie opens his mouth. Closes it. Feels his face go hot.

He instantly regrets speaking at all. “I—” he tries again, voice betraying him.

Nick leans in just slightly — not enough to crowd him, but enough that Charlie feels it.

A warm pull. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Hey,” Nick murmurs, eyes soft but intent. “You can tell me.”

Charlie stares very hard at the table, wishing it would swallow him whole.

“It’s the… um…” He clears his throat. “The explicit chapters,” he mutters, mortified.

Silence.

Charlie forces himself to breathe—

Then Nick’s mouth curves. Slow. Full of quiet heat. The kind of smile he only ever used to give Charlie.

“Oh,” Nick says, voice dipping lower, warmer. “Those.”

Charlie slaps both hands over his face. “Don’t. Please do not.”

Nick’s breath escapes in a soft laugh — not mocking, but something far worse for Charlie’s sanity— fond, remembering, almost intimate.

“Sorry,” Nick says, still fighting a smile. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I,” Charlie mutters.

“It’s like my brain short-circuited. I kept editing like— like someone’s nan. I changed ‘his hands gripped his waist’ to ‘they shared a meaningful look.’ I’m going to get fired.”

Nick bites his lip, failing at not grinning.

“Charlie,” he says softly, “I’m sure the author will survive one tasteful edit.”

“It was seven tasteful edits,” Charlie whispers.

Nick laughs again — a soft, warm, intimate sound that slides right under Charlie’s ribs. The sparks between them are light but undeniable, flickering like a match being held close to something that wants to burn.

Just then, the barista appears with their food, setting the plates down with that same knowing smile. They both murmur thanks, hyper-aware of each other.

Nick gestures at the milkshake. “You hated it before.”

Charlie smiles despite himself. “I hated it very loudly, yes.”

Nick nudges it again. “Want to see if ten years changed your taste?”

Charlie hesitates, fingers hovering near the glass but not touching. “…maybe.”

Nick’s smile softens — warm, familiar, devastatingly fond. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, but he’s blushing — clearly, obviously, helplessly. He reaches for the straw and takes a slow sip. Smiles.

And then he licks his lips. Not on purpose. Not seductively. Just… naturally.

But Nick’s eyes flick down. Once. Quick. Sharp. Electric.

And Charlie sees it.

Nick gulps — visibly — his throat working, a soft pink blush blooming high on his cheeks the way it used to when they were teenagers.

Those faint vertical lines appear near his cheekbones, traveling down the column of his throat. His ears go pink too. Only Nick ever blushed like that. Only for him.

Charlie’s breath catches.

I forgot he does that. God. He still does.

Nick realises he’s been caught staring.

He jerks his gaze away, rubs the back of his neck — the universal Nick Nelson sign for I’m flustered and trying not to implode— and lets out a tiny, awkward laugh.

Charlie can’t help it. A soft laugh escapes him too.

Nick clears his throat, trying to bury the moment beneath something casual. “So?” he asks lightly, eyes flicking back to Charlie’s. “Do you like it?”

Charlie meets his gaze head-on. Holds it.

Just a beat too long.

Charlie doesn’t look away. “Nope. still hate it ,” he murmurs. “I’ll stick to chocolate, thanks.”

Nick’s smile goes lopsided, warm, shy.

Of course he does. And somehow, impossibly, this is even worse — and better — than meeting again for the first time yesterday.

Charlie drops his gaze to his plate—half-finished pasta, the steam curling faintly in the warm cafe air. Nick sits across from him, chair pulled a little closer than strictly necessary, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up past his forearms now. His arms look broader than Charlie remembers. More defined. Stronger.

His breath catches embarrassingly in his throat. Because it’s not just that Nick looks older.It’s that he looks like every version of the boy Charlie loved— and every possibility of the man he never got to love.

Their knees bump.

They both jerk back at the same time.

“Sorry—”

“Sorry—”

Nick’s cheeks colour again, faint but unmistakable — like his skin can’t lie around Charlie.

Charlie swallows hard.

God. He forgot how utterly devastating that blush was.

They eat quietly for a moment.

Nick finishes his meal first. Charlie slows, chewing carefully, distracted not by the food but by the line of Nick’s forearm, the faint dusting of freckles near his wrist bone, the veins shifting when he reaches for his drink.

Nick watches him for a second. Gentle. Thoughtful. Then, carefully—as if choosing each word—he says, “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”

Something inside Charlie goes warm and soft and unbearably fragile. He sets his fork down. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m in a better place with all of that now. Mostly.”

He exhales, grounding himself. “It’s… manageable.”

Nick’s smile deepens—lopsided, tender, touched with something like pride. “Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”

Charlie feels it—like a hand around his heart, steadying him, holding him without touching.

Nick leans back a little, eyes still warm. “So… manageable meaning okay today?” he asks gently.

Charlie nods. “Yeah. Today’s okay.”

Nick relaxes, just slightly, but it’s enough to make something spark low in Charlie’s ribs. “Okay,” Nick says, softer than before.

Their eyes meet—

and neither looks away.

Whatever this is…it’s here. It’s happening. And it’s getting harder to ignore.

---

Nick's POV:

Charlie looks at him, and Nick looks back — longer than he should, deeper than he should, like neither of them quite remembers how to look away anymore.

Something inside Nick softens and tightens all at once.

He’d forgotten what this felt like — this ease, this warmth, this terrifying pull toward someone who once held his whole heart.

And Charlie…he’s still Charlie.

Still gentle, still thoughtful, still careful with people’s feelings. Still someone Nick never had to pretend around.

Nick feels himself relaxing in ways he hasn’t with anyone else in years. No performing. No shrinking. No “too sweet, too stable, too boring.”

Just… him.

Charlie takes a sip of water — throat bobbing, jaw tilting slightly — and Nick’s eyes flick down before he can stop himself.

Heat curls low in his stomach.

When he looks back up, Charlie is watching him watch.

Nick freezes.

Charlie swallows again — deliberately this time. “Um—” Charlie says suddenly, voice a fraction lower. “Want to… walk me home?”

Nick’s heart skips. Then trips. Then slams.

“Yes,” he manages, too fast, too eager. He coughs. Tries again. “I mean— yeah. Sure. Of course.”

Charlie smiles into his glass, teasing, like he heard every unguarded beat of Nick’s heart.

They grab their things.

Charlie opens the door for Nick to step out first. Their arms brush — a soft graze of warm skin through fabric — but it sends a spark right up Nick’s spine.

“Thanks for joining me,” Charlie says quietly. He isn’t looking at Nick. He’s looking slightly down, like the words cost him something to admit.

Nick swallows. “Thanks for texting me.”

They fall into step on the pavement.

The evening air is cool and faintly damp — the kind of London night that warns you rain is thinking about happening.

For a moment, they walk in a comfortable quiet. Then Charlie tries—

“You still talk to Tara and Darcy?”

Nick exhales a small laugh. “Occasionally. Not much. They’re both living out of London now. Busy with life.”

Charlie nods, thoughtful. “People drift after uni, I guess. Everyone’s busy. Tao and Elle are in a group chat with Isaac and me, but it’s mostly reels and memes. Everyone’s… somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Nick says softly. “Same with the rugby lads.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Still in touch?”

Nick snorts. “Sometimes. They’re all married— and balding.”

Charlie laughs — warm, bright, unguarded — and Nick feels it hit him right in the chest.

Their hands brush. Both freeze. Neither apologises this time.

A breeze curls around them. The sky darkens. Charlie glances up. “Feels like it’s about to rain.”

Nick nods. He can smell it — the metallic tang of a storm brewing.

They keep walking toward Hoxton, closer now than before. Their shoulders brush once, then again. Neither pulls away.

They’re two streets from Charlie’s building when the sky opens without warning.

Rain slams down so suddenly and violently that Nick doesn’t even think— he just reacts.

One instinct. One muscle memory older than either of them expected. Nick’s hand shoots out, finding Charlie’s waist with effortless, terrifying familiarity.

He grips. Pulls.

Charlie yelps, stumbling into him as Nick drags them both toward the nearest bit of shelter.

They run the last few steps through the downpour, Nick leading, guiding, shielding— until he steers them under the overhang of a closed shop.

They land there together— breathless, drenched, water dripping from their hair and noses, clothes clinging to their skin.

And then they realise.

They are standing very, very close.

Nick’s hand is still splayed over Charlie’s waist, warm even through the soaked fabric— right where it always used to rest.

Charlie’s palm is pressed against Nick’s chest, fingers curled lightly into his shirt like he’s trying to steady himself.

Neither of them moves.

Neither of them breathes.

The storm outside is deafening. The silence between them is louder.

Nick looks at him. Charlie looks back.

And the world shrinks to this tiny strip of dry concrete and their bodies pressed close enough that Nick can feel the heat radiating off him despite the rain.

Nick’s eyes flick down — once — to Charlie’s lips.

He doesn’t mean to. It just happens.

Charlie inhales sharply.

Nick’s heartbeat is a drum. His pulse is everywhere. They’re close enough that if Nick leaned forward — even a little — their lips would meet.

The thought hits him so hard he almost sways.

Charlie’s breath ghosts across his mouth. Nick’s voice fails him entirely.

He wants to kiss him.

God, he wants to. He’s dreamt about it. Thought about it. Missed it for a decade.

But he’s terrified.

Terrified of too fast. Too soon. Too much.

So he holds himself still — barely — trembling with restraint.

Charlie is breathing quick and shallow, eyes flicking between Nick’s mouth and eyes like he’s fighting the same war.

Time stretches. Warm. Electric. Unbearably sweet.

Then, Charlie manages, voice a little shaky. “My flat’s just around the corner. We could… um… make a run for it.”

Nick blinks, dazed. “…yeah?”

Charlie nods, cheeks flushed, rainwater dripping off his fringe. “I have an umbrella. You can borrow it.”

Nick doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods.

Charlie steps back first. Nick’s hand lingers half a second too long on his waist before he remembers to let go.

The rain hammers around them. Their breathing slows.

The moment, the almost-kiss, hangs heavy between them — bright, charged, impossible to ignore.

Charlie meets his eyes once more.

Both soaked. Both trembling. Both painfully aware of what almost happened.

“Ready?” Charlie whispers.

Nick swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m ready.”

And he hopes — god, he hopes — that Charlie hears everything underneath the words.

Charlie counts under his breath — “one, two—go!”

And they break into a run.

Rain slaps the pavement in sheets, soaking them instantly as they dart out from the awning. Their shoes splash through puddles, their shoulders bump mid-sprint, breath coming out in wild, uneven bursts.

Nick can’t stop laughing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s freezing. It’s messy and chaotic and London at its absolute worst.

But Charlie is right next to him— and somehow, it feels like flying.

They skid around the corner, nearly slipping, and Charlie shouts, “Here! Just up the road!”

Nick follows, heart hammering, rain dripping into his eyes, his hand instinctively reaching out once when Charlie stumbles. He doesn’t even think about it — his palm finds Charlie’s back, steadying him, guiding him forward.

They reach the entrance to Charlie’s building — a narrow stone archway with a recessed doorway just deep enough to shield them from the worst of the rain.

They stop. Panting. Laughing. Dripping everywhere. And then— silence.

The world outside is a curtain of rain. Just the two of them under the stone archway.

Too close again.

Charlie pushes his wet hair off his forehead, cheeks flushed from running, chest rising and falling quickly. Nick tries — fails — not to stare.

He has never been good at pretending around Charlie.

Charlie clears his throat first, voice still unsteady from the almost-kiss. “Um. Wait here — I think I’ve got an umbrella you can take.”

Nick blinks. “Charlie, I’m already drenched.”

“I know.” Charlie steps backward toward the interior door, eyes flicking briefly down Nick’s soaked shirt. “Just… take it. Please.”

Nick’s breath catches.

He doesn’t need it. Not physically. He’s soaked through. But it’s Charlie’s first soft offering in ten years — a piece of care, of thoughtfulness, of something that looks dangerously like affection.

So he nods once. Quiet. Unable to say no.

Charlie disappears upstairs.

Nick stays exactly where he was told to stay — leaning against the brick wall beside Charlie’s door, rain roaring around him like static. His pulse won’t calm. His hand still tingles where it held Charlie’s waist; his chest is still tight from standing so close, too close, nearly close enough.

A minute later, footsteps return — quick, small, familiar.

Charlie reappears, framed by the warm light behind him, hair damp around his forehead, cheeks flushed from the run upstairs.

He holds out the navy-blue umbrella. “Here.”

He steps closer — too close, close enough that Nick can feel the warmth radiating off him despite both of them being half-soaked. Charlie presses the umbrella into Nick’s palm, and their fingers brush… then stay. Neither pulls back.

Nick’s breath stutters. He hopes Charlie can’t feel the tremor in his hand. “Thanks,” he manages, voice low.

Charlie doesn’t step away. Not even a fraction.

His eyes lift — soft, shining, unbearably open — and Nick feels something in his chest tilt, unsteady.

Charlie swallows once.

Quietly, almost like he’s afraid the words will break midair, he says— “I’m… really glad you’re in my life again.”

Nick’s heart slips. Falls. Catches on nothing.

He looks at Charlie — really looks — at the damp lashes, the pink cheeks, the way Charlie is trying (and failing) to hide how much he means it.

Nick’s reply comes out barely above a breath. “So am I.”

The air shifts. Thickens.

Their fingers are still touching — one lingering point of heat between them — and neither of them moves, like stepping back might snap something delicate and newly rebuilt.

Outside, rain crashes down.

But here, under the glow of Charlie’s doorway, Nick feels warm.

Dangerously warm.

