Chapter Text
Nick Nelson always thought he knew what pain was.
At three years old, it was simple. The worst thing he could imagine was losing his toy elephant, Elphie—the one with the frayed ear and the soft patch where he’d rubbed the fabric raw from clutching it every night. He brought it with him to the zoo, bouncing with excitement to show the real elephants what he had. But when they reached the enclosure, Nick’s little hands betrayed him. In all his eagerness, he leaned too far over the rail and dropped Elphie straight into the exhibit. He remembers the toy vanishing into the dust below, swallowed up by a world too big for him to climb into. The elephants didn’t notice. The zookeeper couldn’t help. His mum tried to soothe him, cradling him on her lap, but the sight of his father’s scowl, the barked stop crying, Nicholas, it’s just a toy, only made his sobs sharper. That was the first time Nick learned that losing something you love can feel like the end of the world.
At five, pain looked different. His dad leaving wasn’t loud, wasn’t slammed doors or broken plates. It was silence. A suitcase by the door. A car pulling out of the driveway before sunrise. His mum’s face pale and tired, her arms stretched too thin between work and bills. Nick sat on the couch beside his brother, staring out the window for hours at a time, waiting for headlights that never came back. He didn’t understand why. He only knew that waiting could ache worse than bruises, and that sometimes the people you trusted most could vanish without explanation.
At thirteen, he thought he’d found the edge of pain again. A brutal rugby tackle left his arm bent at a sickening angle, bone pressing against skin where it shouldn’t. He remembered the scream tearing from his throat before the shock set in. He remembered the blur of faces around him, his coach shouting for help, his mum dropping to her knees at his side. She kept repeating you’re okay, just breathe, I’m here, steady as a metronome, holding him together until the hospital lights and the anaesthetic finally carried him away.
At eighteen, though—God. Nothing had ever prepared him for that kind of pain. The break with Charlie wasn’t physical, but it might as well have been. It hollowed him out from the inside, like someone had reached into his chest and ripped him apart at the seams. He’d thought heartbreak was just a word, something reserved for pop songs and films. He’d thought it would sting, maybe bruise. But this was different. This was the kind of pain that clung to him in the quiet, that made every meal taste like ash, every night stretch out too long.
Now, at almost forty years old, Nick Nelson has a strange relationship with pain.
He isn’t sure if he even believes in it anymore—or at least, not in the same way he did when he was three, or five, or eighteen. How could he call his life painful when he wakes every morning beside the man he loves, when Charlie’s laughter still fills the kitchen after all these years?
How could he call it pain when they’ve built a family together, one they never imagined at sixteen, sitting under trees and scribbling homework in between kisses?
He has Wylan, their almost-eighteen-year-old son, sharp and stubborn, with Nick’s jawline and Charlie's nerdiness. He has Aurelia, sixteen, soft-spoken and brilliant, already sketching her dreams of the world beyond Leeds in the margins of her school notebooks and piano playing.
A life so full it spills over.
A family home in a quiet street, far from the noise of London, where the only sounds at night are the wind against the windows and the hum of the radiator kicking in.
So then why does he catch himself wondering?
Why does he sit on the edge of the bed some nights, watching Charlie breathe in the half-light, and feel that same old whisper curl up from his chest—the one that asks, Is everything really fine?
Why does he find himself staring at the kitchen table, the one where Wylan used to stack blocks and Aurelia used to do spelling quizzes, and feel the weight of an absence he can’t quite name?
Everything is fine. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he tells Charlie. That’s what he tells the kids.
Everything is fine.
Right?
Right?
If everything is fine, then why is Nick sitting on the couch at three-thirty in the morning, staring at the front door like it holds the answer?
He waits. He prays. His mind keeps inventing ways his son might never come home.
Maybe a stage light fell on him during rehearsal. Maybe he was out with friends, high, and hit his head. Maybe he trusted someone—girl, boy, didn’t matter—and they turned on him. Maybe it was something darker. Something Nick doesn’t want to name.
The thoughts pile higher, sharper, until he can hardly breathe.
Then—
The lock clicks.
The door creaks open.
Wylan steps inside. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messy, that easy grin plastered across his face like he hasn’t been gone for hours. Like this is all perfectly ordinary.
