Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The new flat smells faintly of fresh paint and someone else’s detergent. Cardboard boxes line the hallway like a tiny city they haven’t learned to navigate yet.

Nick kicks a path through them, balancing a kettle and a tangle of extension cords, while Charlie wrestles a duvet out of plastic and gets hit in the face by the tag.

“Domestic goddess,” Nick says, deadpan, setting the kettle on the counter like it’s a trophy.

“I’ll have you know,” Charlie says, prying the tag off with his teeth, “I am excellent at duvet admin. It’s the duvet that has poor listening skills.”

Nick laughs, the sound warm and easy. He looks exactly like someone who thinks this is the start of everything— sleeves shoved to his elbows, hair damp from rain, a smile that keeps forgetting to stop.

He’s wearing a faded green rugby tee and navy joggers, the ones Charlie pretends not to notice make him look unfairly good.

Charlie, for his part, has put on a striped long-sleeve and jeans because stripes feel like good, sensible decisions.

He’s also taped a paper label to his door in all caps: CHARLIE. The tape peels up on one corner like it’s already given up.

“Tea?” Nick says, already reaching for the two new mugs Charlie bought from the charity shop on the way up— one with a golden retriever looking proud of itself, one with a judgmental black cat.

He rinses them like they’re treasures and not fifty-p each.

“Obviously,” Charlie says. “But only if I get the cat. You scream dog energy.”

“Dog energy?” Nick clutches his chest in mock-offence and then grins because it’s true.

He sets the kettle going and they both go still for a second, listening to water try to become steam. Outside, traffic mutters; in the corridor, someone drags furniture, a long scrape.

Inside, they’re a soft mess. Charlie can feel the shape of this moment settling into him—the same way he felt the first time Nick sat with him in the school canteen and split a bag of crisps down the seam like an offering. He thinks We made it here. Then, please let us stay good.

There’s a knock.

Charlie wipes his hands on his jeans and opens the door. A stranger beams at him— an androgynous person in a red beanie and an oversized denim jacket covered in enamel pins.

“Hi! Eli. Pride Society. We’re doing a mixer tonight in the Union—low-pressure, lots of biscuits. You two just moved in?”

They peer past Charlie’s shoulder, clocking the mugs and the chaos. “Welcome to Leeds. Bring your roommate. Allies welcome.”

Charlie blinks, slow to catch up. “Oh! Hi. I’m Charlie. That’s—”

“Nick,” Nick says from the kitchen, giving an apologetic wave with a tea towel.

His brain does a small loop-the-loop—mixer? already?—and then lands — okay. His chest is a steady drumbeat; he decides not to examine why.

“Perfect,” Eli says, handing over a flyer and pointing at the time. “If you come early, we have pronoun stickers and someone’s making traybake. See you later?”

Their eyes flick over Nick and Charlie in quick assessment— two boys, one kitchen, shared mugs. Eli smiles like they know a secret and then heads off down the corridor, knocking on the next door.

Charlie closes the door and leans on it, the flyer bright in his hand. He glances at Nick. “So. Biscuits.”

“Very persuasive,” Nick says, going back to the mugs. He feels his own face; it’s already in a smile. He tells himself it’s about biscuits.

They unpack for another hour, shuffling boxes, making piles, pretending the kitchen drawers are puzzles they can solve by willpower alone.

When the kettle clicks again, Nick snaps his fingers. “Lunch. I brought tuna garlic sandwiches from home.”

Charlie stares, amused and a little alarmed. “You brought—sorry—tuna from home? In Tupperware?”

“From Mum,” Nick says, reverent. “Sacred offering. Don’t be ungrateful.”

He plates them like he’s on a cooking show, cutting them diagonally because he’s not a barbarian, and they sit at the wobbly table with the dog and cat mugs steaming between them.

The air smells aggressively of garlic. Charlie takes the first bite, makes an appreciative noise, then fans his mouth with the flyer. “We are going to be social lepers tonight.”

“Worth it,” Nick says, mouth full, then swallows and goes oddly quiet. His shoulders shift—broad and a little tense. He taps the edge of the table, once, twice. Charlie watches his knuckles, the small nervous rhythm.

“Hey,” Charlie says, soft. “Your face has gone to the place where you’re thinking too many thoughts. Do I need to wrestle the thoughts.”

Nick huffs out a laugh and then looks up, meeting his eyes. He holds the look like a ledge. “I want to tell you something,” he says, and his voice is careful, like he’s laying a brick.

Charlie sets the sandwich down. “Okay.”

Nick picks at a crumb with his thumbnail. “I think I want to go to the mixer.” He swallows. “And maybe not as—um—an ally.”

Silence, gentle and weighty, like a blanket laid over the table.

Charlie’s heart bumps twice and then lifts, but there’s something sharp beneath the rise — a flicker of surprise that feels too big to name.

He tries to keep his face steady, because the feeling is huge and he wants to honour it rather than spook it.

He’s proud of Nick, truly, and yet there’s this strange ache curling quietly inside him — an ache he can’t quite place, only feel. It sits under his ribs like a soft bruise, confusing and warm all at once.

The news is a shock, he realises, even though it shouldn’t be. And maybe later, when he’s alone, he’ll spiral about why it hurts and why it doesn’t.

Right now, though, he forces a small, steady smile — the kind that feels like an anchor thrown into uncertain water.

“Okay,” he says, and smiles like an open door. “Thanks for telling me.”

He reaches for the flyer and slides it between them as though that’s where the conversation can rest. “Do you… how are you feeling about it? Are you…?”

Nick exhales. The relief is visible—his shoulders lower, his face loosens.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean—I’ve only ever kissed one girl. Tara. When I was fifteen. It was… nice? I liked it.” He shrugs, the movement self-conscious. “But I’ve never—”

He stops, glances at Charlie, looks away, looks back. Don’t say you. Don’t say you. “I’ve never kissed a boy, so I can’t be sure. I don’t—” He searches the ceiling for a word that doesn’t exist.

“I don’t want to pick a label because I’m rubbish at tests without revising.”

Charlie’s smile tugs wider. He has to stop his hands from fidgeting; he folds them around the cat mug. Inside, he feels that ache again — sorry and thrilled, confused and alive all at once.

“You don’t have to pick anything,” he says.

“Not today. Not ever, if you don’t want to.” He hesitates, then lets the thought out like a kite.

“If you want, we could… you know.” His eyes flick to Nick’s mouth and then back up, quick and embarrassed. “Purely for science.”

Nick blinks. His brain does that loop-the-loop again and then lands somewhere breathless.

“You’re—offering?”

Charlie shrugs, attempting casual; he fails a bit. “Peer-reviewed experiment. We’re very academic.”

Nick laughs, and it cracks in the middle, sweet and shaky. He leans forward a fraction, elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely as if anything tighter would be admission.

His knee bumps Charlie’s under the table and stays there, warm. “I—yeah. Maybe. I’d like—” He stops, clears his throat.

“Yes.”

They both lean a little, then a little more. The room seems to get very precise— the way Charlie’s lashes throw tiny shadows on his cheeks, the way Nick’s breath catches, the ridiculous halo of the golden retriever on the mug between them.

They are thirty centimetres away.

Twenty.

Ten.

Nick freezes, eyes going comically wide. “Wait,” he whispers. “We definitely have sandwich breath.”

Charlie breaks into helpless laughter, head tipping back. The relief hurries in behind it like sunshine.

“Oh my God, we absolutely do.”

They collapse back into their chairs, laughing, palms over their mouths as if laughter needs modesty. Nick is pink to the ears. “Okay,” he says, still grinning. “Pin in it?”

“Pin in it,” Charlie echoes, feeling a bubble of joy that makes him light — almost dizzy. He wanted to. He wants to.

His pulse is all over the place, loud enough that he’s sure Nick can hear it. He grips his mug tighter, sips his tea to hide the way his hands tremble. Breathe. Stop thinking too much.

His brain is already trying to run in every direction — what this means, what it doesn’t, what he wants it to mean — and he forces himself to focus on the taste of tea, the warmth in his palms, the way Nick’s laugh sounds when he exhales.

He doesn’t want to spiral, not right now. Not when everything feels so fragile and almost perfect.

The afternoon slides on. They unpack, put books on shelves at the wrong height, argue amiably about where the colander should live (“Not above the oven, that’s chaos”). When the sky starts to bruise into evening, they change for the mixer.

Nick comes out of his room in a dark button-down that makes his eyes look bluer; he fiddles with the cuffs like he’s not sure where his wrists normally go.

He catches sight of Charlie in a black jumper and jeans and stops walking for a second—the pause barely there, but there. He thinks— He looks like himself. He thinks— Don’t stare.

“You look nice,” Charlie says, too fast, then adds, “Very… ambassador of good decisions.”

Nick snorts. “You look good too. Very ‘I know every lyric but won’t tell you.’”

They head across campus under a fine mist that isn’t quite rain. The Union is bright and bustling; the mixer is in a side room with fairy lights, pronoun stickers, and a table of biscuits so big it borders on comedic.

Eli waves them over, slaps he/him stickers on both of them with ceremonious flourish, and introduces them to three people in pastel jumpers who immediately attempt to feed them shortbread.

They are fine. They are—more than fine.

They drink squash from paper cups and laugh nervously at icebreakers and end up in a circle where someone is listing queer film recommendations in order of budget.

People keep glancing at Nick and Charlie and smiling. Twice, someone asks how long they’ve been together. Once, a girl with glitter on her cheekbones says, “You two are very cute,” in a way that is observational rather than probing.

Charlie feels the words land and ricochet in his chest; he smiles back and says something about being flatmates. Nick feels heat climb his neck and says thank you because that seems polite.

There is a moment—by the biscuit table, dangerously close to the Jammie Dodgers—where Nick and Charlie find themselves alone in the small space between bodies.

It’s loud enough to be private. Nick’s hand grazes the back of Charlie’s knuckles as they both reach for the same biscuit. The touch is nothing. It is everything. They both pretend to be extremely interested in napkins. Keep the line. Keep the line.

When they leave, the mist has upgraded to drizzle. They jog half the way back, hoodies up, laughing at a puddle that attacks Nick’s shoe.

Back in the flat, they shake rain off like dogs and automatically make tea again—dog mug for Nick, cat for Charlie without discussion.

They sit on the sofa, knees turned toward each other. The living room is a soft cave—one lamp, a stack of boxes acting as a coffee table, fairy lights someone left behind that Charlie has already decided they’re keeping.

Their trainers are dumped in a heap by the door, a newly invented ritual.

“So,” Charlie says, lifting his mug to blow on it. His mouth twitches, nervous. “Did you—enjoy the mixer?”

Nick’s lips curve, unguarded. “Yeah. I did.” He braves a sip and sets the mug down, lining the handle up with the edge of the coaster like it matters. He looks at Charlie properly, and his chest loosens. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Obviously,” Charlie says, like there was any universe in which he wouldn’t. His heart beats in his throat. He swallows.

“Do you… do you still want to get that kiss?” The words come out softly and then hang there, absurdly brave.

Nick goes very still. Oh god, of course he remembers. His pulse leaps straight into his ears. For a second he can’t tell if he’s excited or terrified; maybe both. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. My heart’s not going to survive this.

He shifts closer on the sofa, thigh brushing Charlie’s. His breath comes shallow, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and this time it’s steady. “I do.”

They lean in. The room narrows to breath and the faint hum of the fridge. Charlie can feel his own pulse in his mouth;

Nick feels the air move between them like something alive. Please let this be simple and not simple at the same time, he thinks. The line between them looks less like a boundary now and more like a doorway he’s been waiting years to step through.

When their lips meet, the world tilts. The kiss is soft and new and dizzying; it tastes of tea and nerves and every unspoken thing he’s wanted to say. It’s better—so much better—than the clumsy sweetness of kissing Tara at fifteen. No offence, Tara, his mind blurts, but this… this is perfect.

He could stay here forever. His hands ache with the urge to hold, to keep. But Charlie had said for science, and Nick’s chest tightens with the reminder—don’t make it weird, don’t make it hard for him.

He pulls back first, gentle, the space between them buzzing.

Both of them laugh—light, astonished, shaky. Charlie’s eyes are bright in the lamplight, like he’s been caught in the act of hoping.

Nick’s whole face has answered a question he’d been too scared to write down.

“Well,” Nick says, voice low, a smile shaping it. “I’m definitely… not straight.” He scrubs the back of his neck, sheepish and delighted. “Probably bi. Maybe pan. I—yeah.”

Charlie exhales a sound that is half relief, half devastation, and then leans into humour like it’s a rope. “Glad I could assist in your rigorous methodology.”

“Five stars,” Nick says. “Would peer-review again.”

They both laugh. The laughter fades. They look at each other like they’re looking at a horizon and trying to see if it’s moving.

Then, almost in the same breath, they pull back just enough to be safe. They make a show of finishing tea, washing mugs, switching off the lamp. They linger in the hallway, the electricity of the kiss still on their skin, and then retreat to their rooms with soft goodnights that sound like promises.

In the dark, Charlie lies flat and stares at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest like he’s trying to keep himself intact.

They’d agreed it was for science—light, funny, no feelings to unpack. Simple.

It’s meant to be simple.

So why does his heart still trip over the memory every time he blinks?

He replays the warmth of it, the dizzy closeness, the way Nick’s laugh had caught on a breath right after.

The way people at the mixer had called them cute like it was already written somewhere that they were.

He tells himself it was a joke; friends can joke. He tells himself their friendship is too important to risk. He fails at both.

If it was just science, he thinks, why does it still feel like proof?

He turns on his side, staring into the faint strip of light bleeding through the crack of his door. Why did I even suggest the kiss?

His mind won’t stop replaying it, rewinding and looping until it hurts. Why did I remind him about it? He hadn’t known what he was doing when he said it — just words tumbling out before his brain could catch up. He hadn’t expected Nick to say yes.

And now he knows how Nick’s lips feel. Knows the soft exhale right before, the trembling pause after. And it’s torture, because he has so many questions he’ll never ask.

What brought this on? Who’s your awakening? Was it me?

No. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. If it were him, Nick would’ve said something back in school — he would’ve hinted, or confessed, or something. They tell each other everything. That’s what they do.

So why didn’t he?

Charlie presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. Mr. Ajayi’s voice flickers through his memory — you're just gonna have to repress it, like it’s the only way to keep the peace.

And Tao’s words echo right after, cruel in how they stick— stop this whole straight-boy crush, Charlie.

Was it all for nothing?

He thought he saw signs — small ones, warm ones. The lingering glances, the soft smiles. But maybe that’s just what happens when you love your best friend too much. You start mistaking kindness for possibility.

He doesn’t like you like that, Charlie tells himself firmly, even as his chest aches in defiance. He would’ve told you if he did.

So he makes himself a promise — or maybe a resignation. He’ll take whatever Nick has to give, even if it’s just this. Friendship. Closeness. Shared laughter and tea and nothing more.

He’ll take it for as long as he can, because losing Nick would be worse than loving him in silence.

Through the thin wall comes the faint sound of a mattress shifting, then stillness. Charlie lets himself imagine, just for a heartbeat, that Nick’s awake too—that he’s replaying it, wondering the same impossible things.

He lets the thought hurt. Then he hides it under the pillow like a secret he isn’t ready to name.

---

In the next room, Nick stares at the dark outline of the wardrobe, the air still tasting faintly of tea and nerves.

He came out to Charlie today. He hadn’t planned on doing that — not yet, maybe not for weeks, maybe never like that. But it just slipped out between unpacked boxes and sandwiches. And now it’s real.

I came out to Charlie.

The thought sits heavy, unfamiliar. It’s both terrifying and… right. Like his chest is a fraction lighter just knowing Charlie knows.

But then there’s the kiss.

God, the kiss.

It was supposed to be a test, he tells himself. A data point.

A silly thing between friends that wouldn’t mean anything after the laughter faded. He’d meant to laugh it off. But his lips still remember the shape of it—soft, sure, better than anything he’s ever known. Better than Tara, and she’d been lovely; she just hadn’t been this.

And now he can’t stop smiling and wincing at the same time. If that was only for science, he thinks, my heart’s failed the experiment.

He presses a palm to his face, groaning quietly. If he offered so easily, it probably didn’t mean much to him. Charlie’s always been open, kind, curious — not shy about affection. He probably just wanted to help. He doesn’t feel the way I feel. He can’t.

Still, it’s impossible to shake how good it felt — not just the kiss, but being seen. He’s so sure of himself, Nick thinks. So comfortable in who he is.

There’s envy mixed in with the awe. Charlie’s been out for years; Nick’s still stumbling through labels. A bi-disaster, he thinks with a weak, crooked smile.

Yeah, that probably fits.

He’s not ready to come out to anyone else yet. The people at the mixer earlier seemed so confident, so unapologetically themselves. He’s miles away from that.

And Charlie — he’s the kind of person who already knows where he stands in the world. Nick’s still learning how to stand.

He thinks back to something Charlie said years ago, in one of those quiet after-school conversations— about looking forward to university, to a bigger dating pool, to not being the only out gay kid in a sea of straight faces. Nick remembers pretending to listen, pretending not to flinch at the thought.

He deserves that, Nick tells himself now. He deserves to meet people, to fall in love, to live all the things he dreamed about.

And I’m not about to get in his way.

He sighs, long and low, as if he can breathe the ache out of his ribs. He’ll be supportive. He’ll be steady. He’ll be the kind of best friend who doesn’t make things heavy, who keeps the door open but never pushes through it.

He’ll hold this quietly — where it can’t break anything.

Between them, the wall is thin. Between them, the night is kind.

They fall asleep almost at the same time — both pretending it was a joke, both knowing it wasn’t.

The mugs dry on the rack in the kitchen — the golden retriever grinning at nothing, the cat unimpressed by everything — and the new flat holds their first day like a breath it’s happy to keep.

---

Nick wakes to light spilling in through the half-open blinds, slicing the room into gold and shadow.

He blinks, groggy, throat dry, heart doing a small confused drumroll before his memory catches up.

The kiss.

The thought hits, then hides itself somewhere behind the practical part of his brain that’s already noticed he’s starving.

He drags on his over-washed white T-shirt and sleep shorts, rakes a hand through his hair, and pads into the little kitchen.

The floor is cold. The flat smells faintly of tea and cardboard.

He fills the kettle and rifles through the half-unpacked food box— cereal, peanut butter, strawberry jam… but no bread.

Figures.

He lines the jars up anyway, the way he’d line up rugby cones before a drill—habit, something to keep his hands busy.

Keep busy, don’t think about how it felt. Don’t think about how it felt.

Behind him, a door creaks.

Charlie stands at the corner of the hallway, barefoot, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and joggers.

He stops there for a full ten seconds, psyching himself up.

His brain has been looping the same two lines since he woke— You kissed your best friend. You absolute idiot.

He’d spent half the night replaying it—Nick’s hand on the sofa cushion, the way his smile had trembled after.

It’s done. It can’t be undone. The only way out is through.

So— plan Operation-Don’t-Make-It-Weird.

If he can laugh first, it can’t be awkward.

He steps into the kitchen doorway and clears his throat.

“Morning,” he says, tone bright enough to make the air shimmer.

Then, with an exaggerated tilt of his head, “Is this where I thank my beautiful flatmate for last night’s unforgettable experience?”

Nick freezes mid-reach, still holding the peanut-butter jar.

Colour rushes to his face so fast it’s almost impressive. Oh god, of course Charlie remembers. And he’s—he’s saying it out loud. My heart’s not going to survive this.

Charlie keeps going, because commitment to the bit is all he has left.

He leans on the counter, grin wicked. “Relax, Nelson. Thought we might as well get some practice in. Flirting, I mean. For the greater good of our social lives.”

Nick blinks, then exhales a laugh that sounds like relief and panic in equal parts.

He sets down the jar, takes a slow breath. Steady. Just play along. Normal people banter. Ignore the butterflies.

“Right. Practice.” He clears his throat, attempts a smirk that feels about two sizes too bold.

“Well, Professor Spring, as part of today’s lesson plan I can offer cereal and milk. Tragically, we’re out of bread. We’ll have to make a field trip later if you want toast.”

Charlie grins wider, delighted that he’s playing. “A field trip with you? I’ll pencil that into my very busy schedule.”

He moves closer, shoulder bumping Nick’s as he reaches for a spoon. “Maybe after the club-society thing. The open-day booths are on, remember? Could be good for networking. Also, free pens.”

Nick laughs, the sound easier now, tugging a hand through his hair.

“Pens and bread. Wild first-week plans.”

He pours cereal into two mismatched bowls, milk following in a splash that nearly overflows.

Charlie snorts. “Look at you, domestic god.”

Nick glances sideways. “If you wanted to see me in an apron you could’ve just said so.”

Charlie almost chokes on his cereal, laughing. “Oh my god, you are flirting back.”

“Practising,” Nick says, deadpan, and they both dissolve into another fit of laughter.