The rain keeps pounding outside, sealing them into their own private pocket of air.

Nick wants— God, he wants to lean in. To close the inches. To finish what almost happened under the awning.

But Charlie breaks the tension first with a tiny, breathless laugh — the kind he only makes when he’s overwhelmed. “Text me when you get home, okay?”

Nick nods. “I will.”

Charlie steps back, into the stairwell light.

Nick steps out toward the storm. Just before he opens the umbrella, instinct makes him turn.

Charlie stands in the doorway watching him — small smile, hopeful eyes, shoulders soft, like the rain has quieted something inside him.

Nick lifts the umbrella in a tiny wave.

Charlie waves back.

Nick finally opens it — useless against the rain already soaked into his skin, but warm in his hand because Charlie gave it to him.

He walks down the street, water still dripping from his hair, heart pounding hard enough to mist the edges of his vision.

He feels—

Alive. Breathless. On the edge of something he’s wanted for ten years.

And somewhere behind him, in a lit doorway, Charlie watches until Nick disappears around the corner — holding his breath the whole time.

Chapter Text

Charlie's POV:

The week drifts by in a blur — soft, dizzying, impossible.

Charlie spends most of it with his phone in his hand, a permanent warmth pressed against his palm. He and Nick text through mornings, lunch breaks, evenings — like they’re making up for ten silent years in real time.

Not deep conversations. Not the hard things — not yet.

Just… them.

Nick sends him pictures of whatever he’s baking — banana bread, chocolate chip muffins, something raspberry that he swears “looks worse than it tastes.” He tells Charlie how he brings the leftovers to school, how the kids fight over them, how Amelia steals two every time.

Charlie sends him lines of poems he hasn’t shown anyone in years. Little fragments. Half-formed novel ideas. Sentences that sound like feelings he hasn’t sorted out. And Nick — just like when they were teenagers — replies like every word matters.

The rest of the week feels like living inside a pulse.

Charlie still has his fears — he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t.

But whenever Nick’s name appears, something unknots in his chest he didn’t realise was still tight.

Nick has changed, of course — more grounded, more sure of himself, more open about who he is. But at his core, he’s still… Nick. Still gentle. Still golden. Still someone who looks at him (even through a screen) like he’s seeing something worth seeing.

Charlie keeps replaying Monday night in his mind — their impromptu dinner, the walk home, the rain.

God, the rain.

He keeps seeing the two of them soaked under the awning — Nick’s hand on his waist, their bodies pressed close, breath mingling, the world narrowing to dripping pavement and pounding hearts.

It looked like something out of the romance manuscripts he edits. A cliche. A scene where readers scream “JUST KISS ALREADY.”

And Charlie had wanted to. Oh, he had wanted to.

But it’s not that simple.

Not when he’s scared of hurting Nick again. Not when he’s scared of being hurt in return. Not when he wonders whether they’re falling in love with the idea of each other — with memories of sixteen and seventeen — instead of the people they are now.

He thinks about it while brushing his teeth, while grocery shopping, while trying to work on Alex’s manuscript. The same looping questions—

Does Nick know the present me? Do I know the new him? Are we falling in love again… or falling into nostalgia?

And yet, every time Nick’s name appears on his screen, the fear quiets a little — just a little — and the hope takes its place.

On Wednesday afternoon, Charlie deletes the Hinge app.

He doesn’t tell Nick. But he thinks Nick knows anyway.

Because on Tuesday night, Nick had said, “I think I’ve stopped checking mine.” And something inside Charlie had gone warm and stupid and impossible.

Still — despite all of that — by Friday evening Charlie is pacing his flat like a man about to face judgment day.

He’s ready. He’s terrified. He’s… stupidly thrilled.

He checks the mirror twice, then a third time. His curls are behaving in that soft, gentle way he likes — wavier since he stopped fussing with products. His jumper is comfortable, not impressive, but Nick hasn’t once made him feel like he needs to impress.

He grabs his phone. His thumb hesitates only a second before sending—

Charlie: leaving my flat in a bit

Charlie: see you soon

He stares at the screen, heart thudding. Nick replies almost instantly—

Nick: see you soon, charlie

Nick: can’t wait

Charlie presses his phone to his chest, heart stumbling. Falling again feels reckless, dangerous — inevitable.

He’s scared. But he’s here. He’s choosing this.

---

Nick’s POV:

Nick arrives at the Tate Modern a few minutes early.

The evening light is soft, tinted rose-gold across the Thames. The huge glass facade of the museum glows warmly, and the low, steady hum of people entering and leaving should be calming. Should be.

But Nick’s heart hasn’t settled since he left home.

He straightens his jacket, breathes once… then again, because the first breath didn’t do anything.

It’s fine. It’s just Charlie. We're going to have a great time. Please let this be good. Please let him want the same thing as me. Please don’t let me mess this up.

He scans the crowd automatically — every approaching figure making his pulse jump before his brain catches up.

Then— he sees him. And everything inside Nick does a small, disbelieving stutter.

Charlie’s wearing a navy jumper layered under a light grey coat, hanging open in a way that looks effortless and unfairly good. His curls are soft today, slightly tamed, brushing his forehead. And the navy brings out the blue in his eyes — bright enough to punch the air from Nick’s lungs.

Nick tries not to stare. He fails instantly.

His nerves spike, then settle, then spike again because this is actually happening — Charlie walking toward him, smiling a little like he’s been holding his breath too.

Nick feels his own breath catch, hopeful and terrified and aching all at once.

Tonight is real. Charlie is real.

And Nick wants — desperately — for this to be the beginning of something they both choose.

Charlie spots him, slows, and that smile—God—spreads across his face like it couldn’t be helped. “You beat me here,” Charlie says as he reaches the top of the steps, slightly breathless like he rushed the last few meters.

Nick shrugs lightly, trying to hide the heat creeping up his neck. “I, uh—couldn’t sit still at home.”

Charlie’s cheeks flare a soft pink. Nick files it away greedily. “What about you?” Nick asks. “You okay getting here?”

Charlie nods, adjusting his coat sleeve. “Tube was quiet. For once.”

Nick laughs softly.

Then Charlie’s eyes flick down, taking him in—really taking him in.

Nick suddenly becomes hyperaware of his own outfit— cream jumper, dark jeans, and a forest-green jacket—something he picked because it made him feel comfortable, but a little more… put together. “You look good,” Charlie says, almost too casually.

Nick’s heart misfires. “Thanks. So do you.”

He gestures vaguely, failing at subtlety. “The colours—you look… yeah.” Charlie’s lips twitch, pleased in a way he tries to hide.

They fall into step together toward the entrance.

---

Charlie’s POV:

They walk together into the Turbine Hall.

Charlie tries to breathe normally, but his chest is tight in that way it gets when he wants something too much.

Please let us be okay. Please let this go right. This isn’t just a friendly reunion. Stop it Charlie — Enjoy the museum. Breathe.

He forces one slow inhale. Then another.

And then he actually looks.

Warm amber light spills across the vast concrete floor, softening every edge. The ceiling stretches impossibly high above them. Footsteps echo. A low sound installation hums from somewhere deep below, vibrating faintly through the metal rails. The whole hall feels huge — expectant — like the building itself is holding its breath.

Charlie stops without meaning to.

Beside him, Nick inhales too, slow and steady, the sound syncing strangely with Charlie’s own heartbeat.

“It feels…” Charlie begins, not sure why the sight — or the moment — makes something in his chest tighten.

Nick finishes for him, softly, without even looking away from the hall. “Like Paris.”

Charlie’s breath stutters.

He turns to look at him fully. Nick’s looking out over the hall, but his smile is tilted, knowing, impossibly gentle — like he was already expecting Charlie to think the same thing.

“You too?” Charlie asks, voice soft.

Nick nods, eyes warm. “Every time I come here. Not the look of it… just the feeling. That same… hush. That same sense of being somewhere bigger than us.”

Something warm and heavy unfurls low in Charlie’s stomach, something he’s been pretending not to feel all week.

“Yeah,” Charlie murmurs. “Exactly that.. Me too.”

And it hits him — not like a sudden revelation, but like remembering a song he used to hum in another life— Of course it feels like Paris.

Because Paris felt like them.

They wander deeper into the hall, shoulder to shoulder, slow and unhurried.

Charlie stops before a huge colour-field painting—deep plum fading into smoky grey. “I like this one,” he murmurs.

Nick tilts his head, studying it. “It feels… quiet,” he says softly. “But not sad. Just… calm.”

Charlie lifts an eyebrow and looks at him instead of the painting. Of course Nick would see it like that.

Nick glances back and catches him staring, a confused tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

“What?” Nick asks.

Charlie tries not to smile. “Look at you,” he murmurs, “All poetic about art now.”

Nick laughs under his breath, bumping their shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

Charlie’s cheeks warm. He kind of loves this version of Nick.

A staff member gestures them toward the self-service kiosks for the paid exhibitions.

Charlie pulls out his phone. “I booked them earlier. Figured Fridays get busy.”

“You booked the exhibition?” Nick asks quietly. “For both of us?”

Charlie feels his ears heat. “Uh… yeah.”

Nick’s voice dips—soft, teasing, absurdly fond. “Of course you did.” His gaze sweeps over Charlie, lingering just a beat too long. Warm enough to make Charlie glance away for a second.

“And I really like that about you,” Nick adds, quieter now. “Very Head Boy of you. Always thinking ahead. Always… anticipating things.”

Charlie’s breath stutters. He pretends to focus on his phone instead. “Right—sending your pass now,” he mumbles, tapping Send guest pass.

Nick’s phone vibrates. He glances down, smiling that familiar, fond half-smile that hits Charlie square in the ribs.

“Cheers,” Nick says—only for the phone to slip in his hand as he steps forward to scan it. He fumbles—then catches it in one smooth reflex, straightening with a tiny, embarrassed laugh.

“Wow. Nearly launched that. Great start. Thanks, by the way.”

Charlie’s mouth twitches.

He puts on the most exaggerated flirt-voice he can manage. “You’re welcome, Mr Rugby King.”

Nick groans into a laugh. “Oh no… don’t you start.”

Charlie snorts. Nick laughs. The tension shifts—melting, warming, brightening. Side by side, they step into the first gallery together.

White walls. Soft lighting. A hush that feels almost sacred. They’re still smiling from that ridiculous almost-dropped-phone moment, the last bit of laughter hanging warmly between them.

They drift slowly through the room, side by side, stopping in front of a cobalt-blue canvas that looks like it’s been torn open by light.

Nick tilts his head. “It’s like it’s moving.”

Charlie steps closer — not meaning to, but drawn. “Yeah. Or cracking open. Letting something through.”

Nick looks at the painting for another second… then looks at Charlie. Really looks. Like Charlie is the thing opening.

Charlie’s breath falters.

Nick’s voice drops, soft and honest. “It’s nice. Talking like this.”

The way he says nice makes Charlie’s stomach flip—like it means more than the word should. Charlie turns to him fully, electricity skating up his spine. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It really is.”

Nick’s gaze dips—briefly—to Charlie’s mouth. Charlie feels it everywhere.

They wander through a few galleries first — slow, easy steps, brushing close but not touching. By the time they drift toward the cafe mezzanine, the sky outside has softened into an early evening glow filtering through the tall glass.

Charlie feels warm. And not because of the weather.

He blames Nick’s jumper — that cream-coloured, soft-looking one — the sleeves pushed up to his forearms in a way that should honestly be illegal. Paired with dark jeans and that forest-green jacket, he looks… stupidly good.

The cream makes his brown eyes look deeper. Softer. Like you could fall into them without meaning to.

Charlie absolutely does not look at his forearms again. (Not on purpose, anyway.)

The cafe is buzzing gently — low hum of voices, clinking cups, espresso machines hissing in the background.

They queue up.

Nick’s shoulder brushes his once. Accidentally. Probably. Charlie pretends he isn’t hyper-aware of it.

Nick scans the menu board. “I think I’ll just get a flat white.”

A barista behind the counter — early twenties, tall, pretty, heavily pierced — looks up at Nick and brightens instantly. Too instantly. “Hi! What can I get you?” And there’s the smile. The very obvious kind.

Charlie watches Nick blink, polite but oblivious. “Uh — flat white, please.”

The barista practically glows. “Of course. And… take your time choosing a pastry if you want. No rush.”

Nick smiles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh—I’m good, thanks.”

Charlie snorts under his breath.

Nick glances at him. “What?” They step to the end of the counter to wait for their drinks.

Charlie leans in, voice light— “Still got it, Nelson.”

Nick’s ears go red instantly. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “You’re killing me.”

Charlie only grins, sipping his water. He’s calm. Grounded. Not spiralling the way he would’ve at sixteen. It surprises even him.

Nick clears his throat as their drinks arrive. They carry them to a small table near the window overlooking the river — a cosy corner, half-hidden between two pillars.

Nick wraps his hands around his cup. “So… big weekend plans?”

Charlie shrugs. “Probably writing, cleaning, rethinking every life choice I’ve made, the usual.”

Nick laughs — warm, soft, real. Charlie's heart trips.

Charlie lifts an eyebrow. “You? Clubs? Dancing? Wild nights out?”

Nick snorts immediately. “Absolutely not. God, no.”

Charlie relaxes back in his chair. He didn’t expect how good it would feel to hear that.

Nick continues, hands gesturing a little— “I tried during uni, because everyone did. Loud music, too many people, sweaty strangers — I hated it.”

Charlie smiles. “Same. I thought I was supposed to enjoy it. Spoiler— I didn’t.”

Their eyes meet over the small cafe table. Something warm threads through the space between them.