“What are you doing up?” he says, letting the bag fall by the door with a careless thud. His tone is light, unbothered, like the hour means nothing.
Nick drags a hand down his face, exhaustion written deep into the lines of his skin. He looks at his son, standing there smug and steady, and his chest aches with both relief and anger.
“It’s the seventh night this week I’ve been up ‘til morning,” Nick mutters, voice frayed, uneven.
Wylan’s grin only widens. He claps his hands once, sharp, mocking. “Oh, great!”
“This isn’t funny,” Nick says quietly, throat tight. “I was… I was thinking of all the ways you could’ve died.”
Wylan hums, as if weighing the thought, then slides down onto the carpet beside the couch. He leans back on his hands, grin spreading wide, wickedly playful. “And tonight’s winner is…?” He tilts his head, waiting.
Nick’s throat tightens. The words scrape out.
“A freak tornado. No warning. Just… gone.”
Wylan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s something that happens in the UK.”
“Don’t,” Nick snaps, sharper than he means to. His voice cracks, desperate, trembling. He points at him like the motion could hold him there, keep him safe. “You’ll get it one day—when you’re a parent. You promised you’d come home early, and then you vanish—and I’m sat here thinking about protests, car accidents, wars, God knows what else—” His breath stutters. “And—”
“And nothing,” Wylan cuts in, rolling his eyes. “I’m almost eighteen, Pops. You’ve got to let go eventually.”
Nick reaches out, mussing his son’s hair before he can stop himself, pressing a kiss against his forehead. Wylan softens, just for a moment, leaning into it like he used to when he was small. Then he stands up, bends down, and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s cheek.
The warmth of it breaks something in Nick’s chest.
“You’re not smoking pot, right?” Nick blurts, the words rushing out raw, jagged.
Wylan pauses. His grin flickers, fading for a second. Then he shrugs, easy, careless. “Not at the moment.”
Nick’s head jerks up. “At the moment? What does that mean?!” His voice pitches high, wild with panic. He gestures toward the backpack by the door, heart hammering. “Wylan, don’t make me go through that bag. Is that why you were out so late?”
Wylan opens his mouth, ready to bite back, but a voice drifts down from upstairs. Groggy. Concerned.
“Nick? Is that you?”
Charlie.
Nick’s whole chest seizes. He turns to Wylan, clutching his shoulders, kissing the crown of his head like he’s afraid it might vanish. His whisper comes out sharp, pleading.
“Go. Go—before he comes down. You know how he gets when you’re out late.”
Wylan smirks faintly, already edging into the shadows of the hallway. His voice dips, softer, uncertain. “Why does he hate me?”
Nick’s heart lurches. “He doesn’t hate you,” he insists, fierce and immediate. Then his tone hardens, cracking under the weight of worry. “But you are a twat, sneaking in at this hour.”
Wylan’s grin slides back into place, wicked and boyish. “You can’t call me a twat, Pops.”
“Shhh.” Nick presses a finger to his lips, eyes darting to the staircase. “Go, before he sees you. And bed, I mean it. Don’t stay up playing games again, or I’ll take that PlayStation away.”
Wylan rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, yeah.” He scoops up his backpack and pads down the hall, his footsteps muffled into the carpet.
The master bedroom door creaks open.
“Nick?” Charlie’s voice drifts into the dark, rough with sleep. “Everything okay? I thought I heard voices.”
Nick whirls around, forcing a smile even as his pulse hammers in his ears. Wylan’s figure slips into the corridor, his bedroom door shutting softly behind him, just like any teenager’s would.
“Oh—yeah,” Nick says too quickly. He leans back against the couch, trying for casual. “Everything’s fine. Just me, getting some water.”
His gaze snags on Charlie at the bottom of the stairs—bare-chested, hair rumpled from sleep, boxers hanging loose on his hips. Nick feels a different heat rise in his face, sudden and sharp. He grins, soft but hungry.
“God, Char… you look so good.”
Charlie blinks, suspicion dulled by exhaustion. “Thanks?” he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep, though the affection in Nick’s tone softens him.
Nick reaches out, fingertips brushing his waist before settling into a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t we go back upstairs? Make the most of being awake.”