It builds—tiny giggles breaking into helpless cackles—until Nick tries to say something through it—

“I was— I was going to— ask if you— wanted crunchy or smooth—” and the words come out so tangled that Charlie wheezes, milk almost coming out his nose.

By the time they calm down, both are crying with laughter, faces flushed, the kind of stupid, shining joy that can only happen when everything else is too big to name.

Nick wipes his eyes with his sleeve, catching his breath. “Okay,” he says, grinning. “Cereal conquered. Bread next. Maybe the library after?” Nick says, trying for casual and missing by an inch. He grins, eyes glinting. “I can show you my book-handling skills.”

Charlie blinks, then bursts out laughing so hard he nearly drops his spoon. “Book-handling skills? That’s what you’re going with?”

Nick throws up his hands, mock-offended. “What? It’s educational. Very on-brand.”

“Educationally tragic,” Charlie wheezes, clutching his stomach. “You’re going to get banned from the library before term even starts.”

Nick laughs too, shoulders shaking, and the sound fills the tiny kitchen.

“Fine,” he says between chuckles, “you handle the flirting syllabus next time.”

“Oh, I fully intend to,” Charlie fires back, still grinning.

It tips them both into another wave of laughter—louder, freer, until Charlie’s wiping tears from his eyes and Nick’s doubled over against the counter, giggling like a kid. It’s ridiculous and perfect, and for a moment the memory of the kiss folds neatly into the background, replaced by this— easy, shameless joy.

When they finally catch their breath, Nick leans his hip on the counter, grinning down at Charlie. “Alright, breakfast champion. Once we’ve finished this masterpiece of cereal cuisine, we go for the club fair. Then the bread. I'll allow you to judge my flirting in public.”

Charlie lifts his spoon in mock salute. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep saying things like book-handling skills. Keeps me humble.”

Nick shakes his head, smiling, eyes soft. “You’re terrible.”

Charlie leans back in his chair, spoon dangling between his fingers. “Only selectively.” He grins, then the smile fades into something smaller, quieter. “Hey—on a serious note…”

Nick looks up, sensing the shift in tone. Charlie’s still smiling, but his eyes have gone thoughtful, distant.

“We’re about to meet a lot more people today,” Charlie says. “The mixer was great, but there’s going to be even more socialising—booths, sign-ups, that whole circus.” He stirs the last of his cereal, gaze on the swirl. “We’ll probably register for something. Have you thought about what you’d be interested in?”

“Rugby, obviously,” Nick says, no hesitation, but he’s watching Charlie over the rim of his bowl. “You?”

Charlie taps the spoon against the edge of the bowl. “Pride club, for sure. Maybe a book club or something chill. And I’ve been thinking about looking for a part-time job. Barista, librarian, whatever I can get. Would be nice to have something steady.”

Nick smiles, genuine and a little proud. “That sounds perfect for you. You’d be great at that.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll probably look for something too. Maybe at the gym or sports centre. I should probably pay for my own snacks for once.”

Charlie chuckles softly. “Look at us. Responsible adults already.”

Nick snorts. “Barely. But, yeah.” He sets his bowl down and glances at Charlie, more serious now. “How’re you feeling about all this? Uni, I mean.”

Charlie shrugs. “Honestly? A bit nervous. But it’s… exciting too. Like, we’ve got the whole thing ahead of us, right? Feels like anything could happen.”

Nick nods, but the motion is too slow to hide the flicker in his chest. Encourage him, he tells himself. Be a good friend.

He takes a breath. “Yeah. It’s going to be amazing. We’ll meet new people—maybe even some cute ones.”

He says it with a half-smile, but the words scrape a little on the way out. His brain tries to sound casual; his heart doesn’t get the memo. You should want him to meet someone, he thinks. That’s what friends do.

Across the table, Charlie’s spoon stills. His breath catches in his throat before he forces a small, careful smile.

“Yeah,” he says, voice too light. “Cute people. Definitely.”

He swallows, pretending his mouth isn’t suddenly dry. Of course he’s excited. That’s what uni’s for. Don’t make it weird.

Charlie clears his throat, pushing the thought away. “What about you?” he asks softly. “You feeling alright about everything? The whole… starting-fresh thing?”

Nick blinks, surprised by the question, then nods slowly. “Yeah, same. Nervous. Excited, too.” He toys with the handle of his mug. “Feels huge, you know? Like everything’s about to start at once.”

He glances up at Charlie, eyes open and a little raw. “We’ll be okay, right?”

Charlie meets his gaze, smile softening. “Yeah. No matter what.”

Nick exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a bit. “No matter what.”

For a second, neither of them speaks. The flat hums around them, the kind of silence that feels gentle but fragile.

Charlie feels that familiar ache in his chest—warm and heavy, like something that belongs there but shouldn’t hurt this much.

So he masks it the only way he knows how. He tips his head, smirking just enough to break the tension.

“Well, if we’re going to survive university together, I should probably warn you—I’m a nightmare before coffee.”

Nick laughs, bright and real again. “Good thing I make excellent coffee.”

“Oh, that’s what you think,” Charlie fires back, standing and collecting the bowls. “You’ve just volunteered for daily taste tests.”

Nick grins, tossing a dish towel at him. “You planning to flirt your way through every challenge this year?”

Charlie catches the towel, eyes glinting. “Only the important ones.”

The ache in his chest softens into something he can live with, at least for now.

And when Nick looks at him—really looks—Charlie has to glance away before the moment becomes more than it’s meant to be.

---

Leeds wakes under a pale September sun — the kind that can’t decide if it’s warm or cold. The air is sharp enough to bite in the shade, gentle enough to forgive it. On the pavement outside the flat, leaves cling to their summer green but curl at the edges like they’ve already seen the future.

Inside, the windows fog faintly from steam as Nick wrestles with his hoodie. “It’s not that cold,” he says, even though he’s put a long-sleeve under it anyway.

Charlie zips his light jacket up halfway, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “Says the guy who wears hoodies in July.”

Nick gives him a look. “It was raining in July.”

“It rains in every month,” Charlie points out, grabbing his tote bag. “Welcome to England.”

Nick grins, mock bowing. “Thank you, Professor Geography.”

They fall into step as they head out, laughter soft in the crisp air. The walk across campus hums with energy — stalls, banners, the sound of a microphone feeding back somewhere near the Union steps. Students swarm like bright fish in a new pond, armed with leaflets and free tote bags.

Charlie squints up at the row of booths, rows of bunting fluttering in the breeze. “You ready?”

Nick exhales, adjusts his backpack strap. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Kind of nervous, though.”

“Same.” Charlie’s voice is gentler now. “But… it’ll be different this time, right? New people. People who aren’t—”

“Harry Greene,” Nick finishes, with an involuntary groan. “God, yes. Let’s hope he’s giving someone else a headache this year.”

Charlie laughs. “We should send whoever’s stuck with him a care package. Or a small fire extinguisher.”

Nick snorts, eyes bright. “We survived secondary. That has to count for something.”

“It counts for trauma bonding,” Charlie says, smiling, but it’s fond. “Here’s to new people who aren’t emotionally constipated.”

Nick lifts an imaginary glass. “Cheers to that.”

They grin at each other for a beat too long before both look away, still smiling. We’ll be okay, Nick thinks. We’ll be fine.

As they reach the first row of society booths, a girl with a clipboard and neon hair bounces up to them. “Oh my god, are you guys first years?” she asks, eyes darting between them. “Did you, like, get together in secondary school? Because that’s adorable.”

Charlie nearly chokes on his own laugh. “What—no! We’re—just—we’re not—”

Nick’s laughing too hard to save him. “We’re professionally single, actually,” he manages.

“Tragic,” the girl says with mock sympathy, handing them each a flyer. “You’d be a power couple.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Charlie says, elbowing Nick lightly as they walk away.

“Encourage me?” Nick grins. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Yet.”

The fair spreads out in a messy grid of colour — banners flapping, speakers buzzing, free sweets being handed out by societies trying too hard.

Nick pauses to look at a table piled with rugby balls, club hoodies, and a printed banner that reads Leeds University Rugby Union.

Charlie spots a quieter table a few stalls down with a handwritten sign:

Book Club — for people who like stories and biscuits.

They exchange a look — a silent go on then — and drift in opposite directions.

---

The rugby booth smells faintly of turf and overconfidence. Three students are manning it— a tall blond guy in a team hoodie, another with a clipboard, and a brunette girl who looks like she could bench press a car.

“Hey, mate!” the blond one calls out. “You a player?”

“Used to be,” Nick says, rubbing the back of his neck. “School team.”

“Perfect,” the guy grins. “We’re recruiting first-years for trials next week. I’m Rob, captain.” He gestures around. “That’s Theo, social sec. And that’s Lena, our treasurer-slash-chaos-controller.”

Lena waves, bright smile flashing. “We need more people who can actually show up sober.”

Theo groans. “Oi, don’t scare the new lad.”

Nick laughs, easing into the chatter. Rob hands him a flyer, explaining practice times and socials.

A few students hover nearby, some of them — Nick notices with mild embarrassment — throwing quick glances his way. One girl, short hair and eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, lingers by the table just a bit longer than necessary before taking a flyer from his hand.

He smiles politely, heart doing an unhelpful flip. It’s nothing. Just friendliness.

Still, a thought flickers— Charlie would find this hilarious.

And when Nick glances down the row, he spots him — halfway between tables, talking to someone at the Book Club stall. Charlie’s laughing, head tilted back, hand gesturing mid-sentence.

Nick’s smile falters a fraction. The sight does something to his chest he doesn’t have a name for yet.

---

The Book Club booth is modest — three second-years and a pile of paperbacks. The table smells faintly of coffee and rain-damp flyers.

“Hi!” a girl with curly hair says brightly. “I’m Jess, president-slash-biscuit-provider. You like reading?”

“Love it,” Charlie says. “I mean, when I’m not drowning in coursework.”

“Same,” she laughs, passing him a flyer. “We meet Thursdays. We’re reading The Song of Achilles this coming week, so, you know, lots of crying guaranteed.”

“Good to know what I’m signing up for.” He glances at the stack of books, smiling. “Do you also take bribes in the form of snacks?”

“Always,” Jess grins. “Bring tea and you’ll be our favourite.”

He laughs, genuinely relaxed — until his eyes flick up. Down the row, Nick’s surrounded by a cluster of rugby people.

He’s laughing, easy and golden in the afternoon light, sleeves pushed up, flyer in hand. A few girls near the booth are clearly trying to get his attention, and one of them manages to make him laugh.

Charlie’s stomach twists — a tiny, stupid knot he didn’t expect. He looks away quickly, pretending to study the flyer.

Don’t be ridiculous. He’s allowed to laugh. He’s allowed to meet people. You said you’d be fine.

But when Jess asks if he’s free Thursday evenings, it takes him an extra beat to answer.

---

By the time they meet again near the coffee cart, they’ve each collected a handful of flyers and the same fragile smile.

Nick nudges Charlie’s shoulder. “So, future librarian-slash-biscuit connoisseur, successful mission?”

“Highly successful,” Charlie says, trying for breezy. “You?”

“Apparently I’ve been recruited for the rugby tryouts tomorrow,” Nick says. “And possibly a lifetime supply of protein bars.”

Charlie grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Impressive haul.”

“Hey,” Nick says gently. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Charlie lies easily, pushing the flyers into his bag. “Just processing all the free pens. It’s overwhelming.”

Nick laughs, believing him because he wants to. “We’ll grab bread before heading back?”

“Sure.”

They walk side by side toward the grocery store, shoulder brushing shoulder. Neither of them mentions the tiny ache that bloomed somewhere between the booths — the kind that lingers like a bruise under laughter.

The wind picks up, scattering a few flyers across the pavement.

Nick catches one before it blows away; Charlie catches his breath before anyone notices.

And the afternoon rolls on, bright and noisy and full of people they aren’t ready to meet yet.

The campus paths slope gently downhill toward the shops, lined with maple trees just starting to change — tips turning amber, the air faint with woodsmoke and rain waiting somewhere far off.

Nick carries a tote bag like a man on a mission; Charlie walks beside him, shoving his hands in his pockets, head half in the clouds.

They spot the library on the corner first — the big glass façade of the Edward Boyle catching pale sunlight, students milling in and out with armfuls of books and tote bags full of ambition.

“Should we check it out before shopping?” Charlie asks. “You know, get our academic bearings.”

Nick grins. “Sure. We can buy bread and existential dread later.”

Then, a little gentler: “You could ask about job openings while we’re there.”

Charlie nods, thoughtful. “Yeah, maybe.” He looks ahead, heart doing a nervous little skip at the idea. Would be nice, working there. Quiet. Orderly. Smelling like old paper instead of burnt espresso shots.

They fall into step again, and after a pause, Nick asks, too casually, “So, how was the book club? Anyone cute?”

The words come out lighter than he means, but there’s a bitterness at the back of his throat that he tries to swallow with a laugh.

Charlie doesn’t notice the tone. “Actually, yeah — everyone there was really sweet. The president, Jess, she’s hilarious. They’re reading The Song of Achilles next month, so it’s going to be chaos. Might join properly.”

Nick nods, smiling too fast, focusing on the pavement instead of the small twist in his stomach. Good. He’s meeting people. That’s what we wanted. That’s what we said we wanted.

Charlie nudges him with his elbow, grin returning. “I didn’t know there were groupies for uni rugby, though.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Were you spying on me?”

“I was simply observing from a safe sociological distance,” Charlie says, deadpan. “For research purposes.”

“Right,” Nick says, drawing out the word. “And what did your field research conclude?”

“That Leeds rugby has a strong recruitment strategy,” Charlie says innocently. “And that you blush way too easily.”

Nick laughs, bumping his shoulder lightly. “I’ll remember that next time you try to act mysterious at the café booth.”

“Me? Mysterious?” Charlie gasps dramatically. “I radiate approachability. It’s intimidating, really.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly the word I’d use.”

Their laughter carries them the rest of the way to the library steps.

Inside, the air is cooler, quieter — a faint hum of computers and whispered conversations. The scent of paper, coffee, and printer toner wraps around them like a comfort blanket.

They wander in slow circles through the ground floor, speaking in soft tones as if already under a spell.

Nick eyes a table near the windows — broad oak, sunlit, with a view of the trees. “That one,” he says, pointing. “Feels… alive. Like I’d actually get something done there.”

Charlie follows his gaze, smiling. “You’d spend half the time staring out the window.”

“Exactly,” Nick says. “That’s how deep thinking happens.”

Charlie points to a quieter nook in the corner, surrounded by tall shelves. “I’d sit there. No distractions, just me and the existential crisis of citation formats.”

Nick laughs softly. “Of course you would.”

The librarian at the counter greets them kindly. Charlie clears his throat, nerves buzzing under his skin. “Hi. I was just wondering if you might have any part-time vacancies?”

The librarian smiles apologetically. “Not right now, I’m afraid. Maybe later in the term. You can check our website, though.”

“Thanks,” Charlie says, polite but deflated. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

As they walk out, he sighs. “Guess it’s not meant to be.”

Nick glances over, catching the slight drop in his expression. The urge to cheer him up kicks in instinctively. “That’s alright,” he says lightly, bumping Charlie’s shoulder. “If the library doesn’t want you, the campus cafe will. You’d look dangerously good in an apron, by the way.”

Charlie blinks, then laughs — bright and genuine again. “Dangerously good?”

Nick shrugs, pretending to study the path ahead. “Just saying. Could cause an influx of customers. Major safety hazard.”

“Guess I’d better put that on my CV,” Charlie says, still laughing, the disappointment already fading into something warmer.

Nick smiles at that, hands in his pockets, watching the wind stir the leaves above them. Yeah, he thinks, we’re going to be okay.

And together they head toward the shops, sunlight flickering through the trees, pretending the world isn’t quietly shifting underneath them.

---

The shop is small but bright, tucked just off the main path between the library and the student union.

A bell jingles as they step in; the smell of bread and floor cleaner mingles in the air. Shelves are lined with the usual student staples — instant noodles, chocolate bars, cheap cereal, and a suspicious number of energy drinks.

Nick glances around. “It’s… decent.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees, eyeing the neat rows of loaves. “Bread mission—accomplished.”

He grabs a loaf off the shelf and turns to find Nick already wandering away, muttering something about snacks and other stuff we might need.

A few minutes later, Nick reappears, arms overflowing— crisps, biscuits, a jar of Nutella, a pack of instant noodles, and a novelty bag of gummy bears.

Charlie stares at him, one brow arched. “Planning to survive an apocalypse?”

“Strategic investment,” Nick says, trying to stack the loot on the counter.

“In sugar?”

“Morale food,” Nick says, dead serious. “Essential for psychological well-being.”

Charlie laughs, tucking the loaf under his arm. “You are an absolute menace.”

“And yet,” Nick says, grinning, “you still shop with me.”

“Only for the entertainment value.”

They laugh their way through checkout, only wincing slightly when the total flashes on the screen.

“We really need jobs,” Charlie says, folding the receipt.

“Yeah,” Nick sighs. “I should start looking properly soon.”

Outside, the early autumn wind catches the edges of their paper bags, threatening to tear them.

Across the square, the Campus Cafe glows invitingly through its glass front — a few students at tables, baristas moving behind the counter, a low hum of conversation.

Nick nods toward it. “You could try there. Bet they’re hiring.”

Charlie hesitates, then shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

They push through the cafe door; the air smells of espresso and cinnamon. Behind the counter, a girl with a pixie cut and name tag reading Sasha looks up.

“Hey,” Charlie starts, polite smile in place. “I was wondering if you’re hiring part-timers?”

Sasha glances toward the back. “We might be. One sec—let me get the manager.”

A moment later, the door to the small back office swings open and out steps someone who looks like he was sculpted specifically to make freshmen nervous. Tall, olive-skinned, with neat dark hair and a smile that’s practiced but not insincere. His name tag reads Adrian — Manager on Duty.

He gives Charlie a once-over — professional, but appreciative — then notices Nick hovering a few steps behind, still holding a grocery bag.

“Vacancies, yeah,” Adrian says, eyes flicking between them. “You here together?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says quickly, “we’re flatmates.”

Adrian’s smile deepens, amused. “Ah, I see. Thought maybe your boyfriend was waiting.”

Charlie flushes, startled. “Oh! No—no, he’s not—”

Nick forces a laugh, light and polite, but the word lands like a pebble in his chest, sinking fast. Not. He’s not.

It shouldn’t sting. It’s true. It’s what they agreed. You’re friends. You’re fine.

He shifts the grocery bag to his other hand, pretending to study a menu board.

Adrian nods, unfazed. “Cool. I can do a quick interview now if you’ve got time?”

Charlie nods, recovering fast. “Yeah, sure! That’d be great.”

Adrian gestures toward a quiet corner table, and they sit down with a clipboard and a pen.

Nick takes the chance to retreat to the counter, ordering a black coffee. He settles at a nearby table, phone in hand, trying to look busy.

He opens the campus job portal and starts scrolling — listings blur together— Student Ambassador, Gym Assistant, Admin Support.

He clicks on the ambassador role. Perfect. Helping out at open days, showing prospective students around campus, answering questions. He can do that. Easy smiles, guided tours, friendly chat. Exactly his comfort zone.

He taps out an email to the listed address, attaching his basic info and a short paragraph about his previous experience. His fingers move, but his eyes keep sliding back to the corner of the cafe.

Charlie’s sitting upright, hands clasped, head tilted slightly as he listens to Adrian. His nervous energy is gone; he looks calm, confident, approachable. His laugh carries softly across the cafe, low and easy.

Nick’s stomach knots. Of course he’s good at this. Of course people are going to like him. He imagines napkins with numbers, flirty regulars, coworkers asking him out after shifts. Good for him, he tells himself. That’s what this year’s for.

He takes a sip of coffee — it’s too hot, too bitter. He drinks anyway.

On the screen, his email draft waits, cursor blinking at the end of his last sentence. Looking forward to hearing from you, he types, and hits send before he can second-guess it.

Then he looks up again. Charlie’s shaking hands with Adrian, grinning. The manager looks equally pleased.

Nick’s chest swells with pride and something else — something heavier that he can’t quite name.

Charlie returns to the table, eyes bright. “He said he’ll keep me posted today or tomorrow. Said I seem like a good fit.”

“That’s awesome,” Nick says, smiling, meaning it. “Told you they’d love you.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, still glowing. “Thanks for the nudge.”

Nick stands, slinging the tote over his shoulder. “Anytime. But if you start getting free coffee out of this, I expect employee discounts.”

Charlie laughs, shaking his head. “You never miss a chance to flirt your way into caffeine.”

“Just doing my bit for morale,” Nick says lightly, hiding the twist in his chest as they step back out into the sunlight.

The bags rustle between them as they walk, the campus stretching wide and golden around them. Charlie’s still smiling — that soft, unstoppable grin that always seems to undo Nick’s insides a little.