Nick’s foot bumps Charlie’s under the table — lightly, accidentally — but neither of them moves away.

The hum of the cafe fades. The river glints beyond the window. Art hangs around them, quiet and patient.

And Charlie thinks — almost breathless — how stupidly compatible they are.

Even now. Even after all these years.

---

Nick's POV:

The sound installation room is darker than the hallway outside—soft pools of low amber light flickering across the floor, warm shadows stretched across black walls. A faint hum vibrates through the air, layered with whispers, murmurs, distant echoes.

Nick steps inside… and immediately feels his breath catch. It’s intimate. Quiet. A place made for leaning close.

Charlie walks in beside him, hands tucked in the pockets of coat, eyes wide in that quietly brilliant way Nick never remembered right—because memory didn’t do it justice.

His curls fall over his forehead. The lighting makes the blue of his eyes sharper. Almost luminous.

Nick swallows. God.

Charlie tilts his head, listening to the murmuring soundscape. “It’s like… being inside someone’s thoughts.”

Nick hums agreement. Or tries to.

Because Charlie steps a little closer to hear the layered whispers— and it puts him only inches from Nick’s shoulder.

Nick’s voice comes out lower than intended. “Can you make out what they’re saying?”

Charlie turns his head slightly. “Not really. Something about… memory? Or water? Can’t tell.”

Nick leans in—whispering something. Charlie squints at him.

“What?”

Nick moves closer this time, so his lips are nearly at Charlie’s ear— And Charlie shivers. Nick feels it. Actually feels it. A tiny, subtle tremor.

He tries again, whispering. “I said… I think it’s supposed to feel like a dream.”

Charlie inhales — sharp, too quick — and for just a split second, Nick wonders if he pushed too close.

But Charlie only smirks. A small, warm, knowing smirk.

Of course he smirks.

Because Charlie Spring, older, calmer, self-assured in a new way, is not the sixteen-year-old who’d blush and bolt at a whisper.

He whispers back, teasing. “You could’ve just repeated it normally. Dramatic.”

Nick’s ears heat instantly. He laughs — quietly, helplessly. “Dramatic? Me?”

Charlie’s smile widens. “Oh, incredibly.”

The whispers around them rise and fall like waves.

Nick feels his cheeks warm. He can’t look directly at Charlie for a second — it feels too much, too close, too soft.

Then Charlie bumps his shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry. It was… nice.”

Nick’s heart stutters. Nice.

He might die.

---

Charlie's POV:

Charlie pretends the room’s lighting is what’s making his skin feel too warm.

It isn’t.

It’s Nick whispering in his ear. Nick leaning close in that gentle, careful way — like he’s asking permission without ever needing to say the words.

Charlie’s equilibrium is absolutely wrecked.

He clears his throat, needing to walk, needing to move, because if he stays still he might grab Nick by his jacket and pull him in like an idiot.

“Let’s try the next one,” he says, trying for casual. Nick follows, smiling softly.

They step into a brighter space — an installation with a long wall covered in tiny shelves of coloured tiles. Visitors choose one, move it to a different shelf, and it creates shifting patterns of colour.

Charlie’s whole body lights up. “Oh my god. It’s a game.”

Nick laughs because he knows exactly what that tone means. “You’re going to get competitive, aren’t you?”

Charlie narrows his eyes. “Don’t provoke me.”

Nick just raises both eyebrows in that infuriatingly fond way he does.

Charlie picks up a tile — deep cobalt. Nick instinctively reaches for a warm gold.

Charlie stares at the tiles. Then at Nick. “You chose gold?”

Nick shrugs, grinning. “It’s nice.”

Charlie snorts. “Wrong.”

Nick’s grin widens. “Wrong?”

“Blue is clearly the superior choice,” Charlie declares, placing his tile with the exaggerated seriousness of someone defusing a bomb.

Nick chuckles — the laugh. The soft, scrunch-nosed one. “There he is.”

Charlie pretends to ignore the way the words hit him directly in the chest.

Nick moves his tile to the opposite side of the wall.

Charlie gasps. “You’re ruining the pattern!”

Nick glances over with a smirk. “I thought everything’s a competition.”

Charlie’s jaw drops. “It is!”

Nick leans in slightly, eyes bright with mischief. “Then I’m winning.”

Charlie splutters, the exact same noise he made at seventeen when Nick (rarely) beat him at Mario Kart. “Oh my god,” Charlie mutters, flustered. “You’re impossible.”

Nick leans in, voice low and warm. “And you’re predictable.”

Charlie freezes. Heat floods his face. “Predictably what?” he manages.

Nick holds his gaze. “Predictably you.”

Charlie stops breathing for a full second. He has to look away — not because he wants to, but because otherwise he might kiss Nick right here next to the coloured tiles and the confused tourists.

He coughs, pretending to inspect the wall. “Okay. New game. Best colour wins.”

Nick laughs. And Charlie wants to bottle the sound.

---

Nick's POV:

Charlie’s spark is back.

The focused little furrow in his brows— The way he gets dramatic over tiny things —

The quiet thrill he gets from being good at something — The way he tries not to smile when Nick teases him — Nick feels it like muscle memory sliding back into place.

Every few seconds, Charlie’s fingers brush the tiles or gesture animatedly… And the blue in his eyes glows brighter.

Nick thinks— God, I missed this. God, I missed him.

Then— They both grab for the same tile, hands brushing— warm, unmistakable.

Charlie retracts like the tile burned him. “Nope. That’s yours.”

Nick blinks. “Why?”

“Because I touched your hand,” Charlie blurts.

“That’s… how hands work,” Nick says, amused.

Charlie groans into his jumper. “Please. Next area. Before I melt into a puddle.”

Nick smiles, soft and fond. “Lead the way then… melty person.”

Charlie glares. Nick laughs. The tension only tightens.

They wander into one of the interaction spaces — a long, bright room with a mural of overlapping coloured squares, and a table full of markers and sticky notes.

A sign reads—

“ADD YOUR COLOUR TO THE CONVERSATION.”

Charlie lights up immediately.

Nick can feel it happen — that familiar spark, the one that made sixteen-year-old Charlie unforgettable.

Charlie picks up the darkest blue marker he can find, uncapping it with the same determined little frown Nick remembers from school.

Nick grins. “You look very serious about this.”

Charlie doesn’t look up. “I am serious. This is public art. We’re shaping culture, Nicholas.”

Nick laughs — soft, helpless.

Charlie scribbles something quickly, shielding the note with his hand.

Nick leans a little, curious. Charlie snaps his head up. “No peeking!”

Nick lifts both hands in surrender, still smiling far too warmly. “Okay, okay. Competitive and secretive. I see how it is.”

Charlie huffs, but the corners of his mouth lift — that barely-there smile Nick remembers far too well. He steps up to the wall and presses his sticky note into place among a chaotic mosaic of colours— blues, pinks, yellows, overlapping squares of strangers’ thoughts.

Nick watches him do it. The way he leans in slightly. The way his fingers linger a half-second too long. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he’s pretending not to care.

God. Nick had forgotten how much that tiny gesture destroys him.

He reaches for a green marker — instinctive, familiar — and writes slower, more thoughtfully than he expected. Maybe because he knows Charlie is standing right beside him. Maybe because this feels oddly… important.

Nick sticks his note up a few inches from Charlie’s.

His fingertips hover there afterward — as if touching the wall might steady him.

They step back together. The wall glows with colour. So does Charlie, in the low gallery light.

Nick feels it — that pull, that quiet gravity — long before Charlie’s shoulder brushes his.

Then Charlie tilts his head, curious, and they both lean in at the same time.

Charlie’s note — deep blue ink:

“I don’t know where this path goes. But I know where I want to walk.”

Nick’s breath catches. The words hit him in the ribs — gentle, hopeful, terrifyingly vulnerable.

His stomach swoops. His pulse flickers. Because that… That sounds like someone opening a door.

Before he can fully process it, Charlie shifts, reading Nick’s note next.

Nick’s note — green ink:

“I don’t know how this story ends. But I know who I want to begin with.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. Neither speaks.

Charlie’s fingers curl lightly at his side — as if holding on to something invisible. His throat bobs. His eyes lift, slow, deliberate, until they meet Nick’s.

And Nick— Nick feels the ground tilt, soft and inevitable.

Charlie’s gaze is wide but steady. Surprised but not scared. Full of something warm that Nick hasn’t seen directed at him in ten years.

Nick swallows hard, chest tight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was seventeen.

Charlie breathes in — just a small breath, but it trembles.

Nick thinks— Please don’t look away. Please don’t run. Please still want this.

Charlie doesn’t look away.

Instead, he gives the tiniest, softest smile — the kind that looks like a promise.

And in that moment, surrounded by colour and strangers and the muffled hum of the Tate. And Nick feels it — that shift, delicate and terrifying and beautiful — something rebuilding itself between them, quiet as a heartbeat.

A bridge forming, piece by piece.

And God… Nick feels a stupid, helpless, unstoppable smile breaking across his face.

He doesn’t even try to hide it.

He’s been thinking about this all week — how to ask, how to name the thing humming between them, how to be sure he’s not imagining it.

Every conversation they’ve had — the texts, the late-night calls, the near-kiss in the rain — has wrapped around him like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

He wants this to be real. He needs to know if Charlie wants this too.

So when Charlie moves toward a quieter part of the gallery — a dim corner near a sculpture installation, partially blocked from the foot traffic — Nick follows.

The lighting is softer here. Muted. Private.

Charlie leans against a vertical pillar of brushed steel, arms loose at his sides.

Nick stands a step away, hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

For a moment they just breathe together, the hum of the museum settling around them.

Charlie looks up first.

Nick clears his throat.

He’s been rehearsing this in his head, but the words still land raw— “So… how’s your family doing? I mean—how are things with your mum? And your dad? And Tori?”

Charlie seems surprised, but in the soft way — like he hadn’t expected Nick to ask, but is relieved he did.

He answers quietly.

“Mum’s… mostly the same,” he admits. “But things have eased with age. Dad helps her soften when she spirals. He’s good to her. And Tori’s…” he huffs a soft laugh, fond but exasperated. “Tori. Always on my side. Always ready to kill someone on my behalf.”

Nick smiles — warm, genuine.

He misses this. The way Charlie talks about the people he loves. The way he trusts Nick with the truth.

Charlie’s eyes lift. “What about you? Your mum? Dad? David?”

Nick exhales slowly. This one… is harder. But Charlie asked. And Nick wants to be honest — with him especially. 

“We’re… better,” Nick says quietly. “Me and Dad, I mean. There’s still distance, but not the painful kind. Just… two adults living their lives. I’m not trying to win his approval the way I used to.”

Charlie’s expression softens — pride, relief, something warm flickering behind his eyes.

“And David…” Nick’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays calm. “I stopped waiting for him to be a brother. That helped. I just… keep things peaceful. From a distance.”

Charlie nods — no pity, no dramatic sigh. Just understanding. Honest, gentle understanding.

Nick hesitates a beat, then adds softly— “Mum’s good.” A small, genuine smile appears.

“She’s… Mum. Supportive. Curious. Overly invested in everything I bake. She keeps buying me cookbooks I don’t need.”

Charlie chuckles, warmth spilling across his face. “Sounds like her.”

Nick nods, eyes lowering in shy affection. “She asks about you sometimes.”

Charlie stills — breath catching. “Me?”

Nick nods again, slow.“Yeah.”

Charlie looks away — flustered, touched, overwhelmed in that Charlie way. Then he looks back, voice softer— “I’m glad you have her.”

Nick’s heart tugs — in that deep, familiar way Charlie has always had the power to do.

A beat of silence settles. Comfortable. Not heavy. Nick dares to take a small step closer. “You know — talking now…” he says softly, “feels easier than it should.”

Charlie’s lips twitch upward, bittersweet. “It’s weird. Like no time passed.” Then, a breath later, “But also… like a lifetime did.”

Nick’s chest tightens — pulled in two directions— nostalgia and something new. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s familiar. But… new.”

Charlie meets his eyes. “Like we grew separately… and somehow still fit?”

Nick’s breath catches. God. He feels that line in his bones.

Without thinking, his fingers move — slow, tentative — until the back of his hand brushes Charlie’s. Charlie doesn’t pull away.

Their hands inch closer, like magnets finding the permission they’ve been waiting for.

Nick’s voice drops to something quieter, deeper. “Do you ever think about…” He swallows. “Where we’re going? What we want now?”

Charlie’s eyes soften. “Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “All the time.”

Nick draws a careful breath. “I want a family someday,” he says.

Charlie’s eyebrows lift — not in shock, but something gentler. Something hopeful. “A calm one,” Charlie says with a soft smile.

Nick nods. “A kind one. A home that feels warm. Somewhere I actually look forward to coming back to.”

Charlie’s lips curve, teasing lightly. “And someone to share your freshly baked goods with?”

Nick blushes — visibly, adorably. “…yeah.”

Charlie looks at him like he’s memorising the moment.

“I’m tired of temporary,” Nick admits, voice barely above a murmur.

Charlie’s breath stutters. “Me too,” he says. “I’m done with things that disappear after a few weeks.”

Nick risks turning his palm slightly — just enough. Charlie’s hand slips into his.

Their fingers lace without thought.

Charlie whispers— “I’m glad… none of the others ended up being your person.”

Something breaks open in Nick’s chest — warm, trembling, overwhelming. He squeezes Charlie’s hand. “Me too,” Nick breathes.

For a long moment, they stay like that — holding hands in a quiet corner of the museum, surrounded by soft echoes and the weight of ten years.

It feels right. Grounded. Like something forming slowly, carefully, between them.