Charlie lets out a startled laugh, eyebrows lifting. Concern lingers behind it, though—he tilts his head, studying Nick.
“Yeah? Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“I promise, baby.” Nick cups his cheek, thumb tracing the warm skin there. His smile stretches wider than it should, almost desperate, but steady in the dim light. “My throat was just dry.”
Charlie’s frown eases. He leans into the touch, tired but willing to believe him. “Alright, darling,” he says quietly. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Nick whispers. He leans in, brushing a kiss against his lips, letting it linger. “Go on, I’ll turn the lights off down here and meet you in bed.”
Charlie nods, still blinking through the haze of waking. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”
Nick kisses him again, longer this time, before giving him a gentle smack on the ass as he turns toward the stairs. Charlie chuckles, shaking his head, and pads off toward their room.
The house falls quiet again. Nick stands in the half-light of the living room, staring at the cushions creased by his own weight, at the empty doorway where his son had stood only minutes ago. His throat tightens. The silence presses in, louder than before.
He has a good life. No reason to go searching for pain where there shouldn’t be any. That’s what he tells himself as he moves to shut off the lights.
But before he reaches the switch, Aurelia barrels in, backpack slung over one shoulder, arms stacked with books and loose papers. Her reddish hair is twisted into a messy bun, freckles bright against her tired skin.
“Aurelia?” Nick blinks, startled. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, oh yeah, it’s great!” she says too quickly, dropping her things onto the coffee table. “I’ve just got three calculus assignments, geography, and an essay on American Establishments and Their Collapse—but I’m great! So great!”
Nick hums softly, stepping forward to press a kiss against her forehead. “You shouldn’t be up at this hour finishing schoolwork, sweetie. Maybe try asking your teachers for more time.”
She sighs, uncapping her pen. “Sorry, Dad, not all teachers are as nice as you. I’ve tried.”
Nick studies her for a beat, catching the shadows under her eyes, the weariness in her smile. He kisses her forehead again, gentler this time. “Just… try to take care of yourself, yeah?”
“Mhmm.” Aurelia hums without looking up, already scribbling something across a page. She waves him off with her pencil, shooing him away.
Nick laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he backs away. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it.”
And then it hits him again—oh yeah. Charlie. Sex.
Nick slips quietly up the stairs, easing into the bedroom. Charlie is already sitting up, propped against the headboard, hair rumpled from sleep and eyes soft in the lamplight. Nick’s chest squeezes at the sight—sexy and sweet all at once, the kind of sight that makes him ache with want.
A low growl escapes before he can swallow it down. He crawls across the mattress and straddles Charlie’s lap, kissing him desperately.
Charlie kisses back, steady and warm. For three whole seconds, Nick lets himself sink into it. But then Charlie breaks away just enough to whisper, his breath brushing Nick’s mouth.
“Nick… are you really okay? You’ve been up in the middle of the night for a week straight now. Nothing’s going on, right? Aurelia—she isn’t—”
Nick cuts him off with another kiss, firm and insistent. “She’s fine,” he promises quickly, almost too quickly. “She’s stressed with school, yeah. But she isn’t doing anything bad. I promise.”
Charlie hums, unconvinced, his thumb brushing Nick’s hip. “And you? Are you okay?”
Nick freezes for a moment, the question landing like a stone in his chest. His throat tightens as he looks at Charlie—the man who always knows how to calm him, the man who always worries about their daughter first. Always Aurelia.
A pang shoots through him, sharp and unexplainable. He doesn’t understand why it stings so much, doesn’t understand why it matters, but it does. It gnaws at him.
“Why don’t you ever worry for Wylan the way you do Aurelia?” The words slip out quieter than he means, but edged all the same.
Charlie blinks, caught off guard. For a moment, his face is raw with something Nick can’t read—remorse, hurt, maybe even fear. His hands shift, nudging Nick gently off his lap. He swallows hard.
“Nick… what do you mean? You know that he is—”
But Nick doesn’t want to hear it. His chest is already too tight, his head buzzing. He doesn’t want Charlie’s explanations or that note of concern that sometimes sneaks into his voice. He came here for warmth, for escape, not to be dissected. He doesn't know why he ever even asked.