“So,” Charlie says, bumping his shoulder, “while you were pretending to be busy with your coffee, what were you actually doing?”

Nick hesitates, then exhales a laugh. “Sent in an application, actually. Student ambassador thing — helping out on open days, giving campus tours, that kind of stuff.”

Charlie’s face lights up instantly. “Oh, that’s perfect for you! You’d be amazing at that — all charming and smiley and helpful. I’d sign up for a uni tour twice just to listen to you talk.”

Nick feels his heart swell — ridiculous, traitorous thing — before he can stop it. He’s just being nice. Just flirting, the way you both decided you would. Practice. It’s nothing.

He grins anyway, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll see if they think the same. I hope they reply soon — it actually sounds… fun.”

Charlie hums, teasing. “Fun and you get paid to smile? That’s like your superpower. They’d be lucky to have you.”

Nick bumps him back gently, trying to laugh it off, but the warmth in his chest refuses to cool.

As they reach the main path, Nick’s mind drifts despite himself — back to the cafe, to Adrian’s easy confidence and the way his gaze had lingered just a beat too long on Charlie.

The thought prickles under his skin. He’s too old. He shouldn’t be looking at Charlie like that. It’s unprofessional. But it’s not your business. It’s not your business.

Charlie glances at him, catching the small crease between his brows. “You okay? You look like you’re solving a murder in your head.”

Nick blinks, then shakes his head, smiling a little too quickly. “Nah, just… anxious about that application. Really hope I get it. Seems like a fun job.”

Charlie’s expression softens. “You’ll get it,” he says, certain in the way only he can be. “You’ve got that golden retriever energy. No one can say no to that.”

Nick laughs, ducking his head. “You’ve been saying that since school.”

“Because it’s still true,” Charlie says, grinning. “You literally own a mug that proves my point.”

Nick groans, mock-dramatic. “One novelty mug and suddenly it’s a brand.”

“It’s not just a brand,” Charlie teases, eyes dancing. “It’s a lifestyle. You’re dependable, cheerful, occasionally confused by stairs—what’s not to love?”

Nick laughs, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You make me sound like a cartoon.”

Charlie grins, smug. “If the wag fits.”

They fall into step again, laughter fading into an easy silence. The late afternoon light has gone golden, catching on the stone facades of the university buildings, softening every edge.

Students weave past with shopping bags and coffee cups, voices echoing in fragments — laughter, plans, the start of new stories.

For a while, they just walk, side by side, the air between them comfortable and full of unspoken things.

Charlie finds his thoughts drifting back to the cafe. He pictures it under the morning light — the hum of espresso machines, the smell of coffee grounds, the quiet rhythm of opening shifts. He imagines evening ones too— students hunched over laptops, couples pressed close in corners, the soundtrack of low music and whispered conversations.

Then, without meaning to, his mind slips to Adrian. He’d been polite during the interview, charming even, but there’d been something in the way he asked questions — not unprofessional, but warm, interested. Maybe even flirty. Was it? Charlie can’t tell. The idea makes his pulse trip anyway.

Would someone like him ever…?

The thought is half-formed before he crushes it. Don’t. He’s your manager, potentially. It’d be weird. Too weird.

He exhales, kicking at a loose pebble. His mind, unhelpful as ever, drifts to Nick. To his laugh, to how proud he’d looked when Charlie said he might get the job.

Nick, who’s still figuring himself out. Nick, who hasn’t kissed anyone else since Tara.

Will he? Charlie wonders. Will it be a boy next time, or a girl? Will he tell me when it happens?

The ache that follows is quiet but sharp. It takes him a second to recognise it — jealousy, curled up like something small and mean.

And it’s unfair, so unfair, because he’s just been thinking about Adrian in the same way. He presses his lips together, hating the hypocrisy of it, wishing the thought would evaporate. God, if only it was Nick. If only it had always been Nick.

The words slip out before he can stop them. “Do you think…” He hesitates, then forces a laugh. “Do you think you’ll… you know, actually date someone this year? Like properly?”

Nick’s head turns, startled. The question hits harder than it should. “What?”

Charlie shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Just wondering. You said you wanted to meet new people. Maybe fall for someone. Thought you’d have ideas already.”

Nick blinks, heartbeat tripping. Why does it sound like an accusation?

He laughs — sharp, humourless. “I don’t know, Charlie. I haven’t exactly drawn up a five-year plan for my dating life.”

The tone cuts through the quiet. Charlie’s smile flickers, gone as quick as it came.

Nick realises immediately — too quick, too defensive. He clears his throat, forcing his voice softer. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound… snappy. I just—”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s a weird question. I don’t really know what I want yet.”

Charlie nods, eyes on the pavement. “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense.”

Neither of them apologises again. They just keep walking, the silence stretching — not heavy, exactly, but stiffer than before. The sunlight still paints the buildings gold, the air still smells faintly of leaves and city dust, but something in the warmth between them has cooled a degree or two.

Nick glances sideways once, wanting to say something that will reset the world, but nothing comes. Charlie keeps his gaze forward, pretending he doesn’t notice.

And around them, Leeds hums on — loud and alive — as if it hasn’t just watched two best friends take a single, imperceptible step away from each other.

Nick walks beside him, replaying the last few seconds in his head like a bad clip on repeat. Why did I snap? The question hums in his chest louder than the traffic. Charlie hadn’t said anything wrong—hadn’t even sounded annoyed. Just curious. Just… Charlie.

He stares ahead, seeing nothing. God, what a mess. He knows exactly where it started—over breakfast that morning, when he’d grinned and said, “It’s going to be amazing. We’ll meet new people—maybe even some cute ones.”

He’d meant it to sound encouraging, to help Charlie get excited for uni life. But now, hearing it back in his own head, it sounds different. Like he was already looking for someone new. Like he’d told Charlie, I’m ready to move on.

Of course Charlie would assume that. Of course he’d ask if Nick planned to date. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault at all. Nick’s the one who can’t keep his words from contradicting the truth.

And the truth?

Sorry I snapped because I don’t really feel like dating anyone right now because I’m in love with you and have been since school—and every time you mention someone else, I want to lose my mind.

He swallows hard. There’s no universe where he can say that out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

They reach the dorm in silence. The air feels heavy, like something they’ve both agreed not to name.

Charlie slips off his shoes and says quietly, “I’m gonna shower first.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nick says, keeping his tone easy, casual, like nothing’s wrong. “Go ahead.”

When the bathroom door clicks shut, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The sound of running water fills the flat — steady, grounding. Nick turns to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with his hands.

He unloads their groceries, stacking the strategic snacks in the small cabinet they’ve already claimed as their communal junk shelf.

He lines them up by type — crisps, biscuits, cereal — because it makes him feel like he’s fixing something.

Then he pulls out the bread. Two sandwiches— peanut butter for Charlie, Nutella for himself. The smell of toast and sugar fills the air, warm and simple. Olive branch, he thinks. Peace offering.

He arranges the plates side by side on the counter and stares at them. We’re fine. It wasn’t even an argument.

But the echo of his own voice still stings.

The dorm is hushed except for the faint hum of the fridge and the rush of water behind the bathroom door.

Outside the small kitchen window, the sun has sunk low, spilling burnt orange light across the neighbouring buildings.

The rooftops glow, glass catching fire for a moment before the colour fades to rose. It’s that strange, quiet hour between day and night when everything looks warmer than it feels.

Nick sits at their tiny kitchen table, elbows on the surface, staring out the window. The air smells faintly of toast and shampoo.

The sound of running water shifts to silence, replaced by the soft shuffle of movement — towel, fabric, the familiar rhythm of Charlie’s getting-ready noises.

When the door opens, steam drifts into the hall. Charlie steps out in an oversized sleep shirt and plaid shorts, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends.

Nick smiles. “Wow, you actually look like a uni student now. All dishevelled and mysterious.”

Charlie huffs a laugh. “If by mysterious you mean exhausted.”

He drops into the chair across from Nick, eyeing the sandwiches. “So this is it, huh? Our glamorous university dinner — one peanut butter, one Nutella. Michelin star vibes.”

“Budget gourmet,” Nick says, handing over the plate. “Five-star in effort if not presentation.”

Charlie smirks, peeling the sandwich apart slightly before taking a bite. “Mmm. Tastes like financial responsibility.”

Nick grins, the tension between them softening just a little. “And desperation.”

They eat in companionable silence for a moment, the quiet settling like something fragile but easy. Then Charlie glances up. “Thanks for making this.”

Nick shrugs, looking down at his own plate. “Least I could do.”

Charlie hums, still chewing, the sound light but full of gratitude. The sunlight through the window fades further, turning gold to muted grey.

Nick clears his throat. “Hey, uh—so, rugby tryouts are tomorrow.” He says it casually, but his thumb fidgets against the edge of his plate. “You wanna come? You don’t have to stay the whole time, but… it might be nice. Familiar face, moral support, all that.”

Charlie pauses mid-bite. “I don’t know. I was thinking of staying in — maybe starting The Song of Achilles before the first book club meeting.” He wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Brought my copy from home.”

Nick nods, trying to hide his disappointment behind a small smile. “Yeah, fair. Makes sense.”

He hesitates, then adds, softer, “Still… please? You can bring the book if you get bored. I’ll pretend not to notice.”

Charlie looks at him for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. He sighs, rolling his eyes with theatrical affection and glint in his eyes, “Fine, baby. I’ll come with you if it’ll make you feel better.”

Nick laughs, shaking his head. “Thanks, Char. You’re the best.”

Charlie smiles back — soft, small, and almost shy. “I know.”

The light outside fades completely, leaving only the glow of their kitchen lamp. Between them, the air feels warm again — familiar, easy — like they’ve managed to press reset on whatever went wrong earlier.

Nick takes another bite of his sandwich, glancing across the table, and thinks, Yeah. We’re okay.

Chapter Text

Morning comes soft and hazy, the kind of chill that seeps through the window before the sun fully decides to show up. The alarm goes off at eight; Nick’s already half-awake, running through the day in his head.

He dresses quietly — track pants, hoodie, trainers — the familiar pre-match rhythm grounding him. The kettle hums low as he moves around their tiny kitchen, making two mugs of tea and setting them beside a plate of peanut butter sandwiches he threw together while the bread was still soft.

Charlie stirs in the next room, groaning when the second alarm bleats insistently.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles through the wall.

Nick grins, tying his laces. “Come on, you promised. And there’s peanut butter sandwiches and tea on the table — bribery at its finest.”

A muffled noise that might be a laugh answers him.

By the time they leave the dorm, both are in hoodies — Nick’s navy, slightly too fitted around the shoulders, and Charlie’s oversized grey one, sleeves swallowing his hands.

Their breath fogs faintly in the morning air as they walk across campus, the world still stretching awake around them.

“Thanks for coming,” Nick says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I know you’d rather still be in bed.”

Charlie yawns but smiles, tugging his hood tighter. “Yeah, well. Some of us make questionable life choices for friendship.”

Nick laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

---

The rugby pitch sprawls wide and green under the pale sky, dew still glistening on the grass. A cluster of first-years mill around near the cones, stretching, tossing balls, pretending not to be nervous. Coaches and older players shout greetings.

Charlie finds a spot on the sidelines — low metal bleachers that bite a little with cold — and sits, setting down his bag.

From it, he pulls his tumbler of tea and his well-thumbed copy of The Song of Achilles. Steam curls faintly from the cup as he settles in.

On the field, Nick joins the others, clapping hands, laughing. His hoodie’s already off, revealing the maroon and white training top that fits just right — NELSON printed across the back in bold white letters.

His shoulders look broader now, his back straighter, movements easy but purposeful.

Charlie blinks, a quiet jolt running through him. When did that happen?

Nick’s hair is shorter too — trimmed just before term started. It catches the light when he runs a hand through it; neater, but still Nick.

Charlie exhales and opens his book, pretending to read, but his eyes keep flicking up. Every time he looks, he catches another glimpse — the curve of Nick’s shoulders, the way the sunlight hits the maroon fabric — and immediately tells himself, stop thirsting over your best friend.

He sinks a little lower in his seat, determined to focus on the words on the page, even as his attention drifts again and again toward the field.

A few minutes later, two girls approach the bleachers, chatting as they sit just a few metres away. Their voices carry easily in the still air.

“I swear that’s him — the guy from the rugby booth yesterday,” says the first girl, ponytail bouncing as she adjusts her denim jacket. Her tone isn’t swoony so much as amused, like she’s collecting trivia. “He looked way too calm for someone signing up for a contact sport.”

Her friend — dark-haired, book tucked under one arm — sighs, shivering into her scarf. “Remind me why we’re out here watching strangers throw balls again?”

“Because,” the first one replies, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness, “field research. My flatmate said the rugby team’s full of charm and chaos, and I needed to confirm the data.”

The other snorts, flipping her book open. “You’re relentless, Erin.”

Erin grins, unbothered. “I prefer curious and observant.” Her gaze flicks toward the pitch, “See? That’s him. Nelson.”

Her friend hums without looking up. “And this… research of yours?”

Erin’s smile turns a little thoughtful as she watches Nick laugh at something one of the players says. “Still ongoing,” she says softly. “But he does have that friendly energy, doesn’t he? The kind that makes people feel safe around him.”

Her friend hums, unimpressed but affectionate. “You’re analysing him like a case study.”

“I’m a psych major now,” Erin says with a grin. “Diagnosing people in the wild — occupational hazard.”

The quieter friend shrugs, flipping open her book — The Song of Achilles.

Charlie, despite himself, glances over. Their eyes meet for a second. He lifts his own copy slightly, showing the matching cover with a small, knowing smile.

The quieter girl blinks, then grins back. “Twinsies,” she says. “I’m Mia — and this is Erin.” She nods toward the excitable one.

“Charlie,” he says.

Mia tilts her head. “You going to the book club thing too?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thursday evening, right?”

“Nice. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Erin finally tears her gaze from the field. “Who are you here for, Charlie?”

The question makes him pause mid-sip of tea. He chuckles awkwardly. “Uh. Nick, actually... that guy in maroon." Charlie's nods in the general direction of the rugby players.

The girls exchange a look — half surprise, half oh. Realisation flickers across their faces as they probably remember what he’s just overheard.

Erin’s cheeks colour. “Oh—sorry, that must’ve been… weird.”

Charlie shakes his head quickly. “Nah, it’s fine.”

Mia studies him curiously. “So, Nick’s your…”

Charlie exhales through a laugh. “Flatmate. Best friend since school.”

“Oh!” Erin says brightly, relief flooding her voice. “That’s really sweet. So supportive of you to come watch.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, smiling easily, though it feels like a stretch. “He’s always been worth cheering for.”

He looks back toward the pitch. Nick’s laughing with the others, hands on his hips, looking effortlessly at home.

Be a good friend, Charlie thinks, echoing the words in his head until they start to feel like a command instead of comfort.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Adrian: Hey Charlie, good news — we’d love to have you on board. Could you pop by later today for a quick training session?

A rush of relief and excitement hits all at once. His fingers move quickly over the screen.

Charlie: Yes! I can come anytime this afternoon. Thanks so much!

When he pockets his phone again, the field has shifted to a new drill. Nick’s sprinting across the pitch, calling for the ball — voice clear, confident. The sight fills Charlie with something he doesn’t quite have words for.

He sips his tea, heart thudding faintly. He looks good out there.

And for one dizzy second, he wishes the girls around him hadn’t noticed that too.

---

The whistle blows and the field erupts in cheers and chatter. Players clap shoulders, coaches shout praise, boots thud on damp grass.

Nick’s cheeks are flushed, hair sticking damply to his forehead, a streak of mud along his shin.

He jogs toward the sideline, grin wide, breath coming out in short, excited bursts. “Rob said I’m basically in,” he says, voice still breathless. “They’ll post the official list later, but he said it’s a done deal.”

“That’s brilliant,” Charlie says, smiling as he stands. “See? All that moral support worked.”

Nick laughs, but his eyes flick past him — just over Charlie’s shoulder. The girls from earlier, Erin and Mia, are heading their way. Erin lifts a hand in a casual wave, her smile easy and genuine — the kind that seems to reach her eyes without trying. Mia follows beside her, giving a smaller, polite nod.

Charlie hesitates, the quiet bubble between him and Nick thinning with every step they take. Right. Not just us anymore.

When they reach them, Charlie clears his throat, shifting his bag. “Hey, um—Nick, this is Mia and Erin. Mia’s in the same book club I signed up for.”

Nick straightens, still catching his breath, and flashes them a grin that could light up half the pitch. “Nice to meet you.”

Erin returns it immediately. “You were great out there. Really fast.”

“Thanks,” Nick says, rubbing the back of his neck, bashful in that way that makes people like him instantly. “Still rusty, though. Haven’t played properly since school.”

Charlie stands a little off to the side, thumb brushing the strap of his tote bag, the moment slipping away from him piece by piece.

He watches Nick laugh at something Erin says — she’s saying it in a flirty, teasing tone that makes Mia roll her eyes.

Mia catches Charlie’s glance, offers a sympathetic half-smile. “You heading to the book club meet later this week?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Looking forward to it.”

“Cool,” she says simply. “See you then.”

Erin’s still chatting animatedly with Nick, something about socials and whether he’s planning to go.

Nick answers politely, the picture of friendliness, though his eyes dart toward Charlie now and then — like he knows something’s gone slightly off balance.

Charlie checks his phone, more to give his hands something to do than anything. A message lights up his screen.

Adrian: Perfect! Come by anytime after 2 — we’ll get you started with a quick training and some paperwork. Looking forward to having you on the team.

Charlie swallows. “I, uh—actually have to go,” he says, cutting into the conversation. “Got a text from Adrian. He said I got the job. Need to drop by the cafe.”

Nick blinks, then breaks into a grin. “That’s awesome, Char! Seriously, congrats.”

“Thanks,” Charlie says, smiling back — small, genuine, dimples flashing. He turns to the girls. “Nice meeting you both. See you around.”

Mia waves, Erin chirps a cheerful goodbye.

Charlie shoulders his bag, gives Nick one last smile — soft, proud — and starts toward the path leading back to campus.

The sun’s higher now, catching in the grass, the air buzzing faintly with leftover adrenaline and chatter.

He glances back once.

Nick’s still standing near the sidelines, a towel slung around his neck, talking to Erin. She’s saying something animated, hands moving as she laughs, while her friend — Mia, Charlie thinks — stands beside them looking slightly out of place.

Nick’s smiling, that bright, easy grin he wears like second nature — but Charlie can’t shake the feeling that it’s just a little too polished. Like he’s performing normal while his thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

Charlie doesn’t know why that familiar ache blooms in his chest again. He looks away before he can think too hard about it.

---

Charlie doesn’t go straight back to the dorm. His feet take him elsewhere — anywhere that isn’t the rugby pitch with its laughing, sunlit crowd and the image of Nick talking to Erin, all easy smiles and polite charm.

It’s not like Nick’s doing anything wrong. But the sight presses down on something in Charlie’s chest, small and mean and stupidly tender.

The walk to the library is quiet, save for the hum of traffic and the chatter of passing students.

By the time he steps inside, the air feels cooler, softer — the kind of silence that wraps around you instead of asking questions.

He finds a table by the window — not the one he’d pointed out to Nick yesterday, but close enough.

The light pools gently across the wood, and the faint smell of old pages and coffee clings to the air.

He sets down his tumbler, opens The Song of Achilles, and tries to read.

He doesn’t get far. The words blur. His chest still feels tight, heartbeat too loud in the quiet. You’re being ridiculous, he tells himself. He’s allowed to talk to people. You’re not even— He stops the thought there. The sentence doesn’t have an ending that won’t hurt.

His phone buzzes on the table, a soft vibration that startles him.

Nick: Guess what! Just got an email from the ambassador program — they want to interview me tomorrow! Might actually get it 😭

Charlie stares at the screen for a few seconds. His thumb hovers over the keyboard while his thoughts drift in quiet circles.

Nick’s going to have tryouts, training, and possibly ambassador work soon. Charlie has the cafe job starting today, plus book club.

Their easy days of doing everything together are already slipping into something else — parallel lives instead of overlapping ones.

The ache is familiar now — the kind that sits behind his ribs, gentle but constant.

He types slowly.

Charlie: That’s amazing, Nick. I knew they’d love you. You’ll be brilliant at it.

He hesitates, watching the cursor blink, then adds:

Charlie: Proud of you.

He presses send before he can overthink it, sets the phone down beside his book, and leans back in his chair.

Outside the window, the campus is alive — students laughing, someone strumming a guitar, the world moving steadily forward.

Charlie turns another page of his book but doesn’t read it.

He just sits there, letting the light spill over his hands, pretending that everything isn’t already changing.

---

Nick stands at the edge of the field, towel draped around his neck, mud streaking his calves. The post-tryout buzz hums around him — laughter, shouts, the scrape of boots on grass. A few of the older Leeds players are shaking hands with the new recruits, promising socials and “welcome drinks.”