Nick looks at Charlie, and Charlie looks back, steady and a little undone, something luminous rising behind his eyes.

Then Charlie steps a fraction closer — not enough to startle, just enough to be unmistakable. Their joined hands shift between them, their shoulders nearly touching. Nick feels Charlie’s breath brush his cheek, warm and fragile.

Charlie doesn’t lean in further. Nick doesn’t either.

They stand there longer than makes sense, studying their hands, their faces, the space between them — a space that feels sacred instead of tense. It’s not almost-something. It is something. Quiet, new, and shining softly between them.

Everything in Nick settles with a quiet, aching certainty— This is it. This is real. This is where they’ve been heading all along.

---

Charlie’s POV:

They’re still holding hands.

Charlie doesn’t remember when it happened — who reached first, whose fingers brushed whose — only that now Nick’s palm is warm against his, solid and steady. And Charlie can feel every heartbeat through that small point of contact.

It feels… right. Natural. Like something that always belonged there. Like something he’s been missing for a decade without realising the exact shape of the space it left behind.

They walk slowly down the corridor toward the Rothko room, their footsteps soft against the polished floor. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s full, thoughtful, a quiet thread stretched gently between them.

Charlie lets the hush settle around him. His mind is loud. His chest is louder.

Nick is here. Nick is holding my hand again. Nick is trusting me again.

He tries to breathe evenly as they step through the doorway.

The Rothko room opens around them — dim, cool, reverent. Massive canvases cover the walls in deep reds, bruised purples, blacks that look like they swallow light. The colours pulse faintly under the low museum lamps, alive in a way that always makes Charlie feel like he’s standing inside someone’s open chest.

A soft ambient track hums overhead — low, atmospheric tones that swell and fade like breathing. Almost mournful, almost hopeful. The kind of sound that sits under the skin and shakes something loose inside him.

Charlie feels it immediately. A tightening in his throat. A prickling behind his eyes. The paintings, the dimness, the music — it all folds together into this heavy, contemplative ache he’s never been able to explain.

He’s seen these works before. More than once. But now, with Nick beside him, their hands still joined?

It hits different. Deeper. Like every colour is a memory he tried to bury.

He holds Nick’s hand a little tighter — grounding himself, anchoring himself, needing the warmth. And he knows he should be more present for Nick — it’s their first proper date, after all — but he also isn’t afraid to just… be. To feel everything. To be honest by accident.

Nick doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t speak. He just stands close, shoulder brushing Charlie’s lightly, letting the silence breathe around them.

Charlie takes another slow breath. The music vibrates faintly through the floor, up his spine, into the small, bruised place inside him where longing has lived for ten years.

They pause in front of a canvas layered in wine-red and near-black.

Nick stands close enough that their arms brush, slow and warm. “You’ve been quiet,” Nick murmurs, voice so gentle it almost undoes him.

Charlie exhales shakily. “Yeah. Sorry. This room… it always gets to me.” He hesitates, eyes tracing the bleeding colours. “It’s like looking at everything we didn’t say.”

Nick’s breath catches, just barely. Charlie feels the shift — the understanding. The ache.

“We’re not the same kids anymore,” Nick says quietly. “Back then… everything felt like a crisis.”

Charlie lets out a tiny, broken almost-laugh. “Still kind of does.”

Nick huffs softly, smiling. “But now we talk instead of panic.”

Charlie turns his head, just enough to see the side of Nick’s face in the low light — the soft jawline, the careful eyes, the man he’s becoming.

He doesn’t realise he’s stepped closer until their arms press fully together.

Something in him opens. Something terrified. Something hopeful.

And before his brain can stop him — before fear can talk him out of it — Charlie turns toward Nick and steps into him.

It’s not dramatic. Not planned. Just a quiet, instinctive movement — like gravity choosing a direction.

Nick’s breath stutters in surprise, but his arms come up immediately. Soft. Careful. As if Charlie might break. As if Nick might break.

Charlie presses his forehead to Nick’s shoulder. Not hiding — grounding. Nick exhales shakily against Charlie’s temple.

The hug is small but devastating — the first real, intentional one in ten years. A decade of silence collapsing into a single point of warmth between their chests.

Charlie’s eyes sting. Nick’s hands tremble faintly on his back.

Neither of them rushes. Neither of them explains. They just… hold on.

When they finally pull back, it’s only far enough to breathe. Their hands find each other again without thought.

They’re quiet. But it’s not a silence of holding back — it’s the silence of letting themselves be exactly who they are with each other.

They move toward the exit together, still silent, still close. Charlie’s palm doesn’t leave Nick’s.

The light brightens as they step into a new section — bold, modern pieces on the walls, people milling around.

They pause in front of a large, abstract piece — colours splattered and dragged in sharp strokes.

Charlie turns toward Nick to say something — he doesn’t even know what — and Nick looks back at the exact same moment.

Too close. Too close.

Nick leans in a fraction without meaning to. Charlie rises toward him instinctively. Their breath mingles in the narrow space left between them.

Charlie’s heart is a wild, unsteady thing.

Nick’s eyes flick down — to Charlie’s mouth — slow, helpless, hungry.

Charlie’s lips part. The world narrows to this. This moment. This breath. This impossible, trembling almost.

Then— A voice passes behind them.

“Oh look, another twink snagging a gym boy.” Dismissive. Cruel. Not even loud.

Charlie freezes.

Old Charlie — sixteen, seventeen — would’ve shattered. Would’ve flushed scarlet, apologised, stepped back, laughed nervously, pretended it didn’t sting.

But now— Charlie straightens. Just a millimetre. Just enough. He doesn’t look at the stranger. Just lets out a low, unimpressed. “Wow. Creative.”

Then turns right back to Nick. Unbothered. Steady.

Nick stares at him like he’s seeing the sun rise. Pride. Admiration. Affection. Something deeper — something that makes Charlie feel warm all the way down to his bones.

Charlie shrugs lightly. “People say things. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Nick’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You feel… different.”

Charlie’s heart lurches.

Nick steps closer — so close their sleeves brush. “You seem calmer. Happier, somehow.”

Charlie breathes out, a shaky smile tugging at his lips. “And you’re more confident than I remember,” he says softly. “You talk like you know yourself now.”

Nick’s cheeks go pink.

Charlie’s voice drops — almost a whisper, almost a confession. “The quiet confidence is… really sexy.”

Nick lets out a tiny, breathless laugh — the kind that trembles.

And just like that? The tension starts building again.

Stronger. Deeper. Hotter.

---

Nick's POV:

Charlie said sexy. About him.

Nick’s brain short-circuits in the most humiliatingly obvious way. His breath catches, his pulse jumps, heat rushes up his neck like a delayed explosion.

He tries to laugh it off—quiet, helpless—but it comes out too soft to be casual.

He’s in trouble.

Because he wants to kiss Charlie. Desperately. Painfully.

And Charlie… Charlie is looking at him like he knows.

They walk slowly through the upper floor, the London skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The hallway is quieter here—less crowded, more echo, more space for the world to disappear around them.

Nick’s hand brushes Charlie’s again. He should pull away. He doesn’t.

Charlie bumps their shoulders together gently. A small, intentional nudge. Fuel to a fire.

“Careful,” Nick murmurs, voice low. “You’re making this very hard for me.”

Charlie stops walking. Just—stops. Nick freezes too, heart slamming.

Charlie turns toward him fully, the city’s dusk-light turning his eyes almost silver-blue. “What if I said I don’t mind making it hard?”

The words are soft — playful on the surface, but underneath? Something hungry. Something brave.

Nick’s mouth goes dry.

Charlie steps closer. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that Nick can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that Nick’s own breath stumbles.

“Charlie…” Nick warns, but it comes out as a plea.

Charlie’s smile curves — slow, wicked-soft, intimate. “What?” he whispers. “Too much?”

Nick’s resolve cracks audibly inside him.

He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Charlie says, biting his lip in a way that makes Nick genuinely dizzy. “Maybe I’m just… done pretending I don’t want you to kiss me.”

Nick’s lungs forget how to function.

Then— Charlie leans in just a centimetre, close enough that his breath brushes Nick’s cheek. “Unless you don’t want to.”

Nick’s voice breaks—actually breaks—when he answers. “I do.”

Charlie swallows. Nick watches the movement of his throat like it’s art. “Yeah?” Charlie murmurs.

“Yeah,” Nick breathes. “God, yeah.”

The tension wraps around them like an invisible rope, pulling them closer, inch by inch.

Charlie lifts a hand — hesitates — then lets his fingers graze the inside of Nick’s wrist. The gentlest touch. Barely-there skin contact.

But Nick feels it everywhere.

Charlie’s voice drops again. “So what’s stopping you?”

Nick almost leans in right then. Almost breaks. But he steadies himself with one long, trembling inhale.

“You,” he whispers. “Because if I kiss you now… I won’t want to stop.”

Charlie’s breath catches — visibly, beautifully — and his eyes flutter, heavy with wanting.

He steps even closer, chest brushing Nick’s front. Then, softly, deliberately— “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

Nick genuinely forgets his own name.

His hand twitches toward Charlie’s waist — muscle memory, instinct, desire — and he feels himself leaning in, pulled by gravity and longing and ten years of unfinished business—

Until— A group of tourists walks loudly through the corridor, shattering the moment like glass.

Both of them jerk back half a step, breathing hard.

Charlie laughs under his breath — breathless, blushing, gleaming. “Upstairs is dangerously romantic,” he says.

Nick, still trying to find oxygen. “Or maybe you are.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide—soft, undone.

And Nick thinks— I’m not going to last much longer. He’s going to be the end of me.

Charlie edges closer again, voice low and warm. “Then maybe we should keep walking. Before I kiss you against a window.”

Nick’s knees almost buckle. He nods — barely. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Let’s… walk.”

But the truth is written all over both their faces— They’re seconds from breaking. And the bridge… The night air… The view…

It’s going to finish what Tate Modern started.

---

They step out of the Tate together, the night air brushing cool against Nick’s cheeks.

For a moment he just breathes—slow, steady, careful—because Charlie is still holding his hand. Still. Holding. His hand.

And Nick’s body is humming.

They start walking, and somewhere between the soft glow of the museum lights and the open sky above the river, Charlie’s thumb strokes lightly across the back of Nick’s hand.

Barely a touch. Barely anything. Nick feels it like a jolt.

He glances down—and Charlie does it again, absent-mindedly, like it’s natural. Like this is something he should’ve been doing all along.

Nick squeezes gently, unable to help it. “Your hands are so cold,” he murmurs.

Charlie huffs a laugh. “I’m always cold.”

Nick meets his eyes—the soft navy-grey dusk reflected in them—and something flickers between them, a shared memory, unspoken but vivid— The picnic in Kent. Charlie shivering in the grass.

Nick shrugging out of his blue hoodie without thinking. Nellie barking. Charlie laughing. Kissing him under a wide, quiet sky.

Charlie seems to remember it too. His eyes soften, warm at the edges.

They walk on, hands linked, the city unfolding in gold and silver around them.

Up ahead, near the riverbank, a small pretzel cart sends curls of warm, sweet air into the night.

Charlie nudges him. “Hungry?”

Nick snorts. “Always.”

Charlie grins — bright, fond, devastating — and Nick thinks, God, I’ve really missed that smile so much.

They each get a pretzel and wander side by side. Charlie tears off a piece, tasting it, lips curving around a soft hum of approval.

Nick nearly chokes.

Because apparently Charlie can just… eat and Nick’s entire nervous system decides to malfunction.

Nick takes a bite of his own cinnamon-sugar pretzel, completely unaware of the sugar dusting the corners of his mouth… and creeping into his beard.

Charlie giggles — an unfiltered, boyish sound he hasn’t heard in ten years — and wipes at Nick’s face with his thumb, brushing away the sugar.

The giggle hits Nick the way it used to on the rugby pitch, when Charlie — year 10, too small for his hoodie, full of reckless energy — tackled him out of nowhere and then burst into laughter.

Nick goes a little dazed, dreamy, stupid.

Charlie catches him staring. “What?”

Nick snaps back, opens his mouth to say something normal — fails entirely.  “God… I missed your giggle.”

Charlie blinks. “My giggle?”

Nick flushes, but he doesn’t hide. “Yes.”

A beat. “And your dimples. God, Charlie… I’ve missed your dimples.”

Charlie’s smile widens — slow, shy, pleased — and it punches straight into Nick’s chest.

“Stop,” Charlie laughs softly, cheeks blooming pink. “You’re going to make me—”

“What?” Nick teases, nudging his shoulder.

Charlie doesn’t answer — not out loud — but the look he gives Nick says everything.

They keep walking, talking about everything and nothing — favourite pastries, the pieces they loved most at the Tate, the ridiculous statue Nick swears looks like a disgruntled potato.

Charlie laughs so hard he nearly drops his pretzel.

Nick thinks he might actually die.

Because Charlie’s laughter is warm. And real. And Nick hasn’t been the reason Charlie laughed like this in ten years.

They reach the beginning of Millennium Bridge, the city lights shimmering across the river.

Charlie slows. Nick does too. The air shifts—gentle, electric.

Charlie turns to him, voice softer now. More honest. More vulnerable. “I missed…” He swallows. “This.”

Nick’s chest tightens painfully, beautifully.

He wants to kiss him. Right here. Right now. Desperately. But he reins himself in, because this matters.

Because Charlie matters.

They walk farther onto the bridge, footfalls soft against the steel, fingers still threaded together. The mood settles—calmer, closer to something honest and quiet.

Charlie glances at him, careful. “You seem happy tonight.”

Nick exhales, long and slow. “I am.”