So he silences him with another kiss, deeper this time, swallowing the words before they can form. His whisper is ragged, urgent against Charlie’s lips.
“Never mind that.”
“Nick—” Charlie breathes against his mouth.
Nick pulls back just far enough to sigh, eyes locked on him. His voice comes out sharp, frayed at the edges.
“Are we going to have sex or not? It’s four in the morning, and we’ve got to be up in an hour. So what’s it going to be—sex, or should I just hit the shower to keep myself awake while you keep trying to check on me, when I’m clearly fine?”
Charlie stares at him, silence stretching, something flickering in his expression. At last, his voice slips out in a whisper. “Fine. We can have sex. …Sorry for being a worried husband.”
Nick huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “And now you’re making me the jackass husband.”
“Nick, just—” Charlie starts, but the words tangle in his throat. Nick watches him wrestle with the thoughts behind his eyes, with the words he doesn’t want to say.
Before he can get them out, Nick kisses him again, harder this time, swallowing the hesitation, pressing urgency into the space between them. His voice drops low, ragged and pleading as he breathes against Charlie’s lips, “Just fuck me, yeah?”
Charlie exhales, eyes searching Nick’s face for a moment before he whispers, “Okay.”
The rest of the night dissolves into heat and distraction.
Nick stands in front of the mirror, raking his fingers through his hair until it lies neat enough, then smoothing the collar of his button-up. He breathes out, straightens once more, and starts down the stairs.
“Nick—” Charlie’s voice comes rushing after him. Barefoot, shirt hanging open, jeans only half-buttoned. He catches him at the landing, grinning, still flushed. “That was… good, Nick.”
Nick rolls his eyes.
Okay, so maybe their sex life hasn’t exactly been fireworks lately. They’ve been married nearly twenty years. The honeymoon phase has long packed its bags. Can you really blame them?
Nick just nods, gaze dropping to Charlie’s bare chest, the trail of hair disappearing into undone denim. He rolls his eyes again.
“Fuck,” Charlie mutters, glancing at the clock. “I’m going to be late.”
Nick moves toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath, “Great. That’ll remind you to take a whole ten minutes.”
Charlie blinks. “What?”
Nick clears his throat, plastering on a smile. “I said, what a great day it is!”
“Mmhmm, the raining September and cold weather is great.”
Nick rolls his eyes, turning to the counter to start the coffee. The machine hums, steady and soft, filling the silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charlie sink onto the couch to put on his shoes. A warning rises sharp in Nick’s throat—not there, don’t sit there—but he swallows it down. Too early. He doesn’t want another fight.
He exhales instead, long and weary, eyes fixed on the coffee pot.
Movement in the hallway catches his attention.
Wylan steps out of his bedroom, sweater hanging loose, toothbrush poking out of his mouth. His hair strands are a wild mess, toothpaste froth at the corners of his lips.
Nick’s chest aches. His voice drops low, barely above a whisper meant for no one else. “Morning, son.”
He reaches out, ruffling Wylan’s hair as he passes. Wylan grins, foam spilling, before leaning over the sink and spitting.
Nick lets out a breathy laugh, quiet enough that Charlie, bent over his laces, doesn’t look up. “Teenage boys,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.
Charlie glances at Nick, something flickering across his face, before shaking his head and jogging toward the laundry room to grab a tie.
Wylan waves after him, grin bright. “Hi, Dad.”
Nothing. No response. Not even a glance.
The smile falters. He sighs, whispering low enough that only Nick can hear, “It only hurts when I’m here.”
Nick’s chest tightens. He sighs, reaching out to pat Wylan’s cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw like he can anchor him in place. His eyes flick toward the laundry room, sharp with a glare, before softening again at his son.
“You better get going. Big day ahead.”
He turns toward the fridge, pulling out the milk.
Wylan leans on the counter, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. “You have no idea what I do all day.”
Nick smirks faintly, pouring cereal into a bowl. “Jazz band before school. Classes. Key Club. Then rehearsal.”
Wylan points his toothbrush at him, grinning again. “Not bad.”
Nick chuckles, the sound slipping out without thinking. “Go on, get ready.”
“Okay, okay!” Wylan laughs, padding down the hallway.