He smiles when someone claps him on the shoulder, half-listening to the talk of training schedules and upcoming matches. On the outside, he’s part of it — another first-year basking in the adrenaline, soaking in the promise of belonging. But inside, something’s off.

He keeps glancing toward the bleachers — the spot where Charlie had been sitting, hoodie hood up, tea in hand, book open on his lap. It’s empty now.

Weirdly empty.

Charlie had left before everything wrapped up, before Nick could even walk him back. He’d smiled and said something about going to the cafe for training — and Nick had congratulated him, grinning like he meant it.

But now, standing here, the space beside him feels too quiet. Too wrong.

He shakes the thought off. Erin’s voice pulls him back — cheerful, warm.

“I didn’t know watching rugby tryouts could actually be this interesting,” she says with an easy smile. “You were really good out there, by the way — seriously impressive.”

Nick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he says, returning the smile.

She tells him she’s heading for lunch at the campus restaurant in about an hour, that she’s heard the pizza’s good and he should come.

He agrees before thinking too hard about it. She’s sweet. Funny. Easy to talk to. He should want this.

Still, as he towels off and walks toward the changing rooms, he catches himself thinking, If Charlie hadn’t had work, I’d have dragged him there instead.

The locker room smells of soap and turf. He showers quickly, the hot water loosening the tension in his shoulders.

By the time he’s dressed — hoodie, jeans, hair damp — the day’s slipped into late morning sunlight, bright and easy.

He heads across campus, earbuds in but no music playing, the towel now folded under his arm.

His path takes him past the campus cafe — he slows instinctively, eyes flicking through the glass front. Charlie’s not there.

Weird.

Maybe he’s in the back, learning the machines. Maybe Adrian’s showing him how to work the register.

Nick imagines him in an apron, hair tucked back, face half-hidden in concentration. The image makes his stomach turn — too fond, too something.

He keeps walking.

When he reaches the restaurant, Erin’s already there at a table near the window, waving him over.

She’s changed into a jumper the colour of early spring, a stack of books beside her, and that same open, easy smile.

“Hey!” she says. “Grab a seat — I already ordered drinks.”

“Thanks,” Nick says, sitting down.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling to the email again —

Interview tomorrow, 11 a.m.

He reads it twice, trying to summon the same spark of excitement he’d felt earlier.

He thinks about bringing it up with Charlie later, maybe they could do a mock interview together after his shift. It’d be fun, easy. Familiar.

“So,” Erin says, leaning forward with a small smile. “You’re doing Education, right? I think I saw it on your student profile or something. Makes sense — you’ve got that patient, teacher vibe.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Teaching’s kind of been the plan for a while. I like the idea of helping people figure things out.”

She grins. “That’s really sweet. I’m doing Psychology — might see you around a lot, actually. We share a few modules.”

“Oh, nice,” he says. “That’ll make lectures less painful.”

They laugh. The conversation flows easily — talk about Freshers’ Week chaos, moving into halls, missing home-cooked food.

Erin’s sharp in a good way; she teases him just enough to keep him grinning.

He likes that about her. She’s confident. Clever.

But somewhere beneath the laughter, something in him doesn’t quite settle.

His mind keeps flicking — to the cafe, to the image of Charlie behind the counter, to how he’d probably be laughing and teasing Nick about his lunch with Erin later, back at the dorm.

Erin catches him zoning out once, and he recovers quickly, smiling, asking her about her course again.

She fills the silence effortlessly.

He should be feeling something — excitement, attraction, possibility.

Instead, all he can think is that this is exactly what Charlie would want— him trying, living, not holding back.

So he laughs when Erin laughs. He lets himself imagine what could happen next — another lunch, maybe a coffee, maybe something more.

It doesn’t matter that his heart isn’t entirely in it.

He needs to experience this.

That’s what university’s for.

Right?

By the time the plates are empty, the table smells like melted cheese and cola.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching the last curls of steam from their pizza.

Erin laughs at something — a story about her flatmates leaving a pan of pasta boiling until it evaporated completely — and Nick finds himself laughing too, even though his chest feels tight for reasons he can’t name.

They exchange numbers before leaving. She slides her phone across the table, screen open to a blank contact, and he types his name and number in before passing his own to her.

Her nail polish is chipped; she types quickly, adds a little pizza emoji next to his name.

“Proof of origin,” she says, smiling.

He laughs. “I’ll allow it.”

Outside, the air is mild and the walk back easy — the campus alive with students heading in every direction.

Erin’s dorm is a few blocks away from his, so they fall into step naturally.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” Nick says, tucking his hands into his hoodie pocket. “The pizza was actually great.”

“Told you,” Erin says, nudging him with her elbow. “You can trust a psych major’s instincts.”

He grins, about to respond — then freezes mid-step.

Across the courtyard, walking toward the cafe, is Charlie. Same hoodie from the morning, jeans cuffed at the ankles, a book tucked under one arm. His hair’s still a little messy, his face calm but unreadable.

Nick’s heart stutters.

Charlie spots them at the same time. His steps slow, just slightly. Then he forces a small smile, lifting his free hand in a casual wave.

“Hey,” Nick says, when they meet halfway. “I thought you already started training?”

Charlie clears his throat, doing his best impression of easy confidence. “Ah, yeah, turns out Adrian only wanted me there after two. So I went to the library to read for a bit while waiting.”

It sounds believable enough — almost. But Nick catches the faint hesitation before the word library and the way Charlie’s eyes flick, just once, to Erin.

Erin, who’s standing quietly beside Nick, polite smile in place.

“Oh,” Nick says quickly, trying to fill the pause. “Erin invited me for lunch after the tryouts. They’ve got really good pepperoni pizza there.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, voice light, expression practiced. “I bet. Sounds nice.”

He tugs the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. “Anyway, I should head over to the cafe. Don’t want to be late for my first day and all.”

“Right,” Nick says, a little too fast. The words in his throat are tangled — I’ll come with you, Good luck, Don’t go just yet — but Erin’s still there, and he doesn’t want to make it awkward.

Instead, he gestures vaguely toward the cafe. “Bring home some of that fancy coffee you’re gonna make, yeah?”

Charlie smirks, the expression soft but thin. “Sure, Nick. I’ll make sure it’s extra bitter — just how you like it.”

Nick tries to laugh, but it catches halfway in his chest. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “See you.”

He turns and walks away, hood up, one hand holding his book close to his chest.

Nick watches him go — the small, steady figure cutting across the courtyard, disappearing into the cafe’s glass doors. When he looks back, Erin’s already talking about some mixer tonight, her voice bright, easy.

He nods along, smiling where he should, but the echo of Charlie’s sarcasm lingers — that soft, quiet sting beneath the words.

For a second, he wonders if this — all of it, the pizza, the laughter, the newness — is what growing up is supposed to feel like.

Because right now, it mostly just feels like losing something he hasn’t even named yet.

---

The cafe is already buzzing when Charlie steps inside at half past one. The soft hiss of steaming milk, clatter of cups, and hum of low chatter blend into something almost soothing.

The air smells of espresso and caramel syrup — warm and rich and a little bit comforting.

Behind the counter, Adrian is at the espresso machine, sleeves rolled to his elbows, concentration fixed on the stream of coffee pouring into a cup.

He looks up, surprise flickering briefly across his face when he spots Charlie near the entrance.

“Hey—early bird!” Adrian says, raising his voice over the machine’s steady hum. “Didn’t expect you till two.”

Charlie shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Figured I’d come early. Didn’t want to get lost on my first day.”

Adrian chuckles, setting the cup on the counter. “Smart move. Grab a seat for a sec — I’ll finish these orders and come over.”

He nods to another barista behind the counter — a girl with pink hair and a septum ring — and says, “Hey, warm up a muffin for our new recruit, yeah?”

“On it, boss,” she says, giving Charlie a friendly grin.

Adrian turns back to Charlie. “You want a drink while you wait? On the house.”

Charlie hesitates. “Um… just a hot chocolate, maybe?”

“Good choice,” Adrian says, pressing a few buttons on the machine. “Sugar high before the chaos begins.”

Charlie laughs softly, sliding into a small table near the counter.

The muffin arrives — warm, soft, chocolate chip — and the first sip of hot chocolate feels like calm settling in his bones.

For a few minutes, he just watches. The rhythm of the cafe feels alive — baristas weaving around each other like it’s choreographed, orders called, laughter spilling between moments of concentration. It feels like a world he could belong to.

When the line finally thins, Adrian wipes his hands on a towel and gestures for Charlie to follow him behind the counter.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you started.”

He walks Charlie through everything — the espresso machine first, explaining how to grind beans, measure the shot, time the pull. Then the drip setup, the gleam of glass and chrome, the precise rhythm of pouring. The list of recipes for blended drinks follows — how many pumps of vanilla syrup for a caramel frappe, how much ice for a mocha blend.

Charlie tries to remember it all, but there’s too much, and he laughs at his own confusion. Adrian smiles, reassuring. “Don’t worry, no one gets it all on day one. You’ll pick it up fast.”

They move to the pastry station next — warming croissants, muffins, the little cinnamon buns that smell like comfort itself. Then the cleanup tasks— how to wipe down the counters properly, how to empty the drip trays, how to clean out the grease trap.

“It’s a lot,” Adrian admits, leaning against the counter as Charlie practices pulling another espresso shot. “But don’t stress. We’ve got a solid team here. Everyone helps each other out.”

He tilts his head, tone turning half-playful, half-serious. “And if anyone gives you a hard time, you let me know, yeah?”

Charlie grins. “Got it. I’ll report any muffin-related bullying.”

Adrian laughs. “That’s the spirit.”

By the time they finish setting up the training schedule, the clock reads two-thirty. Adrian finds a way to align Charlie’s shifts neatly with his classes, marking a few notes in the staff roster.

“There,” Adrian says, satisfied. “Perfect balance. You’ll have enough time for coursework and this.”

He reaches for a slim binder from the shelf behind him and slides it across the counter.

“These are our recipe guides — every drink on the menu, down to how many pumps of syrup go into the flavoured ones. Keep it with you for reference until you’ve memorised the basics.”

Charlie flips through the laminated pages — neat rows of measurements, ratios, and notes in different handwritings. He grins. “Feels like studying again, just… tastier.”

Adrian laughs. “Exactly. Barista school, unofficial edition.”

Charlie takes the binder under his arm as Adrian gestures toward the narrow door leading to the back. “You can leave your stuff in the back room — apron’s on the hook. Go ahead, try it on.”

The back of house is small and cramped, shelves lined with cleaning supplies and bags of coffee beans.

There’s a streaked mirror above the sink. Charlie slips the apron over his hoodie, smoothing the dark fabric down his front.

It feels heavier than expected — solid, real. He adjusts the strap at his neck, runs a hand through his curls to tame the worst of them, and catches his reflection.

For a moment, he just looks — half amused, half proud.

Then he lifts his phone, snaps a quick selfie, and adds a caption before sending it off to Nick—

Charlie: Your boy’s officially caffeinated ☕️ wish me luck before I burn milk

He stares at the screen for a beat longer than he means to, then tucks the phone back into his pocket and steps out front again.

“Welcome to the team,” Adrian says, handing him a spare towel.

“Thanks,” Charlie says, smiling wide. “Can’t wait to start.”

And he means it. The hum of the espresso machine, the easy rhythm of the cafe, the people around him — it feels safe. Simple. Manageable.

As he wipes down the counter for the first time, he tells himself he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Nick’s out there — in rugby, in his new world, with Erin and everything else waiting for him.

Charlie glances toward the cafe door, imagining Nick’s laugh echoing somewhere on campus, bright and far away.

Then he forces himself to focus back on the task at hand — learning, moving, belonging.

He’ll make friends here. He’ll fill his days with warmth and noise and purpose.

He’ll be okay.

He has to be.

---

By the time Nick gets back to the dorm, the afternoon sun has turned the walls a pale gold.

He drops his bag just inside the door and sinks onto his bed, the kind of tired that’s equal parts physical and mental.

The schedule printout from his induction packet sits crumpled in his hoodie pocket, so he flattens it out on his chest and stares.

Education seminars on Mondays and Thursdays. A methods workshop midweek. Rugby practice Tuesdays and Fridays if he makes the team officially.

And somewhere in there, maybe a student ambassador interview, maybe a few hours of actual paid work if he’s lucky.

He traces the columns of time blocks with a fingertip, already feeling his brain protest. You’re not even a week in and you’re tired just looking at it.

His phone buzzes beside him — a new message.

Erin: Still full of pizza 😂 you?

He smiles faintly and types back.

Nick: Same. Might not eat again till tomorrow.

A pause, then—

Erin: You doing anything later? There’s that psych + ed mixer I mentioned — figured it might be fun to check out together!

He stares at the message for a moment, thumb hovering. Erin’s nice — smart, funny, easy to talk to — but something about her pace feels a bit like sprinting when he’s not sure he wants to run. He replies anyway.

Nick: Maybe! Depends how wiped I am after sorting my stuff tonight 😅

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Conversation over for now.

He tosses the phone onto the pillow, folds the schedule again, and lets out a long breath.

The week ahead already looks like a juggling act, and he hasn’t even started.

He stares at the ceiling, thinking about how much he used to love the idea of busy — back when he thought being busy meant being someone.

The phone buzzes again. This time, it’s from Charlie.

Nick opens it — and immediately laughs.

A selfie— Charlie in a dark apron, curls slightly messy, eyes bright in that “please validate me” way he gets when he’s pretending to be sarcastic but secretly proud—

Charlie: Your boy’s officially caffeinated ☕️ wish me luck before I burn milk

Nick can’t help it — he grins, wide and real. He taps out a reply.

Nick: You look great, barista boy. Don’t burn anything. Proud of you 🫶

He stares at the photo for another moment. The little things hit him first — the way Charlie’s adjusting his curls, the faint gleam of the mirror behind him, and the standard bib apron— dark cotton canvas with a simple neck loop, a wide front pocket, and long waist ties knotted at his hip, a clean towel tucked in.

He sets the phone down beside him, still smiling. He’s doing it, Nick thinks. He’s actually doing it.

His eyelids grow heavy. The printout slips from his fingers, fluttering onto the duvet. The last thing he sees before drifting off is the corner of the phone screen still glowing with Charlie’s selfie.

By the time he falls asleep, the smile hasn’t left his face, and his hand is still curled loosely around the phone — like he’s afraid that if he lets go, the moment might disappear.

---

Nick’s nap stretches far longer than he meant it to. When he finally blinks awake, the light in the room has changed — late-afternoon sunlight spills across the floor in strips of amber, soft and fading.

The air feels heavy, warm from having slept through it. His hoodie has twisted around him somehow, bunched at his ribs like it gave up halfway through keeping him covered, and his hair’s gone rogue — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other like a badly folded map.

The sound that wakes him fully is the door clicking open and a voice calling, bright and teasing.

“Honey, I’m home! …Nick?”

He groans softly, pushing himself upright. “In here,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Nick blinks blearily toward the doorframe, where Charlie’s leaning now — still in his cafe clothes, apron strings dangling from his tote bag, curls slightly frizzed from the espresso machine’s humidity.

He’s holding a paper bag and two takeaway cups, smiling like he’s been gone for hours and couldn’t wait to come back.

“Had a good nap, princess?” he says, smirking.

Nick drags a hand over his face, still half-dreaming. “I think I’ve been asleep for, like, four hours,” he says, voice rough. “How was your first shift?”

Charlie’s grin widens. “Good! I managed to practice some basic latte art — leaves, hearts. Nothing too tragic.” He lifts the paper bag like it’s treasure.

“Tadaaaa!”

Nick blinks up at him, a little dazed, hair rumpled and voice rough from sleep. “What’s that?”

“Leftovers,” Charlie says, smiling as he leaves the doorway and crosses to the kitchen table.

His tote slips off his shoulder as he sets the food down with careful hands, the sound of paper and cups gentle in the quiet.

Nick watches him for a moment — the easy way he moves, the faint curl of hair at his temple, the warmth he seems to bring with him — and something in his chest settles, slow and certain.

“Adrian said the baristas can take whatever’s left at the end of the day — only the leftovers though, not the fresh stuff.”

He opens the bag to reveal a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a flaky pastry with custard filling, and a single generous slice of chocolate cake. He gestures to the takeaway cups. “And hot chocolate. You okay with having them?”

Nick pads toward the kitchen behind Charlie, still waking up, hair sticking up worse than before. A sleepy grin tugs at his mouth.

“If it’s from you,” he says, voice low and teasing, “I’ll eat whatever you bring home, sweetheart.”

Charlie’s eyes flick up — startled, then laughing. “Careful, Nelson. Keep that up and I might start bringing home extra pastries — just to see how much you’ll eat for me.”

Nick grins, warmth blooming under his skin. “That sounds dangerous,” he says, dropping into a seat at the kitchen table.

“You keep feeding me like this, and I’ll never want to eat dinner anywhere else.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betray him, tugging upward despite his best effort.

A faint flush creeps across his cheeks as he unwraps the sandwich and pastry, arranging them neatly like he’s presenting for television.

“Alright, Your Majesty,” he says, tone teasing but a little too soft to fully hide the fondness there. “Since this is a culinary masterpiece, we must critique properly.”

He clears his throat and puts on the most over-exaggerated posh accent imaginable. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we dine upon the finest campus delicacies — half-soggy custard croissant with notes of despair and ambition.”

Nick snorts mid-sip of hot chocolate, nearly choking. “Mmm, yes,” he says between laughs, adopting an even worse accent. “One can truly taste the… academic struggle. A subtle undertone of student loans and tears.”

Charlie gestures dramatically with a fork. “And the sandwich — oh, divine! A complex medley of day-old bread and the faint whisper of hope.”

Nick bursts out laughing, leaning on the counter, shoulders shaking. “Stop, you’re gonna make me spit my drink.”

Charlie just grins, smug. “That’s what all the critics say.”

They keep going — their jokes getting sillier, accents slipping into something vaguely French or posh or unidentifiable.

At one point, Charlie steals a bite of Nick’s pastry and Nick mock-gasps in scandal, hand over his heart.

“Unbelievable,” Nick says dramatically. “You’ve crossed a line, Spring. There are rules about pastry etiquette.”

Charlie smirks, licking a bit of custard off his thumb. “Sue me.”

The air between them hums, playful but soft, and Nick can feel it — that small, dangerous warmth curling low in his chest.

He hides it behind another sip of cocoa, forcing a grin.

After a while, they settle into quiet chewing and easy conversation, the tension replaced by something calm and familiar.

The clock ticks past seven. Nick glances at his phone — a reminder pops up from the university app.

Psych-Ed Mixer — 8:00 PM, Student Union Lounge.

He hesitates, thumb hovering over the notification. He’s already awake now. Might as well go. He looks over at Charlie, who’s rinsing crumbs off the counter.

“Hey,” Nick starts, a little cautious. “There’s this psych-ed mixer thing tonight. Erin mentioned it earlier. You cool if I head out for a bit?”

Charlie glances over his shoulder, smiling faintly. “You don’t need my permission, Nick. Go. Have fun.”

Nick studies his expression for a second — the easy tone, the way Charlie’s hands stay busy in the sink. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, rinsing a mug. “I might just crash after my shower anyway. My feet are still protesting from standing all day.”

“Fair enough.” Nick smiles, soft but uncertain. “Thanks again for the leftovers. Dinner of champions.”

Charlie dries his hands, leans a hip against the counter, and smirks. “Anytime. Just don’t forget to bring me back gossip — or someone’s number. You’ve got that golden retriever charm, remember?”

Nick groans, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Charlie says, eyes twinkling.

Nick heads into his room and changes out of his old hoodie and joggers.

He pulls on a fitted grey T-shirt that clings a little across his shoulders, dark jeans that actually fit properly, and a navy overshirt he leaves unbuttoned.

His hair’s still a little mussed from sleep, but he runs his fingers through it, trying to tame it without making it obvious he’s trying. Sneakers, watch, light spritz of cologne — casual, but not careless.

When Nick reappears at the door, it’s been about five minutes since Charlie’s teasing remark — long enough for the flat to fall quiet except for the faint clink of dishes.

Charlie’s just finishing wiping down the counter, sleeves pushed up, humming something under his breath.

Nick lingers in the doorway, jacket in hand. “You’re the worst,” he says at last, voice low but smiling.

Charlie turns, amused, eyes flicking over him — from the grey T-shirt and unbuttoned overshirt to the dark jeans and clean sneakers. A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Mmh. If you’re dressing like that, I’m pretty sure I’m not the worst person in this flat.”

Nick blinks, caught off guard — the compliment landing somewhere between his ribs and his throat. He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Flattery won’t stop me from asking you for more leftovers, Char.”

Charlie grins, drying his hands on a towel. “Wasn’t trying to. You’d cave anyway.”