Charlie’s brows lift a little. “Yeah?”

Nick nods. “You’re…” His voice drops, soft and embarrassingly honest. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to just… breathe around. Since we were sixteen.”

Charlie stops dead in his tracks. Looks up at him like Nick has just cracked something open between them.

And in that quiet moment, under the city lights, Nick realises—there’s no sense in fighting it anymore.

Not when it feels this right.

---

Charlie's POV:

They reach the center of Millennium Bridge slowly, their footsteps syncing without effort, fingers brushing—then linking again like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The river is dark and shimmering beneath them. Lights ripple on the water. The air smells like cold metal and early night.

They stop at the railing.

Charlie exhales, gripping the bar, letting the wind hit his face. Nick stands beside him.

Close. Closer than he needs to be.

For a moment, neither speaks. Then Nick says, softly— “The view looks different this time.”

Charlie huffs a laugh. “Nick, we’re literally looking at the same th—”

He turns. Nick isn’t looking at the river. He’s looking at him. Really looking. Like Charlie is the view.

Charlie’s breath catches. His throat goes tight. “Oh,” he whispers.

Nick’s voice drops, warm and careful. “Yeah. Oh.”

Silence pulses between them. Soft. Shaking. Charged.

Charlie feels his courage coil in his ribs—tight and trembling. He looks back at the river because looking at Nick is too much.

“Nick…”

He swallows, fingers tightening around the railing. “I’m… scared. How fast I’m falling again.”

Nick’s inhale is audible.

Charlie keeps going, voice barely holding steady. “I keep thinking about the past. Like… what if I ruin this again? What if I mess everything up? What if I… hurt you?”

Nick turns fully toward him. His voice is quiet—but unwavering. “Are you trying to?”

Charlie whips toward him, eyes wide. “What? No. God, no.”

His voice cracks—honest and raw. “I’ve regretted it for ten years, Nick. Every day. I would rather die alone than— than lose you like that again.”

Nick flinches—like the words hit him somewhere deep.

He steps closer. Close enough that their coats brush. Close enough that Charlie can smell rain on his skin.

Nick’s voice drops low. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I want this too.”

Charlie’s heart stutters violently.

Nick takes one more step in—slow, deliberate—his hand lifting but not touching Charlie yet. “We’re older now,” Nick says. “Wiser. Calmer. We know what we want and what we won’t risk again.”

His fingers hover near Charlie’s cheek, trembling. “This time… we get to choose this. Both of us.”

A breath.

“We don’t have to be scared teenagers anymore.”

Charlie swallows hard—his eyes pricking, his chest aching.

Nick still hasn’t touched him. He’s waiting. Letting Charlie choose, too.

Charlie’s fingers lift—hesitant, trembling—before curling into the lapel of Nick’s jacket. A quiet, instinctive pull.

Nick exhales sharply, like the ground gave out under him.

Then Nick finally touches him. His knuckles brush along Charlie’s hairline— a soft, reverent stroke— like he’s cataloguing every curl, every freckle, every memory.

Charlie’s breath trembles.

Nick’s eyes flick down to Charlie’s mouth. Then back up. Then down again. His blush creeps up his cheekbones, soft pink in the wind.

Charlie whispers— “Nick…”

Nick whispers back— “Tell me to stop.”

Charlie stares at him, heart in his throat. “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s the moment. Nick leans in— slow, careful, trembling— a man terrified and certain at the same time.

Charlie lifts his chin— barely— meeting him halfway. Their breaths mix. Warm. Shaky. Waiting. And then— their lips finally touch.

It’s soft at first. Barely there.

A brush. A breath. A trembling question written into the shape of a kiss.

Nick’s mouth is warm — too warm — like he’s been holding all this heat in his chest for ten years and it’s finally spilling out between them.

Charlie exhales against his lips, a tiny, broken sound he can’t hold back.

Nick freezes. Just for a second.

As if he’s making sure— absolutely sure— that Charlie wants this.

Charlie answers by leaning in again, firmer this time, his fingers curling in Nick’s jacket.

A sigh moves through Nick — relief, disbelief, want — all tangled and spilling into Charlie’s mouth.

The kiss deepens. Slowly. Carefully. Reverently.

Nick’s hand rises to cup Charlie’s jaw, thumb sweeping over the warm skin beneath his cheekbone — a touch so gentle it almost undoes him. Charlie feels something inside him crack open, something he has kept locked up tight for a decade.

Nick’s other hand slides to his waist, the same instinct that pulled Charlie under the awning in the rain. Charlie presses closer, letting himself be guided, anchored, held.

The world fades.

The people. The bridge. The city noise. All of it dissolves into the soft, desperate way Nick kisses him — like he’s memorising him. Like he’s terrified to rush. Like he’s terrified to stop.

Charlie parts his lips— Nick sucks in a breath— and they both shiver.

The kiss turns slow and molten.

Nick tilts his head just slightly, deepening the angle, tasting him with more intent — not demanding, not claiming, just wanting.

Wanting him.

Charlie clutches tighter at his jacket, rising onto his toes, letting the kiss pull him forward until their chests are pressed together, until he can feel every inhale Nick tries (and fails) to steady.

Nick murmurs Charlie’s name into his mouth — a shaky whisper, like a prayer breaking. “Charlie…”

Charlie’s knees buckle. Everything falls into place, like muscle memory that never left —

Nick’s hand at his jaw. Charlie’s fingers gripping his jacket. The heat of their mouths. The dizzy, overwhelming certainty—

This is him. He’s always been him.

Nick breaks the kiss first — barely — but stays close, their noses brushing, lips still almost touching.

They’re both breathing hard. Breathing each other in.

Nick’s voice comes out low, ruined, wrecked in the softest way. “God… I’ve missed you.”

Charlie’s eyes flutter open, and Nick is right there — flushed, wide-eyed, looking like someone who just had the sun handed back to him.

Charlie whispers back, voice frayed. “I never stopped.”

A heartbeat.

Nick leans in again, forehead touching Charlie’s, grounding them both as the wind moves past the bridge.

Charlie feels it — that shift. The one that started days ago. The one neither of them can outrun now.

Nick’s thumb brushes Charlie’s lower lip — still pink, still swollen, still his undoing. “Can I…” Nick whispers, voice cracking like he’s barely holding himself together. “Can I kiss you again?”

Charlie doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t think. “Yes,” he says — soft, immediate, helpless.

Nick kisses him. And this time? It steals every last bit of air from Charlie’s lungs.

It’s not molten like before — not a slow burn. It’s hungrier. Need threaded with wonder, desperation braided with restraint.

Nick kisses him like he’s terrified of going too far and terrified not to go far enough.

Charlie melts into it — opening for him, leaning into him, wanting him in a way that feels like falling and landing at the same time. His fingers find Nick’s jacket and curl tight, pulling him closer, closer, like he needs Nick’s body against his just to stay upright.

Nick makes a noise — quiet, wrecked, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper — and Charlie feels it everywhere.

Heat races down his spine. His knees go weak. His whole chest aches with it — ten years of missing him slamming into the present moment with brutal, breathtaking force.

Nick deepens the kiss once, then again — learning him, tasting him, rediscovering old maps on a grown body. Charlie’s lips part without thinking, and Nick responds instantly, like instinct, like memory.

Charlie’s pulse is a hurricane.

Nick breaks the kiss by a breath. Just a breath. Their foreheads nearly touch. Their noses brush.

Both of them breathing hard — shaky, uneven, like they’ve run across the whole city to get here.

Charlie can feel Nick’s hands trembling at his waist. Not from cold. From him.

“God… Charlie,” Nick whispers, voice destroyed in the softest way.

Charlie’s chest squeezes painfully. He wants to say everything, all at once — how much he’s missed him, how much he wants him, how terrified and certain he feels —

But then— A burst of laughter echoes nearby. Footsteps. People.

Reality crashes back in.

They are outside. In public. Under the night sky. On a street. Kissing like they’re seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.

Public indecency is… not the ideal reunion headline.

Charlie forces air into his lungs, forces his brain to reboot, forces himself to ease back a fraction. His hands stay on Nick’s coat. He can’t let go yet. Not fully.

Nick pulls in a shaking breath, thumb brushing once along Charlie’s jaw — a reverent touch, like he’s afraid Charlie might disappear if he stops touching him.

“Let me walk you home?” Nick asks softly, still breathless, still looking at Charlie like he’s the only point of gravity in the world.

Charlie’s heart flips hard enough to hurt. “…yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Nick’s smile is small, stunned, impossibly beautiful.

He offers his hand. Charlie takes it. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

The world feels different. Softer. Sharper. Finally real.

They walk in a charged quiet, fingers locked tight. Every brush of their shoulders, every shared breath feels like an aftershock from the kiss still burning on their mouths.

Something unfolds in Charlie’s chest — want, warmth, the terrifying relief of finally letting himself feel.

Nick glances at him, eyes soft and hungry all at once.

Yeah.

He could follow Charlie anywhere.

Chapter Text

Charlie's POV:

Charlie has barely closed his door when it hits him.

His lips still tingle. His breath comes uneven. His entire body feels lit from the inside— like someone struck a match in his chest and forgot to blow it out.

He leans back against the door, one hand pressed to his mouth.

Nick. He kissed Nick.

The memory keeps replaying — the river, the railing, the way Nick said his name right before their lips met. It’s too much, too bright, too full, and he has no idea what to do with any of it.

By the time he has paced his entire living room twice, coat abandoned somewhere on the floor, heart thrashing, his phone buzzes—

Nick: I can’t stop thinking about earlier.

Charlie stops moving.

The room tilts. His pulse goes molten. He doesn’t text back. Instead, he hits call.

It barely rings twice before Nick answers—voice low, breathless in the way someone sounds when they’re walking fast, or trying not to fall apart.

“…hey,” Nick murmurs.

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut. That voice. God.

He tries to sound normal, but fails completely. “Hi.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty — it’s full. Charged. Like both of them are leaning into the line.

Nick exhales sharply. “I didn’t want to leave,” he admits, still breathless. “I’ve been replaying it. Us. On the bridge.”

Charlie collapses onto his sofa, one hand gripping a cushion because he might float off the planet otherwise. “Me too.”

He hears Nick’s inhale catch — the sound of honesty leaking through before he can stop it.

“I forgot what it feels like,” Nick says softly, “to be wanted by someone who actually knows me.”

Something inside Charlie fractures. Soft. Hopeful. Terrifying.

“I want you,” he whispers.

The silence that follows is immediate and electric. Nick’s breath stutters.

“Charlie…”

His name in that tone almost ruins him. Charlie swallows hard, voice trembling.

“Do you… want to come over?”

The pause is sharp, charged, a knife-edge of hope and fear. Then Nick’s voice— low, honest, shaking— answers—

“Yes.”

Charlie closes his eyes, breath leaving him in a rush.

“I want to see you,” Nick adds, almost under his breath. “I want… I want you.”

Charlie grips the phone tighter. “Okay.”

Nick breathes out, raw with longing. “I’m coming now. I’m—hang on—” A huff of breath, the sound of footsteps. “I’ll turn back. I’m halfway home but—it’s fine. I’m coming back.”

Charlie lets out a helpless, nervous laugh, dizzy with how fast the world has shifted. “You’re coming back before you even get home?”

“I couldn’t make it all the way,” Nick admits, out of breath. “Not after that kiss.”

Something inside Charlie melts completely. “Text me when you’re close,” he manages.

“I will.”

Another beat — neither wants to hang up. Then Charlie whispers, “Nick… hurry.”

A soft, wrecked laugh — breathless from walking. “I am.”

The call ends.

Charlie stands frozen for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, pulse roaring in every limb. Then it hits him properly— Nick is coming over. Tonight. Now.

He nearly drops the phone.

Before he can reconsider, he texts—

Charlie: door’s unlocked. just come straight in.

He regrets it instantly— too forward, too exposed — until the reply arrives—

Nick: okay. i’m on my way

Charlie’s knees almost give out. He heads straight to the bathroom.

The shower is too warm, too fast, but never fast enough. He washes with trembling hands, scrubs shampoo through his hair, rinses, breathes. He angles the shower head lower and… prepares.

Thorough. Nervous. Wanting this to be right. Wanting to feel ready, grounded, present — not like seventeen-year-old Charlie who imploded the last time he stood too close to this boy.

He steps out, towel tight at his waist. His reflection looks flushed — cheeks pink, hair soft with steam, lips swollen from anxious biting. He looks alive.

He dries off and changes into something simple— soft joggers, a worn T-shirt— nothing performative, just the truest version of himself.

He takes a breath.

Another.

He is not preparing for something reckless. He is preparing for something real.

Footsteps sound in the hallway outside his flat.

Charlie freezes.

Then a gentle knock — even though the door is unlocked. “Charlie?” Nick calls softly. “It’s just me.”

Something painful and sweet squeezes in Charlie’s chest. Just me.

He moves slowly toward the door, heart hammering.

The doorknob turns. The hinges creak softly.

Nick steps inside.

---

Nick's POV:

Nick hadn’t expected to turn around so fast.

He barely made it five minutes down the road before the need pulled him in the opposite direction — as if invisible ropes were tied from his ribs to Charlie’s front door.

He’s still out of breath from walking too fast, heart thudding in his chest, palms sweating. Every step feels like a countdown.

He keeps replaying the phone call, each word hitting harder than the last.

I want you.

Do you want to come over?

Nick… hurry.

His entire body hums with anticipation, fear, longing.

When Charlie’s building finally comes back into view, Nick’s pulse kicks up. He turns in through the narrow stone archway and heads straight for the stairs. His hand trails lightly along the rail as he climbs. He wipes his palms on his jacket.