Just as he disappears, Charlie comes rushing back through, tie in hand. Wylan presses himself against the wall to let him pass. “Dad,” he says brightly.
Ignored again.
Nick’s jaw clenches. He shoots Charlie a glare as he breezes past, then shakes his head and turns back to the counter, pouring milk into the bowl.
Charlie jogs back into the kitchen, tie half-done, and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s shoulder as he passes. His voice is low, fond.
“Any interesting lessons for school today?”
Nick grimaces at the kiss—just barely, but enough to feel it in his chest. He opens his mouth, ready to answer—
A blur of footsteps interrupts him.
Aurelia barrels down the stairs, her hair still caught up in that messy bun, backpack bumping against her hip. “Um—” she says, breathless. “I just got the date for my recital. I was wondering if you’d be free to go?”
Charlie lights up instantly. “Of course, sweetheart.”
Nick nods quickly, forcing his smile wider. “Yeah, sweetie, we’ll put it on the calendar.”
Aurelia hesitates, her nose wrinkling as she glances toward the kitchen wall. “But… the calendar hasn’t been changed in years.”
Nick follows her gaze.
The old calendar still hangs there, edges curled, a photograph of tulips faded from sun. The page is stuck on April. April of three years ago.
Nick exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Whoops.”
“It’s fine, Pops,” Aurelia says, sliding into a chair. Her smile wavers. “Just don’t forget this time. Please.”
“We promise, Rey,” Charlie says immediately, warm and certain. “We’ll be there.”
She nods, reaching for the bowl on the counter—the one Nick had set out. His hand twitches toward it, ready to pull it back. That was meant for Wylan. Wylan likes all the chocolate pieces, while Aurelia prefers the marshmallows.
But before he can move, Charlie grabs the other bowl, the one that was meant for Aurelia. He digs in with hurried spoonfuls.
Nick freezes, lips parting, a protest caught in his throat.
Charlie looks up mid-bite, guilty. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, darling—was this one for you?”
Nick shakes his head quickly. “No, it was—” His eyes flick toward the hallway. Charlie’s gaze sharpens, too perceptive, reading him too closely. Nick can’t stand it. He shuts down. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
Charlie hums, unconvinced, and turns back to Aurelia. “Sweetie, you look tired.”
“I was up early finishing homework,” she mutters, pulling her hair tighter into its bun.
“Rey…” Charlie says, voice dipped in concern.
“I know, I know.” She throws up a hand, frustration spilling out. “I’m sorry I’m not the perfect daughter, okay? I’ll do better.” Her words hang sharp in the air before she bolts upstairs, muttering about her backpack.
Nick stares after her, chest aching. “She’s doing her best,” he says quietly, but there’s an edge there, sharper than he intended.
Charlie’s head snaps up. “Oh, now you care?” His voice cracks with something rawer than anger. “You’re so… confusing, Nick!”
The words slice through him. Nick presses a hand to his face, dragging it down as his voice rises, fraying. “Well, I’m sorry—it’s not my fault I’ve got eighteen different things on my mind at all—”
He stops. The rest chokes in his throat.
Because just then, Wylan comes barreling down the hallway, red backpack bouncing against his shoulder, grin wide and bright.
Nick exhales, all the fight bleeding out of him in an instant. He doesn’t want to argue in front of the kids. Not again.
His voice is smaller when he turns back to Charlie, eyes tired, almost breaking. “I’m sorry I’ve been… off lately.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Charlie says quietly, setting his empty bowl down.
Nick forces a smile, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek. “I’m fine. Promise.”
He turns away before Charlie can search his eyes again, moving to the cupboards, pulling out bread. The rhythm of making sandwiches steadies him—spread, layer, slice. He lines them up neatly and takes the knife, cutting them into rectangles.
Behind him, Charlie rises to grab his coat from the hook.
Wylan drifts in at Nick’s side, easy as anything. He leans over and presses a quick kiss to Nick’s cheek, grinning like he always does. Nick hums under his breath, warmth pricking at his chest.
Then Wylan plucks up Charlie’s keys from the counter, dangling them loosely so they clink together. “Hey, Dad,” he says, smile wicked, holding them out.