Nick huffs a laugh, slipping into his jacket. He lingers a moment longer than he needs to, watching the easy way Charlie moves around their shared kitchen, the faint curl of steam still rising from the sink.

“See you later,” he says finally.

“Don’t go breaking too many hearts, alright?” Charlie calls after him, voice teasing, fond.

Nick glances back over his shoulder, grin wide and crooked.

“Pretty sure mine’s already taken by you, mon amour.” He throws in an exaggerated wink for good measure before heading out the door.

Charlie blinks, half-laughing, half-flustered, shaking his head as he watches him go.

His laughter trails after Nick as he steps into the hall — light, familiar, and a little too comforting for a night he’s supposed to spend meeting new people. The sound lingers until the door clicks softly shut behind him.

A few steps down the corridor, Nick winces. Why the hell did I say that?

His brain replays it on loop — the wink, the stupid accent, Charlie’s laugh — until he stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just practice. Friendly banter. Totally normal.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, willing his heart to stop thudding so fast. The air in the hallway feels cooler now, smelling faintly of wet grass and autumn leaves drifting in through the open stairwell.

By the time he steps outside, he’s managed to convince himself he’s calm again.

He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering for a moment before he starts typing.

Nick: Hey! I’m heading to the psych-ed mixer now. Will you be there?

It takes less than a minute for Erin to reply.

Erin: You’re coming?? Nice! I’m already here. Drinks are free for first years btw 😏 hurry up before they run out

He chuckles under his breath and pockets his phone. Alright then.

Socialising mode: On.

The walk to the Student Union takes ten minutes.

He can hear the hum of music before he even gets inside — a mix of pop and soft house, the kind of generic soundtrack designed to make small talk feel less awkward.

The lights inside are low and warm, fairy lights draped across the ceiling, clusters of students chatting around high tables.

And yet, as Nick steps through the door, a strange pang hits him. He should be good at this — he is good at this — but it still feels weird. Like he’s walking into a room meant for someone else.

He catches himself glancing at the entrance, half-expecting Charlie to be there, trailing after him with an unimpressed look and some sarcastic remark about the playlist.

He’s not.

“Nick!” Erin’s voice cuts through the noise, bright and friendly. She waves him over from a group near the drinks table, all easy smiles. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss free drinks,” Nick says, smiling as he joins her.

“Smart man,” she teases, handing him a paper cup. “Meet everyone — this is Sam, first-year psychology, total trivia nerd. And that’s Lucy, doing Education like you. Oh, and the guy who looks like he models part-time? Rafael. History and Politics, but apparently he crashes all the Social Sciences mixers.”

Rafael turns when his name’s mentioned — tall, dark curls, brown eyes that linger a second too long. His smile is lazy, practiced, the kind that flickers just on the edge of flirtation.

“Nick, right?” he says, accent faintly Spanish. “Heard you’re the rugby guy.”

Nick blinks, laughs awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Tryouts this morning.”

Rafael’s eyes trail briefly down, then back up — assessing, but not unkind. “That explains the arms.”

Nick’s mouth goes dry. He laughs because it’s easier than freezing. “Ha—yeah, well, I guess all that rugby training back in secondary school did something.”

“Modest too,” Rafael says, amused. “You’ll fit right in.”

They talk for a bit — small things. Rafael’s just transferred from Madrid, Erin’s complaining about the amount of readings they already have, and Lucy’s making fun of the overpriced drinks.

Nick nods along, polite, laughing when appropriate, but there’s a part of him that stays at arm’s length.

Every so often, his brain supplies an image— Charlie at home, hair still damp from his shower, probably curled up in bed with a book, making sarcastic comments in his head about this very mixer.

“Oh, you mingled? How intellectual of you. Did you exchange philosophical insights over lukewarm punch?” The thought alone almost makes Nick laugh out loud.

He excuses himself to grab another drink, standing near the side table where the noise feels muffled.

His phone doesn’t buzz, but the weight of it in his pocket feels suddenly magnetic — like a quiet nudge under his skin, pulling at him.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips it out and starts typing, thumb moving almost on instinct.

Nick: You still awake?

He stares at the screen for a few seconds — no typing bubble appears, but that’s okay. Maybe Charlie’s asleep already. Maybe that’s for the best.

He downs the rest of his drink, glancing around the room.

Rafael’s chatting animatedly with Lucy now, Erin laughing at something someone said. Everyone looks comfortably at ease.

Nick checks his phone — just over an hour. Long enough to be polite, he thinks. Long enough to look like he tried.

He exhales, pocketing his phone. The noise and chatter feel distant, like he’s stretched thin between worlds — too old for secondary school nostalgia, too new to feel like he belongs here.

Spotting Erin again, he makes his way through the crowd and taps her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, smiling apologetically. “I think I’m gonna head back. Early start tomorrow, and I’ve got that interview to prep for.”

“Oh,” Erin says, surprised but understanding. “Sure! You’ll do great, by the way. Let me know how it goes.”

“Will do.”

She squeezes his arm — friendly, warm — and he gives her a grateful smile before heading for the door.

Outside, the night air hits cool against his face. He breathes deep, phone still in his hand. No new messages. The campus lights shimmer faintly across the grass.

He tells himself he’s just tired, that this — the uncertainty, the missing — is part of adjusting.

Still, as he starts the walk home, his thumb hovers over Charlie’s name again.

He doesn’t send another text, but he thinks it — the words sitting heavy behind his teeth— Wish you’d been there.

The dorm corridor is dim when Nick gets back, the motion-sensor lights humming faintly as they flicker on above him. He pushes open the front door quietly, half whispering, half hoping for a response.

“I’m back…”

Nothing. Just the soft tick of the wall clock and the low hum of the mini fridge in the kitchen.

He toes off his trainers by the door, shrugs out of his jacket, and hangs it on the hook. The stillness feels heavier after the noise of the mixer — like stepping into another world.

Charlie’s door isn’t fully closed, a sliver of warm lamplight spilling into the hallway through the crack. Nick hesitates for a moment, then drifts closer, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his weight.

Inside, Charlie’s fast asleep. He’s curled under the duvet, one arm wrapped around Kitty — the old, soft plush cat he’s had since he was small, its once-bright fur faded to a gentle grey.

His curls fan out on the pillow, lips parted slightly, breathing slow and even.

Nick stands there for a moment, just watching. His chest loosens in a way he didn’t realise it needed to.

The anxious buzz from earlier — the noise, the faces, Rafael’s teasing grin — all of it slips away.

He exhales softly. Yeah. He’ll figure out university life, the new routines, the pressure, all of it.

Because Charlie’s here. And somehow, that makes it all feel manageable.

As if sensing the attention, Charlie stirs — his brow creasing faintly before his eyes flutter open, soft and unfocused in the lamplight.

Nick freezes, instinctively ducking back behind the doorframe, half-hidden in shadow.

“Hey…” Charlie mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “You home?”

Nick smiles faintly. “Yeah. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Charlie hums, half-asleep again already. “S’okay. You have fun?”

Nick leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah. It was… fine.”

“M’glad.” Charlie’s voice is slurred now, eyes drifting shut again. “Good night, Nick.”

Nick lingers a second longer, watching the rise and fall of the duvet. “Good night, Char.”

He steps back, easing the door mostly closed, leaving it cracked just enough for a slice of light to reach through — like a quiet promise that he’s still there.

Then he slips into his own room, the silence soft around him, the warmth of that sleepy good night following him all the way to bed.

Chapter Text

Wednesday morning comes too soon.

Charlie wakes to the faint clatter of something metallic and rhythmic — pipes maybe, or someone in the kitchen. He blinks against the early light seeping through the curtains, checks the time — just after eight — and groans softly before sitting up.

For a second he just sits there, the fog of sleep heavy around him. And then it hits — a flicker of memory from last night— Nick standing against his doorframe, lamplight behind him, eyes soft and a little unreadable.

Charlie had been too drowsy to say anything then, barely awake when they’d murmured goodnight. But now, fully conscious, the image lingers — that look on Nick’s face, the way it had made something flutter uncomfortably in his chest.

He shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair. Stop it. Don’t start thinking about that.

He swings his legs off the bed and moves through his morning routine on autopilot — brushing his teeth, pulling on jeans and a clean black tee, slipping his cafe apron neatly folded into his tote.

His curls are having a morning of their own, and he gives up after a few half-hearted swipes.

Focus, he tells himself. Work. Adrian.

His mind drifts back to yesterday — his first training shift, learning the espresso machine under Adrian’s watchful eye.

Today he’ll have to survive another round of practice… and Adrian’s impossibly perfect latte art. What a smug.

Okay, maybe not smug — just a man in his forties who’s annoyingly handsome and really, really good at his job. And passionate. About coffee. That’s all.

Charlie exhales, slinging his tote over his shoulder. Nine to six, he reminds himself.

Survive caffeine, survive customers, survive Adrian’s latte art — and maybe, just maybe, stop overthinking certain doorframe moments.

When he steps out of his room, the smell hits him first — butter and eggs, warm toast, the faint hiss of something frying.

Beneath it all, the rich, earthy scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers — the kind their old French press makes when Nick actually measures it right.

“Morning,” he says around a yawn. “You’re up early…

Nick’s at the stove in joggers and a worn T-shirt, spatula in one hand, hair a soft disaster.

There’s a stack of toast already on a plate, a pan of scrambled eggs going, and the coffee press sitting proudly on the counter between their cat and dog mugs.

The kitchen looks like a breakfast show hosted by someone far too kind for his own good.

Nick glances over his shoulder, grinning sheepishly. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits. “Too nervous about the interview.”

Charlie’s gaze drifts to the kitchen table — it’s covered in sheets of paper, scribbled notes, mock interview questions, and half a cup of cold tea in a different mug, abandoned mid-thought.

He laughs lightly. “Didn’t even know we had eggs.”

Nick shrugs, turning off the stove. “We didn’t. I went for a walk earlier and grabbed some. Figured I’d make breakfast, you know… good luck meal. You’ve got your first full shift today, right?”

Charlie blinks, throat tightening unexpectedly. “Yeah. Nine to six.”

“Exactly,” Nick says, dividing the food between two plates. “So—protein, carbs, caffeine. Perfect combo for a big day.”

Charlie watches him set the plates down, that easy, instinctive kindness in every movement. It’s ridiculous, really — how someone can make something as simple as toast and eggs feel like an act of care.

If only he could tell him.

If only he could say how, even back in form, it was that — Nick’s small kindnesses, his steady warmth — that melted his heart long before he even understood what it meant. And now, watching him fuss over breakfast and chew on his lip while worrying about an interview, he wants to say —you’ll melt them too, you always do.

Instead, Charlie swallows the feeling down and slides into his seat, forcing something steadier to his voice. “Thanks, Nick. This looks great.”

Nick grins, sitting across from him. “You sure you’re not just saying that because it’s free?”

Charlie smirks, picking up his fork. “Maybe a little. But seriously—you’re gonna be fine today. You’ve got that thing that makes people like you immediately. It’s… kind of unfair, actually.”

Nick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’ll try to weaponise it in the interview.”

Charlie gestures toward the messy pile of notes and half-crumpled papers on the table. “Besides…” he says, poking one with his fork. “Looking at your resume and how you’ve got captain of the rugby team sitting right there—honestly, that already screams rizz and born leadership in about a thousand ways.”

Nick groans, laughing into his toast. “You did not just say rizz.”

Charlie grins, shameless. “I did. And I stand by it.” He picks up one of the sheets and squints dramatically at Nick’s handwriting.

“What even is this question—Describe a time you worked under pressure? Mate, this looks like an essay.”

Nick blushes faintly, reaching for the page. “I was practising answers! I ramble when I’m nervous.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Charlie says, pulling the paper out of reach with a teasing grin. “Although I will say, your example about managing a team under stress? Pretty good. You sound like an actual adult.”

“Terrifying,” Nick says, deadpan.

“Right?” Charlie snorts, setting the page back down neatly. “But really, you’re fine. You’ve got every box ticked — confidence, empathy, that annoyingly genuine smile. You’re going to melt your interviewer in five minutes flat.”

Nick rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re dangerously good at pep talks, you know that?”

Charlie shrugs, a hint of colour in his cheeks. “Comes with the job description. Professional cheerleader for one anxious rugby boy.”

Nick laughs quietly, softer now. “Thanks, Char.”

“Always,” Charlie says, and means it.

They eat together in easy quiet — the kind that doesn’t need filling. The sunlight creeps higher through the kitchen window, catching on the edge of the plates, on the corner of Nick’s notes.

For a brief, golden moment, everything feels calm and exactly right.

---

When Charlie leaves, the flat feels too quiet.

Nick stands by the door for a moment after it closes, listening to the faint echo of Charlie’s footsteps down the hall.

Then he turns back to the table — the battlefield of notes, scribbles, and mock interview questions. Pens scattered, tea rings staining the paper. He drops into the chair with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face.

He tries to read through his notes again — Describe a time you worked under pressure, What makes you a good fit for this role, How do you handle conflict — but the words blur together, slipping right past his focus.

Charlie’s voice keeps threading through his head instead. The teasing, the certainty, the warmth that wrapped around every word. You’ve got every box ticked… you’re going to melt your interviewer in five minutes flat.

Nick huffs out a quiet laugh that turns into something smaller, something heavier. He leans back, staring at the ceiling.

He wonders — not for the first time — if anyone else could ever make him feel the way Charlie does. That easy safety, the kind that sneaks up on you until you can’t remember what it was like before.

They kissed, once, and Charlie called it for science. They flirt, and Charlie insists it’s for practice.

Maybe it is. Maybe it has to be.

Because Charlie doesn’t see him that way — not really — and Nick can’t risk wrecking the one good, steady thing he’s ever had. He’s not ready to lose his best friend just because he can’t keep his heart in check.

He reminds himself he wants to be supportive. He does mean it — every word of it.

He wants Charlie to go out there and meet people, to live, to fall in love, to be happy… even if that happiness doesn’t include him.

He sighs, deep and resigned, as though the sound itself could make that feel more okay than it does.

After a long moment, he picks up his phone. Maybe distraction will help.

Nick: Morning :) What are you doing today?

It doesn’t take long before his screen lights up.

Erin: Morning! Got a couple of talks and seminars later, but I’m free to chill around 12. When’s your interview? Also—good luck! You’ll smash it, I can tell already 💪

Nick smiles faintly at the message, the corners of his chest softening.

Nick: Thanks :) Enjoy your seminar.

He sets the phone down, trying to re-anchor himself in the day.

For the next half hour, he forces himself to go through his notes again, reading questions out loud, practicing answers under his breath.

Then, when the clock creeps closer to eleven, he finally pushes back from the table and goes to change — swapping his worn hoodie for a clean button-up, a pair of chinos, and his neatest trainers.

He catches his reflection in the mirror — hair tamed, posture straight — and exhales slowly.

Okay, he tells himself. You’ve got this.

Even if a small, familiar ache in his chest whispers otherwise.

---

Nick arrives at the visitor centre fifteen minutes before eleven, heart thudding in that way that feels half nerves, half caffeine.

He smooths the front of his shirt twice before stepping inside — bright light, soft chatter, a receptionist typing behind a wide desk.

The walls are lined with colourful posters about campus tours and upcoming open days. It smells faintly of floor polish and coffee.

He checks in, thanks the receptionist a little too earnestly, and takes a seat. His knee bounces. Okay, breathe. You can do this.

A tall woman in a navy blouse and glasses soon appears, clipboard in hand.

“Nick Nelson?”

He stands, smile quick but polite. “That’s me.”

“Great! I’m Ms. Patel,” she says warmly, shaking his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

The interview itself goes by in a blur — questions, hand gestures, nodding along at all the right moments.

“What do you think makes a good student ambassador?”

“How would you describe your communication style?”

“What do you enjoy most about university life so far?”

Nick talks about teamwork, about welcoming new students, about wanting to make people feel comfortable. He stumbles once — trying to describe Leeds as “vibrant but chill,” then backtracks with a sheepish grin that earns a laugh from Ms. Patel.

She asks about rugby, and his eyes light up. He tells her about leadership, balancing team dynamics, mentoring younger players. Her pen moves quickly across the page. Each nod she gives feels like another small breath of relief.

When it’s over, she smiles, standing to shake his hand again. “That was great, Nick. You can wait out front for a bit while I finalise the notes, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, thank you,” he says, voice steady now.

He takes a seat in the waiting area, scrolling idly through his phone, but not really seeing the screen.

His heart still beats faster than it should.

He watches the clock tick past eleven-thirty…

then eleven-forty-five.

At exactly twelve, Ms. Patel reappears from the hallway, still holding her clipboard.

“Nick, sorry for the wait,” she says, smiling. “Just needed to get everything signed off.”

Nick stands instantly. “No problem at all.”

“Well,” she continues, “I’m happy to say you passed the interview.”

It takes him a second to process the words. “Wait—really?”

She laughs. “Really. Congratulations, Nick. You’re officially a student ambassador. If you’re free tomorrow, you can join the first group tour. It’s a good way to get started.”

Nick’s grin breaks wide and helpless. “Yeah, I can do that! Absolutely.”

“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll email you the briefing details this afternoon, if that works for you?”

“That’s perfect. Thank you so much, Ms. Patel.”

As she disappears back into her office, Nick steps out of the visitor centre into the late-morning sunlight, exhaling a shaky, happy breath.

His first thought, immediately and inevitably, is Charlie’s going to be so proud.

Nick’s already pulling out his phone before he even reaches the end of the steps outside the visitor centre. His fingers move fast, his grin refusing to leave.

Nick: I did it! I got the job!! 🎉

He stands on the pavement, blinking in the bright noon sun, still half in disbelief.

A gust of wind ruffles his hair as his phone buzzes a moment later.

Charlie: OMG YOU DID?? That’s amazing!! Come by the cafe, I’m making you a super special celebratory drink ☕💪

Nick laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head. Of course Charlie’s first instinct is to celebrate with caffeine.

Nick tucks his phone back into his pocket, still smiling like a fool.

The thought of seeing Charlie — of him standing behind the counter, curls messy and apron slightly crooked — sends a light flutter through his chest.

He starts walking toward the cafe, the day suddenly brighter than it was five minutes ago.

---

It’s almost noon, and Charlie’s been checking his phone every few minutes — under the counter, between customers, even while pretending to wipe down tables.

No new messages.

He knows Nick will do fine. Of course he will. He’s Nick — confident, warm, the kind of person who makes everyone feel seen.

Still, there’s this restless itch under Charlie’s ribs. The kind that keeps whispering— what if the interviewer’s an idiot who can’t see how amazing he is?

He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when his phone finally buzzes.

He doesn’t even try to play it cool. He wipes his flour-dusted hands on his apron and checks it immediately.

Nick: I did it! I got the job!! 🎉

Charlie’s grin is instant and unrestrained. He actually lets out a small, delighted sound that earns him a curious look from Evan — the third-year barista working his shift with him today.

Evan’s tall and lean, with sun-streaked blond hair and green eyes that could sell croissants without saying a word.

He’s been working at the cafe since his first year and moves through the space with effortless calm. Charlie likes that about him — steady, unhurried, unbothered.

“So,” Evan says, sliding a tray of muffins into the display case, “good news?”

“My best friend just got the job he interviewed for,” Charlie says, still smiling at his screen. “Student ambassador.”

“Nice,” Evan says, flashing him a small approving grin. “Knew you were grinning too much for it to be bad news.”

Charlie laughs, ducking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been nervously checking my phone like a total loser.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with caring,” Evan says, handing him a towel to wipe down the counter. His tone is easy — friendly, maybe even a little teasing. “So, tell me about this best friend. Is he as cool as you make him sound?”

Charlie chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s… the most golden retriever person you’ll ever meet.”

“Ah,” Evan says, mock serious. “So that’s a yes.”

They fall into a rhythm — taking orders, pulling shots, teasing each other between customers.

There’s light, harmless banter — a few jokes that make Charlie snort into his sleeve, but nothing that quite lands the way his back-and-forth with Nick does.

Evan’s nice. Charming, even. But Nick has always been… different.

Still, it’s a good morning. Adrian’s mostly tucked away in the back, doing stock checks and reports, leaving them to run the front of house.

The cafe hums with a steady stream of students and the comforting whir of espresso machines.

When Charlie’s phone buzzes again, his chest does this stupid, traitorous flutter.

Nick: Make it blue and sparkly or something. Do you guys have bubblegum flavour frappes? 😏

Charlie bites his lip to keep from smiling too wide as he types back.

Charlie: We don’t… but for you, I’ll make something almost as questionable. Just get here soon before Adrian makes me clean the grease trap again.

He slips his phone back into his apron pocket, still grinning.

Evan raises an eyebrow, catching the look. “The golden retriever?”

Charlie laughs softly. “Yeah. He’s coming over.”