Tries to steady his breathing. Fails spectacularly.

By the time he reaches the landing for Charlie’s flat, his heart is doing a full sprint.

He pauses outside the door — the door Charlie told him would be unlocked — but still, something in him insists on manners, nerves, reverence.

He lifts his hand. Knocks, once. Quiet, tentative. Even though he’s been invited. Even though he’s allowed in.

Because it’s Charlie. And Nick wants to enter this moment gently. “Charlie? It’s just me,” he calls, his voice softer than he intended.

The door opens. Nick steps inside, and it clicks shut behind him— soft, final— his pulse kicking hard, like his heart saw Charlie before his eyes did.

And there's Charlie — standing in the middle of the room, hair damp, T-shirt loose, cheeks flushed pink from the shower. Barefoot. Soft. Bright. Terrified. Beautiful.

Nick feels something inside him break open.

He barely remembers dropping his bag by the door. Barely remembers shrugging off his jacket. Barely remembers moving at all.

All he knows is—

Charlie looks up. “Hi,” Charlie says quietly.

Nick swallows. “Hi.”

The air between them feels alive.

And that’s it.

They collide in the centre of the room. Not gently. Not carefully. Not slowly. Like gravity finally remembered how to work.

Charlie’s breath leaves him in a soft gasp. Nick cups his face, thumbs brushing damp skin as their mouths crash together—hungry, shaking, relieved.

Nick presses into him, bracing one hand at the back of Charlie’s neck, the other sliding—slowly, reverently—under the hem of Charlie’s T-shirt.

Warm skin meets Nick’s palm.

Charlie shivers so violently Nick nearly loses control. He makes a tiny sound— a whimper that goes straight to Nick’s knees— and pulls him closer by the front of his jumper as if he’s trying to fuse them together.

Nick’s lips are trembling against his. “Charlie—” he breathes between kisses, desperate, wrecked. “I told you— once I start— I can’t— I can’t stop—”

Charlie’s answer is immediate, breathless, trembling— “Then don’t.”

Nick freezes for half a second — just long enough to search Charlie’s eyes.

They’re blown wide. Wet. Wanting.

“Are you sure?” Nick whispers, voice cracking.

Charlie nods so fast he nearly bumps their foreheads together. “Yes,” he breathes — the kind of yes that sounds like falling, like surrendering, like choosing.

Nick’s restraint shatters. “Okay,” he whispers, voice breaking with relief. “Good. Because I want you so bad… I’ve missed you— so much.”

Something in Charlie’s face folds with emotion — his lips part, eyes shining.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, teary, letting his forehead drop to Nick’s for a second before kissing him again — harder this time, deeper, like he’s been holding it in for ten years.

Nick kisses him like he’s starving.

The kiss turns dizzying — deeper, messier — and Charlie’s knees go weak. They sway together, losing balance, and Nick’s hand shoots out, catching Charlie by the waist as his back bumps into the back of the couch.

They don’t sit. They don’t stop. They just breathe each other in.

Nick’s hand slides fully beneath Charlie’s T-shirt now, warm and steady, splayed wide over the small of his back. Charlie gasps—sharp, involuntary—as Nick kisses along his jaw, down to his neck, and sucks lightly over the one mole he couldn’t stop noticing on Charlie’s Hinge profile.

A place he remembers by heart. A place he used to target, latch onto.

Charlie’s breath stutters, and Nick feels that sound all the way down his spine.

It’s too much. Not enough. Perfect.

Charlie pulls back suddenly — a breath, a gasp — and Nick chases his mouth instinctively, lips brushing Charlie’s again, desperate to keep contact.

But Charlie grabs Nick’s wrist. Firm. Certain. Undeniable.

His voice is wrecked, low— “Come here.” He tugs.

Nick follows without hesitation — stumbling after him, still kissing, half-laughing breathlessly against Charlie’s jaw as they navigate the short hallway, bumping shoulders, bumping hips, kissing between every step.

Charlie pushes his bedroom door open with his back, hands slipping up to cradle the back of Nick’s neck, fingers threading through his hair.

Nick’s soft groan is instant.

They fall together onto the bed— not graceful, not planned, not careful— but real.

---

Both POV :

They land on the bed in a tangle of breath and hands and half-formed sounds— Charlie on his back for a second, Nick braced above him, both of them laughing helplessly into the next kiss because of course they couldn’t even make it to the centre of the mattress properly.

And then the laughter dissolves.

Because Charlie pulls him down by the front of his jumper— no hesitation, no teenage fear, no old ghosts choking the moment. Just want. Clean and bright and adult.

And Nick— God— Nick meets it like he’s been starving for ten years.

Their mouths crash and soften, melt and break apart only to seek each other again. It’s messy. It’s needy. It’s them.

Nick kisses him like he can’t quite believe Charlie is real. Charlie kisses him like he’s finally breathing after drowning for half a decade.

Hands everywhere, learning and relearning—

Nick’s along Charlie’s jaw; Charlie’s in Nick’s hair; Nick’s sliding down Charlie’s torso;

Charlie’s gripping Nick’s hips, dragging him closer—

It’s clumsy and perfect.

Then Charlie’s hands slip under Nick’s jumper, fingertips brushing warm skin, and Nick shudders—a full-body tremor that steals Charlie’s breath.

Charlie whispers, voice rough— “Take it off.”

Nick freezes, eyes blown wide.

“Yeah,” Charlie says again, steadier this time, thumb stroking just above Nick’s waistband. “I want you to.”

Nick’s breath leaves him in a rush.

Charlie sits up.

Nick kneels back.

And for a moment—just one—they pause, staring at each other in the soft lamplight, chests rising too fast, hearts pounding too loud.

Then Nick lifts his jumper over his head and drops it to the floor.

Charlie swallows hard. His confidence flickers—then steadies.

He pulls off his own T-shirt. Nick makes a sound— low, raw, reverent— that Charlie feels all the way down his spine.

“You’re…” Nick tries. Fails. Tries again. “God, Charlie.”

Charlie’s cheeks heat, but he doesn’t look away. Not this time. Not anymore.

Instead he reaches for Nick’s belt loop and tugs him closer.

Nick almost folds.

Their lips crash again, deeper this time—messy, dizzy, a little desperate. Nick’s hand finds Charlie’s waist, splaying wide like he wants to cover every inch of him at once. Charlie’s fingers trail along Nick’s back, feeling the warmth of him, the strength, the trembling restraint.

And then the pace breaks again—rushes and swells—because they can’t stay gentle, can’t stay patient. Not when ten years of longing coils molten between them.

Nick’s hands slip to Charlie’s hips.

Charlie pushes him back onto the mattress.

Nick goes willingly—eyes wide, lips parted, heartbeat pounding hard enough to see in his throat.

Charlie climbs over him, straddling his hips.

Nick’s hands fly to Charlie’s waist—solid, certain, possessive in a way that makes Charlie go warm all over as he settles into his lap with a gasp when their bodies align.

“Shit—” Charlie breathed, eyes fluttering.

Nick felt him, hard, wanting, pressing against him.

Nick’s hands gripped Charlie’s hips “Yeah,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I'm already gone for you.”

Charlie leans forward, kissing him again — rough and hungry— teeth catching Nick’s bottom lip with a small, desperate sound.

Nick groans, tilting his hips up instinctively. Charlie’s breath hitches. “Nick—”

“Tell me what you want,” Nick murmurs against his throat.

Charlie’s hands slide into his hair, pulling gently. “You. I want you. I want you everywhere.” His hips roll — slow, almost shy — and Nick’s breath breaks in his throat. “Fuck, Charlie—”

Charlie kisses under Nick’s ear. “You still say my name like that,” he whispers, voice trembling with something half-broken, half-alive. “After all this time.”

Nick holds his hips still, looking up at him — really looking. “Of course I do.”

Charlie kisses him again, deeper, hands roaming across Nick’s chest, relearning old territory.

Nick lets him explore — lets him take control — lets him feel everything he’s been starved of for years.

When Charlie reaches for Nick’s belt buckle, he pauses.

His voice is barely a whisper— “Tell me if we need to slow down.”

Nick lifts Charlie’s chin. “Char — I’ve waited for this for too long.”

Charlie’s breath shudders out of him. “Me too.”

Then he slides the buckle open. Nick’s pulse hammers. Not with lust — though that’s there, sharp and urgent — but with awe. With disbelief that this is real.

That Charlie is here, in his lap, undoing him piece by piece.

Nick gasps when he’s freed, hard and flushed and throbbing.

Charlie just… stares. Not shocked. Not shy.

But overwhelmed — like the sight knocks the breath out of him. “I forgot…” Charlie whispers, voice cracking, “how beautiful you are.”

Nick’s head falls back. “Charlie—”

Then Charlie takes him in his hand — slow, deliberate — thumb brushing over the head. Nick’s entire body jolts.

Charlie watches the reaction with something close to awe. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, stroking once more, firmer. “Am I overwhelming you?”

Nick’s voice breaks. “Yes. God yes.”

Charlie’s eyes burn with something deep, old, tender. “Good.”

He pulls Nick’s jeans off, letting them drop to the floor, then climbs onto the bed. Leaning in, he drags a long, slow stripe along the underside—intent, deliberate, almost worshipful.

Nick’s breath breaks. “Fuck—”

Charlie’s hands grip Nick’s thighs as he lowers his mouth around him, taking just the tip at first — warm, soft, perfect — then sinking lower, slow enough to make Nick’s eyes roll back.

Nick arches, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. “Oh my god— I've missed that mouth—”

Charlie moans around him, the vibration sending heat rocketing through Nick’s spine.

He takes more, deeper, gradually building a rhythm — one hand gripping the base, the other braced on Nick’s hip.

Nick’s fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, not to guide, but to hold on — because the world is tilting, dissolving. “Charlie— I’m— I’m not going to last— it’s been— I can’t—”

Charlie pulls off with a wet gasp, hand stroking him slick and tight. “Nick—,” he pants, lips wet, flushed, eyes heavy with want, “—come in my mouth. Please.”

Nick’s entire body tenses. “Charlie— you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Charlie whispers fiercely. “Ten years, Nick. Ten fucking years I’ve wanted you. Let me have this.”

Nick breaks. Completely.

Charlie takes him again — deeper, hungrier — and Nick’s vision goes white at the edges. His hips stutter, breath shattering, hands gripping Charlie’s hair as the heat coils tight, too tight— “I’m— fuck— Charlie, I’m—”

Charlie hums—  and that’s it.

Nick comes hard, undone, with a cry that sounds torn from somewhere he’d locked away years ago.

Charlie holds him through it, swallowing, hand stroking gently, soothingly, like he’s calming something wild.

Nick collapses against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead.

Charlie crawls up his body, kissing a line up Nick’s chest, throat, jaw.

Nick cups the back of his head, pulling him into a trembling kiss — tasting himself, tasting Charlie, tasting ten years of longing finally breaking open.

When they part, breathless, Charlie presses his forehead to Nick’s, breathing him in like he’s afraid to lift his head and discover the last ten minutes were a hallucination.

Nick is still trembling beneath him, chest rising and falling in uneven, overwhelmed waves. His fingers curl weakly into Charlie’s waist, like he needs an anchor to pull himself back into his body.

Charlie kisses him again. Not hungry this time. Soft. Wet. Slow. A kiss meant to soothe.

Nick exhales against his mouth, muscles loosening under Charlie’s hands.

Charlie cups Nick’s jaw, whispering between small kisses. “Hey… hey… breathe. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Nick’s eyes flutter open — glazed, watery, overwhelmed — and he tries to laugh but the sound breaks halfway. “Jesus, Charlie,” he whispers hoarsely. “I— I don’t even have words.”

Charlie kisses the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need words.”

Nick pulls him closer, arms wrapping tight around Charlie’s shoulders.

Charlie sinks into it instantly, chest pressed to chest, breath synced, bodies flush and warm.

And then— Nick shudders.

Not from pleasure. Not from comedown. From emotion.

Charlie feels the tremble and lifts a hand to the back of Nick’s head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as Nick tries to hide his face in Charlie’s neck.

“Hey,” Charlie murmurs gently, kissing the side of his head, “don’t go quiet on me. Not now.”

Nick’s voice is muffled, fragile. “I’m not— I just— I’m so… fuck, Charlie, I missed you. I missed you so much it hurts.”

Charlie’s own breath stutters. His throat tightens painfully, and for a moment he’s afraid he’ll actually break open.

Nick clings harder, burying his face in Charlie’s shoulder, one shaky inhale giving him away— And suddenly Charlie’s eyes sting too.

He wraps both arms around Nick, holding him like something holy. Like something returned. “It’s okay,” Charlie whispers, kissing his temple. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

Nick lets out a small, broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and Charlie goes soft all over, stroking his back, grounding him, kissing wherever he can reach.

Nick lifts his head slowly, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, mouth red from kissing.

Charlie cups his face carefully. “You’re allowed to feel all of this.”

Nick lets out a shaky breath. “You’re too good to me.”

“No,” Charlie whispers, brushing a tear from Nick’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m exactly as good as you’ve always deserved.”

Nick chokes out a soft laugh — then Charlie leans in and kisses him again.

This time it’s deeper. Slow and reverent, but with a burn underneath. Their tears mix with the kiss — salt on lips, breath catching, mouths opening hungrily even as their hands stay gentle.

When they pull back, Nick whispers, “God, I love you,” like the words escaped before he could cage them.

Charlie’s eyes slam shut. His voice shatters. “I love you… I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Silence — warm, trembling, heavy — settles around them.

Nick strokes the back of Charlie’s neck, their noses brushing.