Charlie doesn’t look towards him. His gaze is fixed instead on Nick—the set of his shoulders, the knife in his hand glinting as it slices through soft bread.
Wylan sighs, rolling his eyes. He tosses the keys behind him carelessly, letting them clatter across the ground.
Nick has to bite back a laugh, lips twitching as he hides a snort at his son’s antics. He shakes his head, forcing his focus back down to the sandwiches.
From upstairs, Aurelia’s footsteps drum against the stairs, growing louder as she comes rushing back down.
One, two, three, four, five. Sandwiches. One for me, one for Charlie, two for Wylan, one for Aurelia.
Eight lettuces. Five tomatoes. Bread. Lettuce. Tomato. Meat—
He frowns. The meat’s gone.
His gaze drops. It’s on the floor.
When did he…?
Why is the meat on the ground? And—why are the sandwiches on the ground too?
They weren't there a second ago.
Right?
His hands are empty. His knees ache. Was he making them on the floor?
“Nick!” Charlie’s voice cuts sharp through the fog. “Nick!”
Nick jerks his head up, blinking, lost. Everything tilts—the kitchen too bright, too loud, his children’s eyes on him. Aurelia’s face is tight with worry. Wylan’s is pale, frightened.
Wylan steps forward, reaching for him.
“I was just—” Nick stammers, words cracking. He gestures at the scattered bread, the fallen lettuce. “I’m just making sandwiches!”
Wylan freezes mid-step, fear flickering across his face.
Charlie drops down in front of him, cupping Nick’s face in his hands, grounding him. His eyes stay locked on Nick’s, steady, but his voice lifts, calling over his shoulder. “It’s fine. Just… go. I’ll take care of it.”
“Dad—” Aurelia’s voice trembles.
“It’s fine,” Charlie repeats firmly, not looking back. “Go on. You’ll be late for the bus.”
“Dad.” Wylan again, voice breaking.
“I said go,” Charlie says, sharper now. “I’ve got it handled.”
Nick stares past Charlie’s shoulder, watching as Aurelia turns reluctantly toward the door. Wylan lingers, eyes wide, before finally stepping back.
And then they’re gone.
Leaving Nick on the kitchen floor, Charlie’s hands warm against his cheeks, the silence pressing in. “I’m sorry,” Nick whispers, voice cracking.
Charlie strokes his cheek with his thumb, soft as a breath. “It’s okay.”
Nick swallows hard, eyes darting to the counter, then back to Charlie. “I… I was making them on the counter, wasn’t I?”
Charlie’s lips press into a thin line. He exhales, forehead nearly touching Nick’s. His voice dips low, steady. “I think I lost you there for a bit, darling. You… you weren’t here.”
Nick’s breath hitches, chest rising and falling too fast.
Charlie glances at the food scattered across the floor—the bread, the lettuce, the pale slices of meat. His voice is quiet, pained.
“Are the meds not working again?”
Nick shakes his head fiercely, tears starting to spill. “I don’t want more meds.”
“I know, babe,” Charlie says gently, pulling him closer. “I know. But they’re keeping you up, and now you’ve just had an episode.” He nods toward the mess on the floor.
Nick’s eyes follow the motion, widening as if he’s seeing it for the first time. A choked sound tears from his throat, raw and ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he cries out, voice breaking.
Charlie catches him, gathering him in with strong arms, rocking him gently on the kitchen floor. “Shh. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. I’ve got you.”
Charlie’s hands stay firm against his cheeks, steadying him, grounding him. “Let’s just…” He swallows, brushing his thumb along Nick’s jaw. “Let’s just go talk to Doctor Geoff. We’ll figure this out, yeah?”
Nick’s chest trembles with a shaky breath. He nods, just barely, and hums low in his throat. The sound is small, broken, but it’s all he has to give.
"I'm fine."
Nick closes his eyes, wishing he could believe it, wishing he could be enough for them. For Charlie. For Aurelia. For Wylan.
“I’m fine,” he whispers to no one in particular, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.
Charlie only holds him tighter.
And in the half-light of the morning, with September rain tapping against the windows and a house that suddenly feels too quiet, Nick realizes that sometimes the worst pain isn’t loud—it’s the kind that hides inside ordinary days, waiting to be named.
What is wrong with him?