He glances at the blender, already imagining ridiculous concoctions in pastel colours. Bubblegum flavour, huh?

He can work with that. A little raspberry syrup, maybe some white chocolate, a touch of blue drizzle on top.

Something sweet, something over-the-top — just like Nick asked.

Charlie hums under his breath as he works. A bit of raspberry syrup for colour, a drizzle of white chocolate, a touch of blue food colouring for flair.

The blender whirs loudly before quieting into a smooth hum. He pours the mix into a tall plastic cup, tops it with a mountain of whipped cream, and finishes with rainbow sprinkles.

It’s completely ridiculous — a pastel explosion that looks more like a dessert from a children’s menu than an actual drink.

He’s just adding the final swirl of whipped cream when the door chime jingles.

Nick steps in, the late noon sunlight catching in his hair, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks a little flushed from the walk over.

He looks around until his eyes land on Charlie — and then he’s smiling, the kind of smile that makes the air around him feel instantly warmer.

Charlie lifts the cup like a trophy. “Presenting— one almost bubblegum celebratory monstrosity,” he says grandly. “Guaranteed to rot your teeth and your self-respect.”

Nick bursts out laughing as he approaches the counter. “Oh my God, it’s blue. Like, aggressively blue.”

“That’s the raspberry syrup and the questionable food dye talking,” Charlie says, smirking. “Limited edition, only available to successful student ambassadors.”

Nick grins, accepting the cup. “I can’t believe you actually made this.”

“You dared me,” Charlie says, mock defensive. “You don’t get to complain now.”

Nick takes a cautious sip through the straw. His eyes widen. “Wait. It’s actually good?”

Charlie crosses his arms, smug. “I’m a man of many talents.”

From behind the espresso machine, Evan chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel. “You should’ve seen him concentrating on that thing,” he says to Nick. “Looked like he was defusing a bomb.”

Charlie throws him a mock glare. “Excuse you, Evan, it’s called artistry.”

Evan smirks, leaning casually against the counter. “Yeah, yeah. Barista extraordinaire, I stand corrected.”

Nick watches the exchange — the easy back-and-forth, the way Evan’s grin lingers a second too long — and something small twists in his chest before he can stop it. It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Completely ridiculous. They’re just coworkers. Charlie’s allowed to joke with people.

Still, there’s a flicker of something sharp and uninvited beneath his ribs. He takes another sip of the drink, trying to smother it.

Charlie glances between them, sensing something shift but not quite sure what.

“Nick, this is Evan — the guy who somehow convinced a customer earlier that we’re out of croissants just to make them buy the zucchini muffins instead.”

Evan laughs. “Hey, they needed more fiber.”

Nick forces a grin. “Nice to meet you, man. Sounds like you’re a sales genius.”

“Ha, I wish. I’ve just gotten good at smiling through rejections,” Evan says with a small grin.

Before Charlie can say more, the cafe door opens again, and a small crowd of students trickles in.

The register dings, and Adrian’s voice calls from the back.

“Showtime,” Charlie murmurs, slipping back into motion behind the counter.

He glances up once, catching Nick’s expression — something half-hidden behind his polite smile, something he can’t quite read.

Nick steps aside, waving his cup lightly. “I’ll get out of your way. Don’t want to slow down your fans.”

Charlie laughs softly, but the sound feels a little off-balance. “See you later?”

Nick nods, grin returning just enough. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

But instead of leaving, Nick drifts toward one of the corner tables by the window, settling into the seat with his drink.

The late-afternoon light spills across the table, making the ridiculous blue of his frappe glow almost neon.

He takes another sip and feels his chest tighten — not from the cold, but from something heavier, quieter.

Watching Charlie laugh behind the counter with Evan, all easy smiles and inside jokes, makes something ache in him that he doesn’t have a name for.

He tells himself to stop being stupid. To do something else. So he fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts typing.

Nick: Hey, I got the job! 🎉

It takes less than a minute before the reply lights up his screen.

Erin: Grats!!! Perfect timing by the way! I just finished my first seminar. Where are you?

He glances around, then types back quickly.

Nick: At the cafe near the library.

Erin: Be there in ten. Don’t move!

Nick huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head.

---

When the door chime rings again a few minutes later, Charlie’s first thought is that it’s another wave of customers — but when he looks up, he freezes for a second before catching himself. Erin.

She spots Nick immediately, waving, then joins the queue to order.

She greets Charlie with a bright smile. “Hey! You’re Charlie, right? We’ve met a couple of times. How are you settling in? This place is so cool — being a barista here must be one of the best campus jobs ever.”

Charlie forces a polite smile, even though something tightens in his chest. Erin’s lovely— warm, kind, easy to like.

Of course Nick likes her. Who wouldn’t?

“Yeah,” he says, laughing softly. “It’s… busy, but I like it.”

“Well, that’s awesome,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll have an oat latte, please.”

“Sure thing,” he replies, punching in the order. “You can take a seat — I’ll bring it over once it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Erin says, flashing him another warm smile before heading toward Nick’s table.

Charlie watches her go, catching the moment she leans in to hug Nick, laughing something that sounds like Congratulations! His throat goes dry, and he forces himself to look away, focusing on steaming the milk.

You should be happy for him, he tells himself. You are happy for him.

Still, that dull ache beneath his ribs won’t quite settle.

When he carries Erin’s oat latte over a few minutes later, Nick looks up first — his eyes soft, bright with that new-job excitement.

“Here you go,” he says lightly, setting the oat latte in front of Erin with practiced ease.

Nick looks at him, grin easy and familiar. “How much do I owe you for moral support?”

Charlie huffs out a laugh, one hand on his hip. “For you? Double.”

Nick tilts his head, feigning offence. “Double? That’s daylight robbery.”

Charlie shrugs, lips twitching. “Inflation. Times are hard.”

Erin laughs, looking between them. “Whoa, you two always flirt like this? I feel like I’m third-wheeling a romcom over here.”

Nick turns pink immediately, his laugh tripping over itself. “We’ve just… known each other for so long,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, part of the friendship package.”

“Sure it is,” Erin teases, grinning over her cup.

Charlie manages a grin of his own, but when he glances at Nick — flushed, flustered, smiling — something inside him both warms and twists.

He mumbles something about needing to get back to the counter, and as he walks away, the sound of Nick’s laugh follows him — soft, familiar, and just a little bit too much.

---

Charlie busies himself with the familiar motions — cloth in hand, wiping down tables that are already spotless.

Anything to keep his eyes occupied. Anything to stop them from flicking, over and over, to the corner where Nick and Erin sit.

Evan’s restocking paper cups by the counter, sleeves pushed up, humming under his breath.

Charlie joins him, stacking napkins, pretending not to notice the warm buzz of conversation coming from the corner table.

But when he risks a glance — just one — he catches it.

Erin leaning in, her hand brushing Nick’s arm, both of them laughing about something. Nick’s eyes light up, the way they always do when he’s comfortable and happy.

Charlie swallows hard. If only that’s me there instead of here working.

He looks away immediately, forcing himself to focus on something — anything — else.

He grabs a couple of unopened packs of frappe mix from the storage shelf and brings them over to refill the nearly empty containers.

The sound of plastic tearing is a relief — something tangible, simple, controllable.

“So,” he says after a moment, pouring the vanilla mix carefully. “You’re a third year, right?”

Evan glances over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, engineering. Why?”

Charlie shrugs, trying to sound casual. “Just wondering — if you could tell your first-year self anything, what would be on the list?”

Evan chuckles, leaning against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder. “Oof. Big question. Alright, let’s see…”

He taps his chin theatrically. “First — sleep more. You’re not invincible. Two — eat something green at least once a week. Three…” His grin softens.

“Don’t take things so personally when people drift. Everyone’s just trying to survive the chaos.”

Charlie pauses mid-scoop, glancing up. “Yeah. That… makes sense.”

Evan nods, voice gentler now. “University messes with your head sometimes. You meet people, you click, and then everyone gets busy — classes, jobs, relationships. You start thinking maybe it’s your fault when they fade away.”

Charlie looks down at the container, heart thudding. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Evan gives him a knowing look — not prying, just steady. “You learn to hold people loosely,” he says. “Doesn’t mean they matter less. Just means you stop breaking your own heart over things you can’t control.”

Charlie blinks at that, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “You sound like a therapist,” he jokes, trying to lighten it.

Evan laughs. “Nah. Just a guy who’s had a couple of rough semesters and figured out it’s better to find peace than chase closure.”

Find peace, Charlie thinks. Easier said than done when the person you love is ten feet away, laughing with someone else.

He coughs lightly, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “So, um—any hangout spots you’d recommend? Bars, cafes, whatever’s good around campus?”

Evan perks up, instantly more animated. “Oh, tons. There’s a place near the student union — decent live music, not too loud. Or there’s this little pub down the street from the library that does open mic nights. Great atmosphere, better fries.”

Charlie smiles, genuinely interested now. “Sounds good. Which one’s your favourite?”

Evan grins, that effortlessly charming kind of grin that makes people feel like they’re in on a secret. “Tell you what — why don’t I take you there sometime? Save you the trial and error.”

Charlie blinks, caught completely off guard. His first instinct is to laugh it off, but the words snag somewhere in his throat. “Oh—uh—wow,” he says, eyes darting between Evan and the frappe mix like one of them might offer help. “That’s… unexpectedly efficient of you.”

Evan chuckles, leaning a little closer over the counter, voice easy. “Hey, I’m an engineer. I optimise everything — even social plans.”

Charlie snorts, a little too loudly, then immediately covers it with a hand. “Right, of course you do,” he says, trying for sarcasm but landing closer to flustered. “You optimise dates too, or is this a one-time consultancy offer?”

Evan’s grin widens, teasing but kind. “Guess you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

Charlie freezes for half a beat, the words sinking in. Oh. He’s serious. Or at least — half serious, half joking, in that confident way people flirt when they’re used to getting a laugh back.

He feels the back of his neck heating. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Evan shrugs, pretending innocence. “Life’s short. Coffee’s hot. Might as well ask.”

Charlie can’t help but laugh — a small, surprised sound that escapes before he can stop it. “You’re—unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s no bite to it. His face feels warm, and not just from the steamer.

“Take that as a yes, then?” Evan asks, eyes glinting.

Charlie looks away, pretending to be deeply invested in screwing the lid back onto the frappe mix. “Take it as a… maybe I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me,” Evan says, turning back to the espresso machine with a satisfied hum.

Charlie busies himself behind the counter, cheeks still flushed, his mind spinning. It’s only my first day with him. He hadn’t expected this — hadn’t expected anyone to notice him like that, not when his heart’s already tangled up elsewhere.

But as he sneaks one more look toward Evan, still humming under his breath while polishing a milk jug, he catches himself smiling.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to be a little flustered.

---

Nick watches Charlie go — that quick, polite smile, the little wave before he ducks back behind the counter.

He wishes he could call him back, just for five more minutes. Just to talk. To tell him properly about how the interview went, about how he nearly fumbled the “team leadership” question and saved it by accident. To laugh about it the way they always do.

But Charlie’s busy. Charlie always looks so right in motion — apron tied, curls falling into his eyes, sleeves rolled up as he moves between customers.

So Nick turns his attention back to Erin instead.

She’s scrolling through her phone when he glances over, sunlight catching the edge of her hair. “So?” she asks, smiling. “How did the big interview go?”

Nick grins, the kind that feels half proud, half shy. “Pretty well, I think. I mean, I didn’t completely panic. That’s a win.”

“Not panicking is, like, seventy percent of adult life,” she says, and he laughs.

Just then, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen — an email from Ms. Patel.

Subject: Student Ambassador Briefing

Congratulations again! We’ll meet at the Visitor Centre for a short orientation at 4 p.m today. 

He can’t help but grin again. “Oh, she just emailed. The briefing’s at four. I’m in.”

“That’s amazing!” Erin beams, genuine excitement lighting up her face. “We should celebrate. I would say drinks, but it’s, like, barely noon and I’m starving.”

Nick chuckles. “You haven’t eaten?”

She shakes her head, rummaging through her tote. “Prepared for that, though.” She pulls out a neatly packed food container, opening it to reveal sandwiches cut in perfect halves. “Apple and ham. Don’t judge.”

Nick laughs. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She pushes one half toward him. “Here — good deeds deserve carbs.”

He takes it, touched by the small gesture. “Thanks, that’s really thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful is my brand,” she says with a wink, biting into her half.

They eat together, trading small smiles across the table while the low hum of the cafe fills the quiet between them.

“So,” Nick says after a few bites, “what made you choose psychology?”

Erin’s expression softens. “You’re the first person to ask that, actually.”

“I’m just curious,” Nick says, sincere. “You talk about it like it means something to you.”

“It does.” She picks at the crust of her sandwich, smiling faintly.

“I’m an only child. My parents divorced when I was ten, and I… didn’t handle it well. Ended up seeing a psychologist in high school. She was amazing — kind of awkward, wore these massive floral blouses. But she helped me more than I expected. I remember thinking, I want to do that for someone else someday.”

Nick smiles, leaning in a little. “That’s really cool.”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes lighting up again. “Except she had this weird habit of overusing metaphors. Once she told me emotions are like badly trained puppies — you can’t ignore them, or they’ll chew your shoes.”

Nick bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. “What? That’s actually incredible.”

“Right?” Erin’s laughing too, clutching his arm for balance. “I didn’t know whether to take her seriously or buy a leash.”

Nick’s still laughing when he feels it — that small warmth where her hand lingers on his arm. It’s comfortable, easy. Erin’s laughter is open and infectious, and it feels… nice. Real.

When they calm down, he exhales, still smiling. “I think I get it though. The whole emotions-as-puppies thing. My parents divorced too. My brother stayed with my dad most of the time, so it was just me and Mum for years. It gets lonely.”

Erin’s expression softens. “That explains a lot, actually. You give off only-child energy.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely.” She grins. “Independent, but kind of too responsible for your own good.”

Nick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that tracks.”

There’s a pause, but not an uncomfortable one. Erin takes a sip of her drink, smiling to herself, and Nick feels something settle — that sense of connection you don’t have to force.

She’s easy to talk to, funny without trying, confident without showing off.

When he glances up, though, his eyes drift to the counter.

Charlie’s laughing at something Evan said — head tilted, hand covering his mouth. Evan’s leaning close, grinning, the kind of easy flirtation that looks almost natural between them.

Something twists deep in Nick’s stomach. He forces himself to look away, back at Erin.

She’s radiant, kind, and everything he should want right now.

She deserves his attention, and he wants to give it.

He wants to be the kind of person who moves forward, who lets Charlie breathe, who doesn’t hold on so tightly.

Erin smiles at him, eyes bright. “You’re thinking about something.”

Nick shakes his head with a small laugh. “Just… that I’m really glad we met.”

Her expression softens, pleased. “Me too.”

He takes another sip of his drink, gaze flicking back briefly — just long enough to see Charlie ducking his head, cheeks pink as Evan leans in again.

Nick swallows hard, forces the smile back on his face. She’s great, he tells himself. Erin’s great — warm, funny, easy to talk to, and honestly… beautiful in that quiet, natural way that sneaks up on you.

He pauses on the thought, lets it sit there, trying to make it fill the ache in his chest.

This is good, he tells himself again. This is what moving on looks like. Charlie deserves to grow. I deserve this too.

He looks back at Erin and smiles, trying to let that thought feel true.

---

Nick and Erin stand to leave, the last of their laughter still hanging soft between them. At the counter, Charlie’s wiping down a tray when they approach.

“Thanks again for this,” Nick says, lifting what’s left of his bright blue drink. “You should definitely add it to the menu. Instant bestseller.”

Charlie huffs a small laugh, and Evan—who’s restocking cups behind the counter—joins in. “Yeah, we’ll call it the Bad Idea Special.”

It lands like a joke, but there’s something faint in Evan’s tone — not sharp, just curious.

His eyes flick briefly between Nick and Charlie, taking in the ease of their banter, the way they seem to speak a language no one else quite understands.

His smile lingers, thoughtful, a little knowing, before he turns back to stacking lids.

Nick catches it — not enough to call it jealousy, exactly, but something close to recognition.

Like Evan’s clocked a connection he can’t even name yet. And for some reason, that quiet awareness makes Nick’s chest feel uncomfortably tight.

Charlie catches none of it, still smiling between them. “Bad Idea Special it is, then.”

Nick nods, smile tight but fond. “I’ve got a briefing at four, so I’ll head back to the dorm for a bit.”

“Good luck,” Charlie says. His voice is light, but his eyes give him away for a second—warm, soft, and something Nick can’t quite read.

Erin takes her last sip and adds with a grin, “Best oat latte I’ve had in a while by the way. No offence, Evan.”

“None taken,” Evan replies easily. “Bar’s set high.”

They all laugh, but the sound feels strangely fragile. Nick gives Charlie one last look. “Text you later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, smiling through it. “See you.”

Erin heads toward her faculty building, and Nick walks the opposite way, the afternoon light sharp and golden against the pavement.

His mind hums with too many things at once—Charlie, Erin, the briefing. Everything’s changing, fast.

By the time he reaches the dorm, he collapses back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He scrolls through his phone aimlessly before pressing the call button beside Mum 👑.

It rings twice before— “Nicky! How are you doing, love? Settling in all right?”

Nick smiles at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Mum. Yeah, I’m good. Just… wanted to check on you. How’s Nellie?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Ate half my sandwich again and now she’s sulking because I told her off.”

He laughs softly. “Classic Nellie.”

“How’s uni, then?” she asks. “You and Charlie keeping out of trouble?”

“Trying,” Nick says, grinning. “It’s been good so far. Charlie just started his barista job—he’s loving it. And I went for rugby tryouts yesterday, which was… great. And—” He hesitates, breath catching for a beat.

“I, uh… got the student ambassador job. Found out earlier this afternoon, and I have a briefing for it at 4.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s wonderful!” Sarah sounds genuinely thrilled, but her tone softens. “Are you sure you’re not taking on too much? Between classes and rugby and now work?”

“I’ll be fine,” Nick says, automatically. “I just… want to experience new things and—earn my own money, you know?”

She hums, knowing. “You know your dad’s set aside that fund for you, right? You don’t have to push yourself too hard.”

“I know,” Nick says quietly. He rolls onto his side, staring at the folded paper with his schedule on it. “I just… don’t really want to use it unless I have to.”

Sarah pauses, her voice gentle when she speaks again. “You’ve got such a good heart, Nicky. But you don’t have to prove your independence by punishing yourself for what wasn’t your fault. Money’s just money. It doesn’t fix everything, and it doesn’t define you either.”

Nick presses his lips together, the words sinking deeper than he expected. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I just… don’t want to owe him anything.”

“I know,” she says. “And that’s fair. But don’t close every door just to make a point. You deserve to make things easier for yourself sometimes.”

He smiles faintly. “You always know what to say.”

“Comes with the job description,” Sarah teases. “Now promise me you’ll actually rest at some point?"

“I promise.”

“And if anything gets too heavy, or you just need to talk—” her voice softens, that familiar warmth threading through every word—“I’m only a phone call away, sweetheart. Always.”

Nick nods even though she can’t see him. “Yeah. Thanks, Mum. I love you. Send my kisses to Nellie, yeah?”

Sarah laughs softly, the sound warm through the speaker. “She’ll be thrilled. Love you too, sweetheart.”

“Love you more,” Nick says, smiling into the quiet.

“Impossible,” she teases gently. “Now go do something relaxing before your big ambassador briefing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, still smiling as they hang up.

When the call ends, the quiet rushes back in. He stares at his phone for a moment longer before setting it down on his chest.

Outside, the late afternoon light tilts amber through the window, and for the first time that day, he lets himself just breathe.

---

Nick arrives at the visitor centre about a quarter before four, the sun slanting low enough to warm the glass doors.

He’s changed into jeans and a soft navy polo, the kind of casual neatness that feels safe but presentable. He runs a hand through his hair before stepping inside.

To his mild surprise, Rafael is already there — same easy posture, same perfectly rolled sleeves, chatting with the receptionist. He looks up when Nick enters, grin immediate.

“Nick, right?” Rafael’s tone is warm, teasingly familiar. “We met at the psych-ed mixer. You’re doing the ambassador thing too?”

Nick blinks, smiling back as he approaches the desk. “Oh—hello. Rafael, yeah? Congratulations.”

“Thanks! You too,” Rafael says, the grin tilting slightly flirtatious. “Guess we’re colleagues now.”

Before Nick can answer, the receptionist looks up. “Ms. Patel will be right out, boys. Why don’t you have a seat?”

They take two chairs in the waiting area. Rafael’s knee bounces lightly; Nick sits straight, clasping his hands together.

“So,” Rafael says, glancing sideways, “what made you sign up? Besides the free hoodie and the bragging rights.”

Nick laughs softly. “Honestly? Just wanted to do something that keeps me busy. Meet new people.”