Charlie hesitates a moment — then speaks carefully, honestly, voice hushed. “Nick… can I tell you something?”

Nick nods, brushing his thumb along Charlie’s bottom lip. “Anything.”

Charlie swallows, shoulders drawing in just slightly. “After our phone call,” he begins, voice quiet but steady, “I… prepped. For you.”

Nick’s breath catches. “Charlie—”

“I wasn’t expecting anything. I swear I wasn’t.” Charlie’s fingers skim Nick’s cheekbone nervously. “I just… I wanted to be ready. If you wanted me. If you wanted this. I didn’t want there to be anything in the way. Not tonight.”

Nick’s pupils darken, heat and emotion mixing in a way that feels almost too much. “Charlie—,” he whispers, voice wrecked, "—you… Christ— ”

Charlie runs his thumb along Nick’s jaw, grounding him again. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he says softly, almost shy. “But if you want… I want you inside me.”

Nick inhales sharply, a full-body tremor rolling through him.

Charlie leans in, pressing their foreheads together again, lips barely brushing. “Only if you want to,” he whispers, voice fragile and earnest. “This isn’t about making up for lost time. It’s not about proving anything. It’s just… I’ve imagined this for years. You. Me. Like this. And if you want me—” He swallows, eyes flicking to Nick’s lips. “I want to feel you. I want you to have me.”

Nick lifts a trembling hand and cups the back of Charlie’s neck, pulling him into a slow, deep kiss that leaves them both breathless again.

When he breaks the kiss, his voice is barely holding together. “I want you—”

His hand drifts down to the waistband of Charlie’s joggers, fingers trembling as he loosens the drawstrings, almost reverent in the way he touches him.

He’s getting hard again, and Charlie feels it—warm, insistent, wanting—against his thigh. “—inside you,” Nick whispers. “With you. All of it. Tonight.”

Charlie’s eyes flutter shut, a shaky exhale leaving him—relief, want, love all snarled together.

He stands, pushing his joggers down quickly. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, desperate for attention.

Nick stares, jaw slack, like he’s forgetting how to breathe. “Fuck… look at you.”

Charlie fights the urge to blush under the weight of that hunger. He climbs back into Nick’s lap, straddling him fully, chest pressed to chest. He trails kisses along Nick’s jaw and down his neck, breath warm against his skin, sucking and licking lightly.

“Your beard drives me insane, Nick…” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along Nick’s jawline.

Nick gasps, eyes fluttering shut, voice rough. “I’m glad…”

His hands slide down Charlie’s spine, slow and deliberate, settling on his bum—squeezing, pulling him down against the hard line of his erection.

They both gasp.

“Fuck—okay—okay—” Charlie whispers-moans, kissing him again, dizzy with it. “Let me get the lube…”

He reaches toward the bedside drawer, fingers brushing the handle— and Nick’s hand closes gently around his wrist.

A stop. Not refusal— a request.

“Wait,” Nick murmurs, voice thick with want and something deeper. “Let me.”

Charlie freezes, turning back toward him. His breath catches. “Nick…”

Nick sits up, hand sliding along Charlie’s waist, thumb brushing reverently over warm skin as he shifts them closer, foreheads nearly touching.

“I want to take care of you,” Nick whispers. “I want to feel you melt around my fingers before I’m inside you.”

Charlie swallows hard enough that his throat bobs visibly. “I— I didn’t know if you’d want to,” he admits softly.

Nick cups his cheek, eyes warm and dark and steady. “I want everything with you.”

Charlie’s breath shudders out of him—part relief, part arousal, part emotion so raw it borders on painful. He nods once. Small. Fragile. Certain.

Nick presses a soft kiss to the side of Charlie’s neck, right over the mole—his favorite spot. “Lie back for me,” he murmurs.

Charlie’s breath catches— but he moves instantly, like his body remembers what it feels like to trust Nick.

Nick settles between Charlie’s legs and reaches for the drawer.

The soft clink of the lube bottle makes Charlie’s thighs tense around Nick’s hips, and Nick feels it—feels the tremor, feels the anticipation, feels how badly Charlie needs this.

Nick turns back to him and pauses. Just looking.

Charlie stretched across the pillows, legs falling open around him, chest rising in shaky breaths, hair spread messily over the sheets.

Vulnerable. Wanting. Beautiful.

Charlie notices the way Nick is staring. It steals his breath. “What?” he whispers, cheeks flushed.

Nick’s reply is quiet, reverent— “You look like home.”

Charlie’s fingers tighten in the sheets. “Nick…”

Nick leans down and kisses him tenderly — a real kiss, soft and deep — before trailing his mouth down, kissing along Charlie’s ribs, the soft underside of his stomach, the inside of his hip.

Charlie gasps at that, thighs tightening around Nick’s shoulders involuntarily.

Nick smiles against his skin. “Still sensitive here.”

“Shut up,” Charlie whispers breathlessly, already trembling.

“I’ll never shut up about you,” Nick murmurs, biting his hip gently.

Charlie’s head falls back against the pillow, a helpless noise escaping him.

Nick slides a warm hand up the inside of Charlie’s thigh. “Hey,” he says softly. Charlie looks down, eyes already heavy and blown. “You okay?”

Charlie nods, breath shaking. “More than okay. Just… nervous. In a good way.”

Nick leans up and kisses him again — slow, grounding. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I won’t rush.”

Charlie exhales, chest loosening.

Then Nick opens the bottle. The click is soft — but it sends heat through Charlie like a spark catching dry tinder.

Nick warms the lube between his fingers, then slides his hand gently between Charlie’s legs. Charlie’s breathing stutters.

Nick’s voice drops to something low, velvet, intimate. “Open for me, love.”

Charlie does — thighs falling apart, hips lifting slightly in offering.

Nick touches him — gentle, careful, slow — fingers tracing the rim, teasing, coaxing, letting Charlie feel the promise of him before anything more.

Charlie lets out a shaky moan. “Oh— Nick—”

“Yeah?” Nick whispers, eyes locked on his face. “That feel good?”

Charlie nods too fast, too desperate. “Yes— god, yes— please—”

Nick’s fingers work slowly inside Charlie — one at first, then two — stretching him with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

Charlie’s breath keeps catching, his thighs trembling, his head falling back against the pillows as Nick curls his fingers just slightly—

“Nick— oh god—” Charlie moans, gripping the sheets.

Nick’s eyes darken at the sound, at the feeling of Charlie tightening around his fingers, opening for him again after a decade. “You’re doing so well for me…” Nick whispers against his skin.

Charlie whimpers, hips pushing down helplessly against Nick’s hand.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too overwhelming.

Nick feels his own breath stutter— Desire crashes through him quick and sharp— And something inside him snaps.

“Fuck—” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft.

He can’t help himself. Nick withdraws his fingers, slick and shining, and before Charlie can catch his breath—

Nick lowers himself between Charlie’s spread thighs. Charlie gasps— “Nick—?”

Nick breathes him in once, long and need— Then licks him.

A slow, deliberate, desperate drag of his tongue.

Charlie arches up with a stuttering gasp, fingers tightening in Nick’s hair. “—oh—”

Nick groans at the taste, eyes fluttering closed. “I missed your taste,” he murmurs, voice wrecked against Charlie’s inner thigh. “You have no idea— I’ve thought about this for years—”

And he goes in again— Hot mouth, slow tongue, the kind of kiss that feels like apology and hunger and memory all at once.

Charliee's breath shatters. His whole body trembling. “Nick— Nick, please— I can’t— I’ll come— I’ll come— I can’t—”

Nick moans into him, a low, needy sound like he’s starving. “Then let me,” Nick begs softly. “Let me taste you— let me have all of you—”

Charlie’s hand tightens in Nick’s hair— He pulls.

Not hard— But firm. Enough. “Nick— stop— stop— stop,” Charlie gasps, voice breaking.

Nick lifts his head instantly, eyes wide, mouth wet. “Did I hurt you?” His voice is panic, breath trembling.

Charlie’s chest heaves as he shakes his head hard.

“No— fuck— no— you didn’t— it’s just—” He swallows, eyes blown. “If you keep doing that— I’m gonna come in your mouth in less than ten seconds.”

Nick’s breath catches. A flush races up his throat. “Oh,” he whispers, suddenly wrecked in a different way.

Charlie nods helplessly, squeezing Nick’s wrist. “You have no idea what ten years of missing you does to me.”

Nick crawls back up Charlie’s body and kisses him— Deep, wet, messy, tasting both of them.

Charlie moans into his mouth, pulling him closer by the back of his neck.

“You’re going to end this too soon,” Charlie whispers against his lips, breath shaking. “I want you inside me far too badly for that.”

Nick’s eyes flicker— Dark and soft and full of devotion. “I want that too,” he breathes.

Charlie cups his jaw, kissing him again. “Then slow down,” he whispers. “Prep me. Take your time. Fuck me properly.”

Nick lets out a broken sound— half-moan, half-prayer— And nods. “Okay,” he whispers, voice trembling.

“Lie back for me. Let me make you ready.”

Charlie lies back into the pillows, chest rising fast, eyes dark with need.

Nick crawls down between his thighs again — and this time the hunger is visible, sharp in his breathing, in the tremor of his fingers, in the way he looks at Charlie like he’s something holy and forbidden and finally his.

He settles on his knees, palms sliding up Charlie’s thighs, slow but firm, thumbs pressing into warm skin.

“Fuck,” Nick breathes, voice ragged, “I could look at you like this forever.”

Charlie’s hips twitch at the words. “Nick…” he whispers, need rippling through the syllables.

Nick takes a shaky breath and reaches for more lube — drizzling it over his fingers, warming it in his palm.

Then he lifts Charlie’s left knee, kissing the inside of it, moving down the thigh with slow, lingering presses of his mouth.

Not rushing. But shaking with restraint.

Charlie shivers. “You’re killing me…”

Nick smirks against his skin. “Oh, love. I’m just getting started.”

He moves his hand back between Charlie’s legs, fingers sliding through the slickness, circling him — slow, deliberate, coaxing.

Charlie gasps, gripping the sheets. “Oh— fuck—”

Nick slides a finger in — gentle but with a firmer confidence now that Charlie is soft and ready and begging for him.

Charlie moans, head falling back, jaw going slack.

“That’s it,” Nick murmurs, kissing the inside of his thigh. “Good boy.”

Charlie’s breath snaps— He trembles— His hips push down on instinct.

Nick groans quietly at that, adding a second finger, stretching him with slow, thick, careful motions.

Charlie grabs at Nick’s forearm, panting. “Nick— god— you’re— you’re gonna make me come just from this—”

Nick smiles, breath shaking. “Not yet."

He curls his fingers just right, pressing into that spot he remembers— and Charlie cries out, back arching.

Nick lowers himself further— but stops just short of Charlie’s cock, breath stuttering with restraint and hunger.

“I’m fighting every instinct not to put my mouth on you,” he says, breathless. “You look too good like this, Charlie.”

Charlie’s hips twitch eagerly— Nick presses him back with a warm, firm hand. “But if I give in,” Nick murmurs, kissing him softly, “you’ll come before I get to fuck you.”

Charlie whimpers—actually whimpers—toes curling.

“But next time—,” Nick finishes, voice thick, “—I want you in my mouth. I want you coming down my throat.”

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed. “Nick—please—just—shut up before I come from your dirty talking alone.”

Nick chuckles, low and wrecking, and slides his fingers deeper— a slow thrust, then another, then a third— firm, steady, coaxing Charlie open with a deep, fluid motion that sends tremors up his spine.

Charlie’s thighs shake uncontrollably, his breath shattering. “Fuck—Nick— you’re— you’re so fucking good at this—”

Nick kisses the inside of his thigh, soft and wet and unbearably controlled. He’s trembling with restraint now. Charlie can feel it. Everywhere.

“I’m trying,” Nick whispers against his skin. “Trying so hard not to ruin you too fast.”

Charlie threads his fingers into Nick’s hair, pulling him up desperately.

“Nick—” His voice cracks. “Nick, I’m ready— please— just fuck me—”

Nick’s breath stutters. He presses a final, slow kiss to Charlie’s inner thigh.

Then he withdraws his fingers carefully— Charlie gasps at the loss, body clenching around nothing.

Nick wipes his fingers. Reaches for a condom. Rolls it on with hands that are shaking with emotion and hunger.

Then he moves over Charlie again, chest to chest, bodies trembling together.

Charlie wraps his arms around Nick’s shoulders. “Take me,” Charlie pleads softly. “I’ve been craving you for ten years.”

Nick’s eyes flutter shut as he leans in.

“Then lift your hips for me,” he whispers.

“I’m going to fill you.” Nick exhales a shuddering breath — then pushes in. Slow. So slow it nearly kills them both.

Charlie gasps — a sharp, broken sound — fingers clawing at Nick’s shoulders as the stretch hits him. “Oh— god— Nick—”

Nick freezes instantly, sucking in a breath through his teeth as Charlie tightens around him. “Shit— Charlie— you’re— fuck— you’re so tight—”

His forehead drops to Charlie’s cheek. “I’m gonna lose it—”

Charlie shakes his head fast, desperate. “No— don’t stop— I want it— I want all of you— please—”

Nick kisses him — messy, urgent, grounding — and pushes another inch deeper.

Charlie’s breath shatters. His back arches, legs tightening around Nick’s waist, pulling him in involuntarily. “Nick— Nick— I can feel you— oh god—”

“Breathe into it,” Nick murmurs, voice thick. “Let me take care of you.” He kisses along Charlie’s throat, slow and grounding.

Charlie drags in a shaky inhale. Then another. His body loosens—just enough.