“Mission accomplished,” Rafael murmurs, eyes gleaming.

Nick doesn’t quite know what to do with that, so he gives a small, polite smile just as Ms. Patel appears.

---

The briefing is brisk but friendly. Ms. Patel walks them through the schedule for campus tours, how to coordinate with visiting students, and the talking points for the history section.

She explains safety procedures, attendance logs, and the importance of punctuality with an enthusiasm that almost makes it sound fun.

“Your first group arrives at nine tomorrow morning,” she says, handing each of them a folded uniform shirt and a lanyard with their names neatly printed. “Visitor Centre at eight-thirty sharp.”

Both nod dutifully.

When it’s over, Ms. Patel thanks them and leaves with a wave, papers tucked under her arm.

Rafael turns to Nick, expression bright. “So—any plans after this?” His tone is casual, but there’s a small pause in it, like he’s testing the waters.

Nick shifts his folder from one hand to the other. “Uh, yeah—actually, I’ve got to be somewhere. Maybe another time, though?”

Rafael’s grin doesn’t falter. “Sure. Another time, then.”

“See you tomorrow,” Nick says, offering a wave as they head out opposite doors.

Outside, the air smells faintly of rain though the sky is still clear. Nick exhales, adjusting the strap of his bag as he walks.

He doesn’t actually have plans. Rafael seems nice—friendly, easy to talk to—but the thought of more socialising makes something in him wilt.

He just wants a quiet evening, maybe dinner with Charlie. Catch up properly.

He misses— No. Scratch that.

He just wants a nice dinner. If Charlie’s still finishing at six. If he’s not off somewhere with Evan.

God. Evan was definitely flirting with him, wasn’t he? Never mind.

Nick pulls out his phone, thumbs moving before he can stop himself.

Nick: just done with the briefing. will u still be finishing at 6?

The reply comes fast.

Charlie: yesss. why? 👀

Nick smiles.

Nick: there’s apparently this nice restaurant near campus we haven’t tried yet — Maple & Stone. cozy place, kind of British-fusion. wanna go?

A short pause. Then—

Charlie: let’s go! meet you there? 🍴

Nick pockets his phone, still smiling, the warmth from the screen lingering in his chest longer than it should.

---

The restaurant, Maple & Stone, sits tucked at the edge of campus — part brick, part wood, with warm amber lights that spill through the front windows.

When Nick steps inside, the air feels instantly different from the hum of the day outside. The place smells like baked bread, herbs, and something faintly sweet, like honey butter melting on toast.

A soft acoustic song drifts through the speakers — easy guitar, low voices — and the weight of everything he’s been carrying quietly starts to lift.

He’s shown to a small table near the window, all wood and worn edges, a candle flickering between two neatly folded napkins. He exhales, feeling himself unwind for the first time that day.

The menu is simple, comfort food but elegant. He scans it absently before deciding on garlic bread and two glasses of water to start — the sort of small kindness he knows Charlie will appreciate after a long day behind the counter.

He leans back, shoulders easing, the glow from the hanging lights soft against his skin.

The door opens a few minutes later, and there he is — Charlie, still in his cafe clothes, apron folded into his tote bag, hair slightly tousled from the evening breeze. His cheeks are pink from the walk, a little flushed from the cold.

Without thinking, Nick stands and pulls him into a hug — warm, tight, familiar. That’s when he catches it— the faint scent of coffee, vanilla syrup, and pastries clinging to Charlie’s clothes.

It hits him in a rush — sweet and comforting, so Charlie — and for a heartbeat, he forgets how to breathe.

“Feels like I haven’t talked to you for ages,” he murmurs, the words muffled against Charlie’s shoulder.

Charlie laughs, pulling back just enough to grin up at him. “Nick, you literally saw me at the cafe just a few hours ago!”

“Yeah, well,” Nick says, shrugging as they sit down. “Time moves slower without your sarcasm to keep me grounded.”

Charlie smirks, unfolding his napkin. “Careful, Nelson. I might start charging by the minute.”

Nick grins. “Worth it.”

Their garlic bread arrives, buttery and steaming. They sit across from each other, heads bent over the menu, knees bumping lightly beneath the table.

They trade jokes about the fancy names on the menu (“Truffle aioli? Just say mayo with ambition”), and it’s easy, familiar — the kind of banter that settles in Nick’s bones like home.

When the food comes — Charlie’s mushroom risotto and Nick’s lemon butter chicken — they fall into that half-talk, half-eat rhythm that only best friends manage.

Charlie tells him about his full shift, how Adrian nearly burned his fingers on the steamer wand and how Evan spent fifteen minutes trying to balance two trays like a circus act.

Nick laughs, leaning in, hanging on every word.

When Charlie pauses to take a sip of water, Nick seizes the chance to talk about his own day. “The briefing went well,” he says, brightening. “Turns out Rafael — the guy from the psych-ed mixer — is a student ambassador too. Totally didn’t expect that.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Rafael, huh?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, trying for casual. “He was nice. Friendly.”

Charlie leans back, fork twirling lazily in his risotto. “Hmm. Cute?”

Nick nearly chokes on his water. “What? I—uh—he’s fine? I mean, I didn’t—why—”

Charlie’s grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief. “So that’s a yes, then. Did he flirt with you?”

Nick’s cheeks and ears go pink immediately. “How—how do you even know that?”

Charlie laughs, utterly delighted. “Because, Nicholas Nelson, you’re very easy to flirt with. People can’t help themselves.”

Nick hides behind his glass of water, mumbling, “You’re ridiculous,” but his cheeks stay flushed.

Charlie chuckles, looking smugly pleased with himself, and for a moment the air between them feels light and golden again — familiar in the way only they can make it.

Then, halfway through his meal, Charlie stops talking, fork suspended midair. His cheeks puff slightly, eyes bright with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“What?” Nick asks, already smiling. “What’s so funny?”

Charlie shakes his head, trying to hide the grin. “It’s nothing.”

“Come on,” Nick presses, playful. “You’re literally laughing at me in your head right now.”

Charlie snorts. “Fine. I was just… picturing you at one of those campus tours tomorrow.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Charlie says, leaning his chin on his hand, “I can already see it — prospective students pretending to ask about the uni just so they can get your number. You’ll be standing there, all polite and golden-retriever about it, trying to say no without hurting anyone’s feelings.”

Nick groans, laughing. “What? No! I’ll be professional.”

Charlie snickers. “Sure. Professional. Until someone says, ‘Can I text you if I have more questions about campus life?’ and you’ll go, ‘Yeah, of course!’ because you’re physically incapable of disappointing people.”

Nick laughs so hard he nearly drops his fork. “You make me sound like a golden retriever with boundary issues.”

Charlie grins. “If the shoe fits, Nelson.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m a loyal dog,” Nick fires back, smiling so wide it reaches his eyes.

Charlie softens a little at that — something tender flickers in the way he looks at him before he covers it with a smirk. “Guess that makes me the cat then.”

“Obviously,” Nick says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Like your mug.”

Charlie chuckles, leaning back. “And you’re like the golden retriever on your mug.”

Nick’s grin tilts, his voice dropping an octave as he adds, low and playful, “A cat that pretends not to care... but is secretly affectionate when no one’s looking.”

It lands differently — the air shifts just slightly. Charlie blinks, caught off guard, the tips of his ears turning pink.

He laughs it off, tucking a curl behind his ear and trying to focus on his plate, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrays him.

Nick hides a smile behind his glass, pretending not to notice — though his chest feels a little too full, like maybe he already said too much and not nearly enough.

Charlie clears his throat, eyes flicking down to his plate. “And yet you still stick around,” he says quietly.

Nick meets his eyes, grin gentle. “Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

The waiter swings by just then, collecting their empty plates with a polite smile and setting down the dessert menus.

Nick flips his open almost immediately, scanning the options with all the focus of a man on a mission.

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Nick Nelson—are you seriously thinking about ordering dessert right now?”

Nick looks up, unbothered. “Yeah? Why?”

Charlie laughs, leaning down to rummage in his tote bag. “Because,” he says, dragging out the word like a secret, “you’ve forgotten that I come prepared.”

He sets a small white pastry box on the table and opens the lid.

Inside are two perfect slices of something golden and glossy, layered with custard and flaky pastry— not chocolate, but decadent enough to make Nick’s eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” Nick breathes. “What is that?”

“Vanilla custard mille-feuille,” Charlie says with mock pride. “Also known as, 'I work in a cafe with too many leftovers.’” He grins.

“And before you say anything, we still have the chocolate cake from yesterday in the fridge.”

Nick shuts the menu instantly, eyes gleaming. “Say less.”

Charlie laughs as Nick catches the waiter’s attention with a small wave. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” Nick says, grinning as the waiter brings over the bill. He taps his phone to the reader before Charlie can even reach for his wallet.“Nick… you didn’t have to.”

Nick slips his phone back into his pocket, dismissing it with an easy wave. “Shush,” he says, eyes narrowing in an exaggerated smoulder that’s more ridiculous than seductive. Then his grin softens, voice dropping into that low, teasing drawl.

“Let’s get home now, baby.”

Charlie blinks, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He ducks his head, trying to hide a smile as they step out into the cool night air.

They make their way back to the dorm, shoulders bumping now and then, laughter threading softly through the quiet streets.

---

Back at the flat, the kitchen fills with the smell of melting chocolate as Charlie warms up the cake.

The frosting turns glossy under the heat, the sponge steaming gently. They split it at the counter, each stealing forkfuls from the other’s plate like it’s a competition.

“God, that’s so good,” Nick groans, head tipping back slightly, eyes half-lidded with exaggerated pleasure.

Charlie’s pulse jumps. He shouldn’t find that sound that attractive. His face burns before he can stop it, and he doesn’t know what to do with his expression — look away? Laugh? Pretend his stomach’s the reason it’s fluttering?

He takes a bite too, the rich chocolate hitting his tongue — and a quiet, involuntary sound escapes him, somewhere between a hum and a moan.

“Okay, you’re right,” he says through a shaky laugh, swaying in a tiny victory dance. “This is actual heaven.”

Nick laughs, the sound warm and low. Then he reaches across the counter, thumb brushing the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “You’ve got—”

Charlie freezes, blush deepening all over again. He quickly licks the spot himself, words tumbling out too fast. “I know. Messy eater.”

Nick doesn’t pull his hand back right away. His thumb hovers mid-air for a beat too long before he curls his fingers into a loose fist and lets out a soft laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now, eyes flicking to the cake instead of Charlie. “Guess we both are.”

And Charlie can’t help wondering — just for a second — if that laugh sounded nervous, or if he’s imagining it.

The thought sticks, sweet and aching, long after the taste of chocolate fades.

They eat until the plates are empty, their laughter easy and familiar, the kind that fills all the quiet spaces in the room.

Then, just as Charlie’s rinsing his fork in the sink, his phone buzzes on the counter.

Unknown Number: So, Mr. Barista Extraordinaire, how does the coffee hero unwind when he’s not saving customers from decaf?

Unknown Number: There’s an open-mic night tomorrow at the little pub i mentioned. Drinks on me — say yes?

Charlie stares at the message, the glow of the screen painting his face in blue light.

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.

Behind him, Nick hums softly, still licking melted chocolate from his spoon.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice warm, lazy — but his eyes flick up just enough to catch the faint shift in Charlie’s expression.

Charlie locks his phone, smile small and unreadable. “Yeah,” he says, setting it back down on the counter.

“Everything’s fine.”

Nick studies him a beat too long, something quiet and uncertain tugging at his chest.

Then he looks away, forcing a grin “Good. ’Cause I'm about to claim the last bit of melted chocolate on your plate.”

Charlie chuckles — soft, practiced — but his pulse doesn’t steady.

And the lingering sweetness of chocolate tastes suddenly, achingly bittersweet.

Chapter Text

The morning light slants in slow and honey-soft through the kitchen window, touching everything gold.

Charlie’s still in his sleep shirt and loose flannel bottoms, hair a mess of curls, humming under his breath as he whisks eggs and milk together in a chipped mixing bowl.

The pan sizzles when the first slice of bread hits the butter, filling the flat with the smell of warmth and sugar.

He’s halfway through sprinkling cinnamon — the little bottle he’d forgotten was still tucked in his bag from home — when a door opens behind him.

“Smells great,” comes Nick’s voice, low and drowsy but already smiling. “What’re you making?”

Charlie glances over his shoulder. Nick’s standing there in his new student-ambassador polo and neatly pressed chinos, hair slightly damp from the shower, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks fresh, proud, a little nervous.

“Cinnamon French toast,” Charlie says, turning back to the stove. “Figured I’d return the favour. You made me breakfast before my first full shift — I’m just evening the score.”

Nick grins, stepping closer to lean on the counter. “Is this your good-luck spell?”

“Exactly,” Charlie says, trying to sound casual while flipping the toast. “Found the cinnamon in my bag last night. Thought it might come in handy.”

The air smells like caramelised sugar and butter, like home. Nick laughs softly, that easy, golden sound that fills the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he says.

“Yeah, I did,” Charlie replies, plating the toast with a dusting of powdered sugar. “Someone’s got to make sure Leeds’ newest ambassador doesn’t faint from hunger before his big debut.”

Nick tilts his head, amused. “Wait—powdered sugar? Fancy. When did we get that?”

Charlie shrugs, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Found some at the back of the cabinet. Don’t ask how old it is.”

Nick presses a hand to his chest, mock-solemn. “My hero.”

Charlie rolls his eyes but smiles, sliding the plate toward him. “Eat, ambassador.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

The only sounds are the quiet clink of forks, the faint buzz of morning outside, the rhythm of something easy and domestic that feels too good to name.

---

Nick reaches the Visitor Centre ten minutes before eight-thirty, the morning cool and bright with a faint bite in the air.

He’s still riding the soft buzz of cinnamon and coffee from breakfast, heart steady in his chest — until a familiar voice cuts through the hum of chatter.

“Morning, Nelson.”

Rafael’s already there, leaning against one of the pillars in his ambassador polo, lanyard hanging loose around his neck. He looks effortlessly put together — curls just messy enough to seem deliberate, grin sharp enough to disarm anyone within range.

Nick smiles back, easy but cautious. “Hey. Morning.”

They’re paired up under the same senior ambassador — a third-year named Lila Thompson, who greets them both with a bright, practiced enthusiasm.

“Alright, boys, you’re with me. We’ll be covering the north side of campus today — science buildings, student commons, that sort of thing.

Just follow my lead and jump in whenever you’re comfortable.”

The tour kicks off, sunlight spilling over the cobblestones as the group winds through the green lawns and glass-fronted lecture halls.

Rafael walks close beside Nick, hands tucked into his pockets, his voice light but steady.

“Do you remember your own campus tour?” Rafael asks at one point, smiling sidelong.

Nick chuckles. “Barely. It was pouring rain. I think the ambassador at the time was more excited about his umbrella than the university.”

Rafael laughs, warm and unguarded. “Ah, so you joined for the weather. Classic Leeds story.”

They trade small talk as they walk — favourite classes so far, which societies they’ve joined, the best coffee spots near campus.

Rafael’s quick-witted, effortlessly charming in that way that feels both rehearsed and sincere.

He talks about growing up in London, about his obsession with film photography, and the philosophy class that “made him question the purpose of cereal.”

Nick laughs more than he means to. It’s easy, talking to him. Too easy.

And yet, every time Rafael’s gaze lingers a moment too long — when his smile dips into something softer, deliberate — Nick feels the ground shift.

He tells himself Rafael’s just naturally flirty, that it’s harmless.

He should just carry on like normal. Enjoy the company. Rafael’s interesting, easy to talk to.

There’s no reason to overthink it — no reason for his stomach to twist the way it does when their eyes meet. It’s nothing.

Halfway through the tour, their senior ambassador sends them to help a smaller group find the main quad.

Rafael falls into step beside him again. “You’re good at this,” he says simply.

Nick shrugs. “Just trying not to scare them off.”

“Impossible,” Rafael says, low and amused. “You’ve got that boy-next-door charm. People love that.”

Nick laughs, cheeks warming. “Boy-next-door, huh? Haven’t heard that one before.”

Rafael smirks. “Yup. It's accurate.”

By the end of the tour, the morning crowd has thinned and Lila’s wrapping up with her usual pep-talk about scholarships, societies, and “remember to hydrate.” Nick’s halfway through packing up the brochures when the first pair of prospective students approach — two girls grinning like they’ve just spotted a celebrity.

“Hi! You were great out there,” one says brightly. “Could we maybe… get your number? You know, in case we have questions about the uni?”

Nick blinks, caught between politeness and panic. Charlie’s voice echoes instantly in his head — “I can already picture prospective students asking for your number.”

He manages a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a choke. “Uh, sure,” he says, typing it into one of their phones like he’s sitting an exam he didn’t study for. “Just for uni questions, yeah?”

They giggle. “Of course!” — which doesn’t sound convincing at all — and skip off toward the next booth.

He barely has time to exhale before a second pair — two boys this time — approach with sheepish smiles.

“Hey, man. Quick thing — our phone maps are acting weird,” one says, holding out his phone. “Could you maybe send your location? You know, just so we can find the Visitor Centre later.”

Nick stares at him. “Uh… you want my number for directions?”

“Yeah! Totally!” the other says, nodding too fast. “It’s… for navigation.”

Nick can’t help it— he laughs. “Right. Sure. For navigation.” He keys his number in again, trying not to grin as they walk off, whispering loudly about how “student ambassadors are way too good-looking.”

When he looks up, Rafael’s watching him with an amused smirk, arms folded.

Rafael watches the exchange with an amused smirk, arms folded. “Well, well. Popular already.”

Nick rolls his eyes, still smiling. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Rafael teases, falling into step beside him again. “You handle attention well.”

Nick shakes his head, trying to hide his grin. But as they walk back toward the Visitor Centre, he catches the way Rafael’s shoulder brushes his — casual, maybe, but lingering — and feels that old, confusing flutter start up again.

He still doesn’t know what to make of it.

Rafael’s funny, confident, and undeniably attractive — and maybe that’s the problem.

Because every time Nick looks at him too long, he can’t help but think of someone else with the same curls, the same easy grin, the same gravity that pulls him in without trying.

---

Nick steps out of the Visitor Centre, sunlight on his shoulders and a grin tugging at his mouth. End of day one. He types it quickly into his phone.

Nick: End of day one! ☀️

A few seconds later, his screen lights up again.

Charlie: Well done! Gave any numbers away? 😏

Nick huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Nick: You’re never gonna believe it. Tell you later.

He pockets his phone, smiling to himself. But as he walks across campus, the little “read” mark never appears beside the message.

By the time he reaches the cafe, the place is packed — a long, snaking line curling out the door.

Half the faces look vaguely familiar from the morning tour. When a few of them spot him, they wave and whisper like he’s some sort of minor celebrity.

Behind the counter, Charlie glances up mid-order — curls a little messy, apron dusted with coffee grounds. 

He spots Nick, eyes widening just a fraction before his mouth curves into a mischievous, knowing grin. One brow lifts, a silent so it’s true?

Nick suppresses a laugh, joining the queue. When he finally reaches the register, he orders a flat white, pays, and steps aside to wait.

“Sorry, Nick,” Charlie says, voice warm but rushed as he moves behind the counter, espresso shot already pulling. “Didn’t expect this many people today.”

Steam hisses from the milk wand as Charlie works, precise and practiced even in the chaos. The scent of coffee fills the air — rich, familiar, grounding.

Nick waves it off. “It’s fine. I’ll just wait over there.”

He points toward a small table near the counter — close enough to watch him work.

He settles in, watching as Charlie moves in rhythm behind the machine— quick, practiced motions, sleeves pushed up, concentration etched between his brows.

Every now and then, someone waves at Nick again — a student from the tour, a second-year passing by — and he just grins awkwardly, mouthing polite hellos.

Across the counter, Charlie catches it once or twice, lips twitching like he’s definitely going to tease him later.

When the crowd finally thins, Charlie’s halfway to stepping out from behind the counter when Adrian calls out from the back, “Charlie, can you restock the syrups and cups, please?”

Charlie glances at Nick, grimacing apologetically. He mouths sorry and gestures helplessly toward the storeroom.

Nick just smiles and nods. “It’s okay,” he says softly, though Charlie’s already disappeared into the back.

A moment later, his phone buzzes — once, twice.

Charlie: Sorry… crazy day today. 

Charlie: Think the second and third years are back on campus.

Nick thumbs the message, his smile fading just a little. He types back no worries but doesn’t send it. Instead, he waits.

Then another buzz — this one from WhatsApp.

Leeds Rugby 🏉 (48 members)

Rob (Captain): Welcome to the new lads joining us this semester — Nick, Callum, and Josh! Don’t forget to get your protein shake in before our first practice at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow. No excuses 😎💪

Unknown number 1: Welcome, fresh meat!