“That’s it,” Nick whispers. “You’re doing perfect. Nick pushes the last inch in.

Buried to the hilt. Deep, full, overwhelming. Charlie cries out—a sound caught between pleasure and disbelief—clutching Nick like he might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Nick’s breath leaves him in a single, crushed sound. “Charlie— fuck— I’m inside you—”

Charlie’s eyes squeeze shut, tears beading at the corners. “Nick… don’t move… just— just stay— stay like this for a second—”

Nick stills, chest heaving, pressing soft kisses into Charlie’s cheek, jaw, neck, anywhere he can reach.

“Of course,” he whispers, breath shaking. “Take all the time you need. I’m here.”

Charlie trembles beneath him, adjusting, stretching, opening around him, every breath bringing him deeper into the moment — deeper into Nick.

After a long moment, Charlie whispers— “Move. Please.”

Nick lifts his head, eyes dark, blown, stunned with love and want. “You’re sure?”

Charlie cups his face with both hands, pulling him into a kiss that’s messy and hot and full of years of unsaid things.

“I’m sure,” Charlie breathes into his mouth. “Fuck me, Nick.”

Nick groans — broken, reverent — and pulls out an inch. Charlie gasps. Nick pushes back in — slow, deep, controlled.

Charlie’s eyes roll back. “Oh fuck— Nick— yes—”

Nick sets a rhythm. Slow, deep thrusts that drag along every sensitive place Charlie has. Firm enough to steal his breath. Gentle enough that Charlie feels cherished even as pleasure unravels him.

Charlie clings to him, nails scratching softly down Nick’s back.

“You feel— you feel so good— so good Nick—” Charlie whimpers, voice cracking. “Nick, I can’t— I can’t—”

Nick kisses him between each thrust, panting into his mouth. “I’ve got you— I’ve got you— let it happen—”

The pace builds. Not rushed — but desperate.

A decade of longing turning their bodies greedy.

Charlie sobs out a moan when Nick angles his hips just right. “Nick— oh my god— there— right there— don’t stop— don’t stop—”

Nick buries his face in Charlie’s neck, thrusting deeper, losing the last thread of restraint. “Charlie— fuck— you’re perfect— you’re so perfect for me— fuck—”

Charlie wraps his arms around Nick’s neck, dragging him down into a breathless kiss.

“Ahh— Nick— keep going—” he whispers against his lips. “Please— don’t stop.”

Nick moans, undone by the plea, bracing himself over Charlie as he drives in again—deep, desperate, losing control.

Their bodies slap together, the creak of the bed and their ragged breaths filling the room.

Charlie’s voice breaks. “Nick—Nick— I’m close— I’m— I’m gonna—”

Nick thrusts faster, deeper. “Come for me,” he begs, voice wrecked. “Come on me— come around me— please— I want to feel you—”

Charlie’s body tightens— He cries out and shatters. “Nick— oh fuck— Nick— Nick—”

He comes hard between them, coating their stomachs, shaking, sobbing, back arching completely off the bed.

He clenches around Nick so tight Nick nearly collapses. “Fuck— Charlie— Charlie— Char—”

Nick thrusts twice more— buries himself fully—and comes with a broken moan into the condom, body shaking in Charlie’s arms, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer, their foreheads pressed together as they fall apart.

He collapses onto Charlie, both of them trembling, clinging, breathing each other in.

Charlie strokes Nick’s back, whispering— “You came home.”

Nick presses a shaking kiss to Charlie’s temple. “I did,” he whispers back. “And I’m staying.”

They hold each other. Kissing.

Catching their breath. Clinging like the world outside has never existed.

For a long while, neither of them moves.

Nick stays pressed against Charlie, chest rising and falling in uneven waves, face buried in Charlie’s neck. Charlie wraps both arms around him like he’s afraid if he loosens even a little, Nick might evaporate back into memory.

Charlie breathes him in— the sweat, the warmth, the faint scent of Nick’s shampoo— something so painfully familiar it aches.

Slowly, Nick shifts, lifting his head just enough to meet Charlie’s eyes. He looks wrecked. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair sticking to his forehead, lashes wet.

But his eyes— god— they’re soft in a way Charlie hasn’t seen in ten years.

Charlie cups his cheek and whispers, “Hi.”

Nick lets out a breathless, shaky laugh. “Hi.”

They kiss— slow, unhurried, gentle in a way that feels like stitches being sewn back into something torn. Kissing for the sake of kissing, their mouths moving lazily, their breaths mingling.

When they pull apart, Nick winces slightly.

Charlie immediately tenses. “Did I hurt you?”

Nick shakes his head quickly. “No— no. Just… sensitive.” He kisses Charlie’s forehead. “We did kind of break each other.”

Charlie flushes, smiling sheepishly. “Worth it.”

Nick huffs a soft laugh and presses another kiss to Charlie’s lips before carefully— reluctantly— easing out of him.

Charlie gasps quietly, hand tightening on Nick’s arm. Nick kisses his temple. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he whispers.

Nick ties off the condom, tosses it into the bin beside the bed, then looks back at Charlie— all open, tender lines.

“I’ll clean you up,” Nick murmurs, brushing hair from Charlie’s forehead.

Charlie’s cheeks pink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Nick says simply.

He leans over the side of the bed, grabbing wet tissues he’d noticed earlier. Charlie watches him, chest fluttering with something painfully sweet, as Nick gently wipes between his thighs, being careful, slow, deliberate. Too gentle.

Charlie swallows hard. “Nick…”

Nick glances up. “I’ve thought about doing this for years,” Charlie whispers.

Nick’s throat works. He presses a soft kiss to Charlie’s knee. “I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

He finishes cleaning Charlie, wipes his own stomach, and quietly tosses the used tissues aside. He crawls back up, settling beside Charlie under the sheets— a warmth, a presence, a weight Charlie once thought he’d never feel again.

Without hesitation, Charlie curls into Nick’s chest.

Nick wraps an arm around him instantly, the other hand slipping into Charlie’s hair, fingers stroking slowly.

Charlie exhales into the hollow of Nick’s throat. “Don’t let go.”

Nick kisses the top of his head. “I’m not letting go. Not tonight. Not ever again if I can help it.”

Charlie’s fingers twist into Nick’s shirtless torso like he needs the grounding. “You can,” Charlie whispers. “You can help it. If… if you want to stay.”

Nick freezes for the smallest fraction of a second. Then he pulls Charlie in even closer. “I do,” Nick says firmly. “I want to stay. I want to wake up with you. I want to be here when you fall asleep. I want—” He swallows hard. “I want us to be boyfriends again.”

Charlie’s breath catches. His voice cracks apart. “Nick…”

Nick cups the back of Charlie’s head, thumb stroking his nape.

Then he says it — soft, terrified, honest in a way that leaves him naked. “My heart didn’t get the memo that we broke up.”

Charlie crumbles— Quietly, beautifully— burying his face in Nick’s chest as tears slip warm onto his skin, shoulders shaking with the weight of everything he never thought he’d hear again.

The moment Nick feels Charlie cry— really cry— his own breath hitching, eyes stinging, and before he can blink them away, tears spill over too.

He wraps both arms around Charlie, holding him tight, kissing his hairline through his own trembling.

“I’m right here,” Nick breathes, emotion trembling through every syllable. “I’m right here. I’m staying.”

Charlie breathes unevenly, gripping Nick tighter, like he’s afraid Nick might dissolve if he loosens his hold. “You always ruin me,” Charlie whispers, voice trembling.

Nick lets out a soft, wet laugh against Charlie’s hair.

“And you,” he whispers, pulling him impossibly closer, “always put me back together.”

They lie like that— bodies tangled, breaths slowly syncing— until Charlie calms, his tears drying on Nick’s skin.

Nick shifts slightly. “Tired?” he murmurs.

Charlie nods, pressing his face into Nick’s throat. “Stay?”

Nick pulls the blankets up over them both and kisses Charlie’s forehead one more time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Charlie lets out a small, content hum, fingers curling around Nick’s ribs.

Nick closes his eyes too, their bodies fitting back together with a familiarity that hurts.

Charlie whispers one last thing before sleep takes him— “Goodnight, Nick.”

Nick smiles into his hair, breath warm and soft. “Goodnight, Char.”

---

Nick wakes first.

He doesn’t move— mostly because Charlie is sprawled across him, one leg over Nick’s waist, an arm across his chest, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

He looks peaceful. Soft. Young again in a way that makes Nick’s chest feel tight. Nick brushes his thumb along Charlie’s hairline.

Charlie wrinkles his nose in his sleep.

Nick smiles. A small, ridiculous smile. God, he’s cute.

Charlie stirs, blinking slowly awake.

He yawns— a small, squeaky sound he absolutely would deny producing— and buries his face back into Nick’s chest.

“No,” he mumbles. “Five more hours.”

Nick laughs softly. “Not minutes?”

“Nope.” Charlie tightens his hold around Nick like a koala. “You’re comfortable. It’s your fault.”

Nick kisses the top of his head. “Good morning to you too.”

Charlie peeks up with one eye open.

“…you’re still here.”

Nick cups his cheek. “Where else would I be?”

Charlie flushes, ducking his head back down. “I dunno. Thought maybe you’d run once you noticed I sleep like a starfish.”

Nick laughs softly. “You sleep like a starfish?”

“Nicholas. My foot was on your thigh. I am the starfish.”

Nick smirks. “Okay, well— I’ve always liked how you sleep like a starfish actually. I think it’s cute.”

Charlie narrows his eyes playfully. “Careful. Flattery will get you breakfast-making duties.”

Nick sits up a little. “Oh, is that so?”

Charlie nods. “And by breakfast-making duties, I mean you’re in charge of making coffee while I supervise from a very safe distance.”

Nick snorts. “You’re a menace to society.”

“Well, I’m your menace now,” Charlie counters, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Before Nick can argue, a loud knock-knock-knock rattles Charlie’s front door.

Charlie freezes. Nick freezes. Their eyes widen at the exact same time.

“Oh my god—” Charlie whispers, panicked. “I think that’s my landlord.”

Nick blinks. “Why is your landlord knocking at—” He glances at the clock. “—eight thirty in the morning?”

Charlie covers his face with both hands. “He always picks the worst timing. He comes to fix things I never asked him to fix.”

The knocking continues. Harder this time.

Nick glances toward the bedroom door.

Charlie hisses, “Do NOT answer it. He talks for forty minutes straight about his cactus collection and I can’t—”

Another knock.

Louder—

“CHARLIE? HELLO? LIGHTBULB FIX!”

Charlie groans into Nick’s chest. “This man is my villain origin story.”

Nick tries not to laugh. Fails.

Charlie smacks his shoulder. “Don’t laugh! Oh shit—he has a key! If he thinks I’m not home he might unlock the—”

A click.

Both of them whip their heads toward the sound.

Footsteps.

“HELLOOO—?”

Charlie whispers, mortified, “We’re about to be found naked by a seventy-year-old man who thinks cacti have feelings.”

Nick mouths, What do we do?

Charlie scrambles — literally scrambles — off the bed, grabs the nearest clothing item (Nick’s jumper), and throws it over himself like a panicked kitten trying to hide under a blanket.

Nick grabs the duvet and wraps it around his waist.

Charlie flings open the bedroom door just as his elderly landlord peeks down the hall.

“Mr. Tan!” Charlie squeaks. “You can’t— you can’t just walk in!”

Mr. Tan holds up a fluorescent bulb like it’s a sacred relic. “LIGHTBULB FIX!”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it!”

He shrugs. “Still fix.”

Then he notices Nick behind Charlie — wrapped in a duvet, hair a mess, lip swollen.

Nick manages a polite wave. “Morning.”

Mr. Tan squints. “You staying here?”

Charlie goes bright red. “Um—”

Nick rescues him. “Just visiting.”

Mr. Tan nods slowly. Then gives Nick a huge thumbs up. A huge one. With far too much approval.

Charlie wants the earth to swallow him whole.

Mr. Tan hums cheerfully as he shuffles toward the kitchen, waving the bulb like a magic wand.

“You make coffee! I fix lightbulb!”

Charlie covers his face again. “Please take me out of this world.”

Nick slides a hand around his waist and pulls him in.

“Hey,” Nick whispers.

“You wanted soft and normal? This is… definitely normal.”

Charlie groans into Nick’s collarbone— but he’s smiling. “You better not leave,” he mutters. “Not after this humiliation.”

Nick kisses him— soft, warm, impossibly sweet.

“I’m staying,” he whispers.

“And I’ll help you survive Mr. Tan’s cactus TED Talk.”

Charlie sighs and rests his forehead against Nick’s. “What happens now?” he asks quietly.

Nick takes his hand.

“We make coffee. We survive your landlord. We take it one ridiculous morning at a time and—”

He smirks, leaning in, voice low.

“—once Mr. Tan leaves, I’d like to have my proper breakfast… by having my boyfriend’s cock in my mouth again.”

Charlie chokes on air, face going beetroot red.

“Nick! You can’t just say that! Mr. Tan is still here and—” He gestures helplessly downward, mortified. Charlie whisper shouts—

“You’re making it hard for me!”

His tone is annoyed, but the glint in his eyes absolutely betrays him.

Nick kisses along his jaw and whispers— “I like it hard.”

Charlie lets out an exasperated breath. “My boyfriend is a menace.”

Nick grins. “And yet, here you are.”

They walk into the kitchen together— Nick in a duvet, Charlie swallowed whole by Nick’s jumper— ready to make terrible coffee, endure cactus trivia, and quietly start the next chapter of their lives.

Not dramatic. Not grand.

Just simple. Soft.

And perfect.