Unknown number 2: Hope you can actually catch, boys 😂

Nick snorts quietly, shaking his head as he types a polite —

Nick: Cheers, looking forward to it! 

— and instantly gets flooded with muscle emojis and inside jokes he doesn’t yet understand.

He smiles despite himself — the good kind of tired — but the warmth doesn’t quite settle.

Fifteen minutes pass.

Then thirty.

His iced coffee cup sits empty, a ring of condensation marking the table.

He scrolls through the PDF Ms. Patel sent — the Student Ambassador Handbook — but his focus slips.

He opens his messages, landing on one from earlier that morning—

Erin: Good luck on ur first day, Mr Ambassador!

Nick: Thanks! I’ll let you know how it goes 😊

He types again, fingers moving before his brain catches up.

Nick: Done with my first shift! What are you up to?

Her reply comes fast.

Erin: Just got out of another talk. Chatting with the psych gang… unless you’re offering better company? 😏

Nick: At the cafe. Thinking of heading over if that’s okay?

Erin: Of course. I’ll be around for a while ☕️

Nick exhales, thumb hovering over his cup. He stands, decides to bring her something, and gets back in line.

When he reaches the counter again, he orders an oat latte.

Charlie’s at the other end now, stacking lids. He looks up, startled but smiling.

“Hey, Char,” Nick says softly. “I’m gonna head out. I’ll text you later, yeah? Don’t worry about it.”

Charlie opens his mouth — maybe to apologise again — but a new order comes in and the steam wand hisses to life. He just nods, eyes a little regretful.

Nick waves, the gesture small but fond, and steps back into the cool afternoon air.

He’s not angry. Not even upset. Just… disappointed, in that quiet way that stings more than it should.

Because he’d been looking forward to telling Charlie everything — the tour, the chaos, the stupid phone-number fiasco — and now the words feel heavy, unsaid, as he walks away.

---

By noon, the cafe's a storm. The espresso machine hisses nonstop, milk jugs clatter, and the line snakes all the way to the door.

Evan’s off today, which leaves Charlie with two second-years — Hannah, who moves at lightning speed but talks faster, and Ryan, who keeps singing under his breath between orders.

Adrian’s manning the till, shouting drink codes like a conductor trying to keep the orchestra in time.

They’d warned him this morning— “Full house, brace yourself.”

Charlie had smiled, thinking they meant busy. He hadn’t pictured this.

Every table’s taken, sleeves of cups dwindling by the minute, the pastry case wiped clean before two o’clock.

The air smells of espresso and sugar and burnt patience.

His wrist aches from tamping shots, his apron’s already dusted in cocoa and milk foam, and somewhere under it all, his phone buzzes uselessly in his pocket.

He already knows who it’s from.

He’d seen Nick walk in earlier — all easy grin and sunshine, that look he gets when something funny’s just happened.

And of course, people noticed him. Somehow half the cafe seemed to know his name already, waving or calling out like he’d been there for years instead of a day.

Because it’s Nick Nelson, Charlie thinks wryly. Of course everyone likes him.

Wouldn’t be surprised if a few of them had already asked for his number.

He’d wanted so badly to step out from behind the counter for just a few minutes — to ask how the first day went, to see what story was hiding behind that grin.

But Adrian had caught his glance and gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “I know you’ve been on your feet a while, mate. Just hang in a bit longer, yeah? Once the rush eases, I’ll make sure you get your break.”

It never really settled.

When Charlie finally looked up again, Nick was at the counter ordering an oat latte — definitely not his usual, which could only mean it was for Erin.

A minute later, he was smiling, saying he was heading out.

Now it’s just latte after latte, frappes blending in endless rhythm, Hannah calling, “Another caramel macchiato up!” and Ryan saying something about the music being cursed because of course the playlist would shuffle to Taylor Swift during a caffeine riot.

Charlie barely laughs. He can’t stop glancing toward the door, half hoping he’ll see Nick come back, half knowing he won’t.

By four, the pastries are gone. A few people ask for them anyway, and he can only point at the empty display with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just crisps and cakes left.”

He wipes down the counter during a lull, hands trembling from adrenaline and caffeine. He checks his phone — no new messages from Nick.

He starts typing a reply, then hesitates.

Would it be weird to ask him to come to the pub tonight? Evan made it sound casual — but… not really.

The thought twists something inside him. Maybe I should just tell him we’re going, nothing more.

Maybe it’s not a date. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s just reading too much into everything again.

He shoves the phone back into his pocket before he can overthink it.

Later, he tells himself. When things quiet down. When I get back to the dorm. I’ll talk to him then.

He doesn’t notice Adrian watching him from the till, a small, knowing smile beneath his usual no-nonsense expression.

---

The late afternoon sun slants gold across the benches outside the Psychology building, the air warm enough that the breeze feels lazy rather than sharp.

Erin’s already there when Nick spots her — hair tucked behind one ear, coppery in the light, a loose cream blouse tucked into dark jeans, a cardigan folded neatly beside her on the bench.

She looks relaxed, like the day hasn’t worn her down at all.

“Mr. Ambassador himself,” she teases as he approaches, lifting a hand in mock salute.

Nick grins, holding out the takeaway cup. “Brought you a peace offering.”

“Oat latte?” she guesses, eyes bright.

“The one and only.”

“Flattery and coffee. Dangerous combination.” She takes it, their fingers brushing for a moment, before she gestures for him to sit. “So? First day on the job. How’d it go?”

Nick drops onto the bench beside her, exhaling. “Pretty good, I think. No disasters, no one got lost, and Ms. Patel didn’t yell at me. So, successful.”

Erin laughs. “That’s the bar for adulthood, right? No one yells at you, you call it a win.”

He smiles, looking down at his hands. “Yeah.” Then, quieter— “It was actually… kind of fun. Rafael was there too — from the psych-ed mixer.”

“Oh, the flirty one,” Erin says, eyebrows raised.

Nick laughs, caught off guard. “You noticed that too?”

“Please,” she says, sipping her drink. “He was practically auditioning for The Bachelor.”

That makes him laugh harder, tension easing.

But somewhere beneath the humour, there’s a small ache — the familiar urge to tell Charlie this story first.

He can almost picture how Charlie would’ve reacted— the dramatic eye roll, the fake gasp, the teasing line about “see, I told you they’d ask for your number.”

Erin tilts her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Nick says automatically. “Just… tired. Long day.”

She nods, letting the silence rest between them for a moment before she brightens. “We had this seminar earlier — ‘The Psychology of Connection.’ It was actually really good. The speaker talked about how we sometimes mistake comfort for attachment.”

Nick looks up, curious. “What’s the difference?”

“Well,” Erin says, thoughtful, “comfort is safe, predictable — the person you can be yourself around. But attachment is that pull you feel when you’re trying to find that safety again in someone new. Like… trying to recreate the feeling of home.”

Nick’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the sun-dappled grass. “Huh,” he says softly. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

She smiles, watching him. “Yeah. I liked that part. Made me think about how we grow out of old chapters without really meaning to.”

He nods, still smiling faintly. “You always have something smart to say.”

“Only after caffeine,” she says, lifting her cup in salute.

He laughs again, the sound soft and real. They talk a little more — about her seminar, his upcoming schedule, small plans for the weekend.

It’s easy, light. Erin’s presence fills the space with warmth.

Nick tells her about the message he got earlier from the rugby captain — their first official training is tomorrow at seven-thirty.

“Which means I’m probably going to die before breakfast,” he jokes, grinning.

Erin laughs. “Seven-thirty in the morning? That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I know,” Nick says, smiling. “But I guess that’s what I get for joining the team voluntarily.”

She nudges his shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Mr. Ambassador-athlete. You seem like the type who makes seven-thirty a.m. look effortless.”

Nick laughs again, the sound lighter now. “I’ll quote you on that when I’m crawling across the pitch tomorrow.”

Erin grins, sipping her latte. “You’ll manage. You’ve got that balance thing down — work, rugby, ambassador stuff… I’d say you’re handling uni life pretty well already.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Yeah, maybe.” Her words are kind, thoughtful, and he means it when he says, “Thanks.”

But somewhere, beneath all the sunlight and laughter, Nick can still feel the faint echo of disappointment — the weight of a story untold, sitting quietly between his ribs.

The one he’d meant to share with Charlie first.

---

By the time Nick gets back to the dorm, the sky has slipped into that pale gold before dusk — the kind that makes the buildings look softer, like the whole campus is exhaling.

He drops his bag by the door and heads straight for the sink, splashing cold water on his face. It helps, a little.

He changes out of his polo and jeans into joggers and an old hoodie, one soft from years of wear.

His shoulders finally start to unknot.

The pile of laundry in the corner has grown again — shirts, socks, a few mismatched towels — and he sorts through them absently, setting aside a basket he knows he and Charlie will probably tackle together later.

Afterward, he fills the kettle, makes himself a cup of tea, and pulls out a packet of biscuits from the cupboard.

He sits at the small kitchen table, laptop open, course outlines spread across the screen—Educational Psychology, Cognitive Development, Intro to Teaching Methods.

He scrolls through reading lists and deadlines, trying to absorb the words.

But his mind keeps drifting.

Erin’s voice from earlier lingers— “We sometimes mistake comfort for attachment.”

He turns the phrase over like a pebble in his hand.

Does he find comfort in Charlie — or attachment?

He’s known Charlie for years now, through school corridors and late-night calls and every version of himself he’s ever been. Comfort feels too small a word for that.

But if it’s attachment… is that a problem?

His tea cools, forgotten. He exhales, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t overthink it,” he mutters to himself, though the thought refuses to let go.

His phone buzzes on the table.

Charlie: Book club meeting at 6:30. Evan said he’s taking me to this pub place after — the one with the open mic nights.

Nick stares at the message for a moment too long, the words sinking in slowly.

He was really looking forward to catching up with Charlie tonight — finally talking properly, laughing over the weird day they’d both had.

He swallows down the small twist in his chest.

Be supportive, he tells himself. You want to be supportive. You are supportive. You don’t have attachment issues. Let him go.

A second message follows before he can type anything back.

Charlie: You wanna join us?

Something in Nick knows it’s a polite offer — the kind of invitation made out of habit or kindness, not expectation.

He smiles to himself, faint and a little sad.

Nick: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass tonight. You have fun, yeah? Can’t wait to hear about it later.

He hovers a moment before hitting send, wishing — not for the first time — that he were better at saying what he really wants.

---

The library meeting room smells faintly of paper and rain-soaked air — that cozy, enclosed quiet that comes when everyone’s too caught up in a story to notice time passing.

The Song of Achilles discussion runs longer than planned, as most good ones do.

A dozen students, each with a dog-eared copy in front of them, talking over each other in excited bursts.

“Honestly, Patroclus carried that story,” someone says from across the table.

“Wrong,” another fires back, grinning. “Achilles did. He was tragic and brilliant — that’s the point.”

Charlie laughs into his cup of tea, tucked between the stacks. “You’re both right,” he says. “They’re kind of a package deal. You can’t pull them apart without the story falling apart with them.”

There’s a hum of agreement around the room — until Mia, sitting near the end, raises her hand, expression animated.

“But isn’t that the point of the tragedy? They love each other so much it ruins them. It’s not about balance — it’s about devotion.”

Charlie blinks, surprised. “You’ve thought about this way too much.”

“Guilty,” she says, laughing. “It’s my third reread.”

They end up in a half-serious debate that lasts another ten minutes, swapping favourite lines and interpretations until the clock on the wall reminds them that the room’s overdue to close.

As everyone packs up, Charlie slings his tote over his shoulder, still grinning.

“Gosh, gotta be somewhere — but we’ll definitely chat more next time.” He hesitates, then adds with a lopsided smile, “Get my number from Erin?”

“Done,” Mia says, tucking her book into her bag. “But fair warning, I might text you random Greek quotes at 2 a.m.”

Charlie laughs as he backs toward the door. “As long as they’re accurate.”

He steps out into the cooling evening air, the sky streaked in late-summer lilac.

He’s already changed into his spare outfit — a dark denim jacket over a soft white shirt, black jeans, and the faint scent of coffee still clinging to his sleeves.

He’d swapped clothes earlier after his shift, before the club started, anticipating the night ahead.

Evan’s waiting at one of the benches outside the library — long legs stretched out, leaning back, scrolling lazily through his phone.

A paperback sits open beside him, spine folded gently, and when he looks up, the light from the lamppost catches in his green eyes.

“There you are,” he says, standing with a smile that’s half genuine, half teasing. “Was starting to think Patroclus stole you.”

Charlie laughs, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Debate got heated. Turns out opinions are a contact sport.”

Evan grins, pocketing his phone. “Good. You’ll need that energy. The pub gets loud when the open-mic crowd takes over.”

He gestures down the path, mock-bowing slightly. “After you, Mr. Barista Extraordinaire.”

Charlie shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Evan says, falling into step beside him. “You earned it.”

They walk down the tree-lined path together, the murmur of campus fading behind them.

Ahead, the glow of the pub’s hanging lights flickers in the distance — laughter spilling faintly through the open door, the sound of someone tuning a guitar drifting into the cool air.

Charlie feels his nerves ease a little with every step. It’s nice, he thinks — too nice — to be seen, to be invited, to be wanted somewhere.

But somewhere deep down, a quiet thought stirs — wondering if Nick’s still awake, and whether he’s already seen the unread message sitting quietly in their chat.

---

The pub is small and golden-lit, tucked between the library and an old record store.

A string of fairy lights hangs unevenly across the windows, and the hum of conversation blends with the soft thrum of a guitar from the corner stage.

The place smells like hops and caramelised onions — comforting, a little chaotic, alive.

“Not bad, right?” Evan says as he pushes the door open for him. “Half the engineering crowd ends up here. It’s chill. Loud, but in a good way.”

Charlie smiles, stepping inside. The warmth hits him instantly after the cool night air. “Feels… cosy,” he says, taking in the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menus, the walls covered in gig posters.

They find a table near the edge of the stage — close enough to catch the music but far enough to talk.

Evan sets down their drinks — two pints of amber beer that glow honey-like in the low light.

“To your first full week,” Evan says, raising his glass.

Charlie clinks his against it, smiling. “To surviving caffeine overdoses and lunchtime rushes.”

The first sip burns a little, but it’s good. Better than expected. Warmth spreads slow through his chest.

They talk easily — about classes, part-time jobs, favourite cafes, music.

Evan’s got that kind of charm that sneaks up on you — calm but magnetic, the kind of guy who listens as much as he talks.

He’s funny too, in a low-effort, confident way. When he teases, it’s never sharp; it lands softly, like he’s seeing if you’ll tease back.

Charlie laughs more than he thought he would. It’s easy. Almost too easy.

But then, between sips and stories, his mind drifts.

What’s Nick doing right now?

He hasn’t opened the last text — the one Charlie sent before the book club.

Charlie knows Nick went to see Erin after the cafe. He remembers the way she smiled at him, the easy touch on his arm. Are they having dinner now? Talking in her dorm?

A sour flicker twists somewhere under his ribs. He takes another sip — a little longer this time — and shuts the thought away.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Evan asks, leaning forward, forearms on the table. His voice is low, warm with interest.

Charlie shakes his head quickly, smiling like nothing’s wrong. “Just tired, I think.”

Evan grins. “Then we’ll fix that.” He nods toward the bar. “Another round?”

Charlie hesitates — then nods. “Sure. Why not?”

By the time the next drink’s halfway gone, the edges of the world feel softer.

The music swells, the singer on stage cracks a joke that makes the crowd laugh.

Evan’s shoulder brushes his when he leans in to say something funny, and Charlie doesn’t move away.

He’s warm — from the beer, from the noise, from not thinking too hard.

When Evan catches his eye and smiles, it’s slow, almost testing. “You’re different when you laugh,” he says.

Charlie raises a brow, half-daring him. “Different how?”

“Less guarded,” Evan says simply. “It suits you.”

Charlie laughs again — a little too quickly, a little too pink. “You barely know me.”

Evan tilts his head. “Maybe. But I’m a fast learner.”

Charlie laughs again, softer this time, the sound dissolving into the hum of the room.

The beer’s caught up to him — not dizzying, just warm enough to blur the sharp edges of thought.

The music thrums low and steady, the lights gold and forgiving.

He leans his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, smiling at Evan through half-lidded eyes. “You really think I’m guarded?”

Evan smirks. “A little. You’ve got that mysterious, quiet-guy thing going on. Makes people want to know what’s hiding underneath.”

Charlie hums like he’s considering it, then says, with a faint slur of amusement, “What if I told you I’m actually terrible at hiding things?”

Evan chuckles. “I’d say that’s not true. You’ve got layers.”

Something in Charlie’s eyes flickers — half defiance, half challenge. He takes another sip, sets the glass down, and blurts, “Do you think people can love two people at once?”

It hangs there, unexpected and raw, the kind of question that doesn’t sound hypothetical.

Evan blinks, eyebrows lifting. “That’s… a bold one for round two,” he says lightly, but there’s curiosity beneath the tease. “You mean… at the same time?”

Charlie nods, gaze drifting to the condensation on his glass. “Yeah. Like—maybe one’s safe, and the other just… makes your heart hurt in the best and worst ways.” He laughs under his breath, embarrassed.

“Sorry, that’s way too deep for a pub conversation.”

Evan studies him for a moment, then smiles — gentle, not mocking. “Nah. I think it’s honest.” He taps his finger lightly against the table.

“And for what it’s worth, I think people fall in love the way they breathe — sometimes with more than one reason to keep going.”

Charlie blinks at him, caught off guard by the answer — and the sincerity of it. His tipsy grin softens. “That’s… actually kind of beautiful.”

Evan’s smile curves, slow. “I have my moments.”

Charlie hums, swirling what’s left of his drink. “Yeah, apparently so.”

He pauses — that dangerous, unfiltered moment where his mind runs faster than his sense.

The alcohol hums pleasantly under his skin, loosening his words before he can weigh them.

“I have another question,” he says suddenly, his voice lower, a little too deliberate.

Evan tilts his head, amused. “Oh? Hit me.”

Charlie hesitates, then leans forward, resting his chin on his palm, his expression playfully conspiratorial. “Did you come to Leeds… experienced?”

Evan blinks, then laughs, caught somewhere between surprise and delight. “Experienced?”

Charlie winces, groaning softly into his hand. “You know…” He gestures vaguely, his other hand doing a hopeless little wave. “Romantically. Sexually. Whatever. God, that sounded better in my head.”

The sultry face he pulls only makes it worse — exaggerated, ridiculous, and entirely too charming for his own good.

“Sorry,” he blurts, cheeks pinking fast. “That’s a dumb question. I’m clearly more than tipsy. I don’t handle alcohol well. Feel free to skip that and pretend I never spoke.”

Evan chuckles, leaning back, his eyes still bright. “No, it’s fine. You’re honest — I like that.”

Charlie blinks, thrown off. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Evan smirks faintly, swirling his drink before setting it down. “Then, yeah — I came to Leeds with a few stories. But nothing worth bragging about. The right people make experience mean something. Otherwise, it’s just noise.”

Charlie’s laughter falters. For a moment, he just looks at him — really looks. The low light catches on Evan’s features, the steady calm of his expression. He isn’t joking, not really.

Something unspoken hums between them — the quiet pull of attention that neither expected.

Evan’s gaze flickers to Charlie’s mouth before meeting his eyes again, and his voice softens. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, you know that?”

Charlie blinks, startled into a laugh. “You’re just saying that because I asked the world’s most unhinged question.”

“Maybe,” Evan says, smiling. “But it doesn’t make it less true.”

Charlie tries to roll his eyes, but it comes out more like a grin. His heart’s beating a little too fast now, the air a little too warm.

He looks away, cheeks flushed, pretending to be fascinated by the condensation on his glass — but the small smile that lingers is impossible to hide.

The music has softened by the time they leave — the kind of slow, nostalgic track that makes the walk outside feel like the end of a film. The air is cooler now, the sky a deep indigo washed in streetlight.

Charlie tugs his jacket tighter around him, his head pleasantly fuzzy. Evan walks beside him, hands in his pockets, easy in his silence. It’s comfortable — the sort that doesn’t need filling.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Charlie says after a moment, glancing over. “I actually had a really good time.”

Evan smiles, and it’s softer than his usual grin. “I’m glad. You’re good company.”

Charlie chuckles, looking down at the pavement. “That’s the drinks talking.”

“Maybe,” Evan says. “But I’ll risk saying it sober tomorrow.”

Charlie laughs again, cheeks warm, and they fall into step together. Their shoulders brush once — barely there, but enough to spark something small and real.

At the corner near his dorm, Charlie slows to a stop and waves. “Night, Evan.”

“Night, Charlie,” Evan says, his tone light but lingering.

Charlie watches him go for a second before heading inside, the cool air still clinging to his skin. The moment he steps into the flat, he stops.

It smells faintly of detergent and fabric softener — clean, warm, home. The laundry rack’s empty, and when he peeks into his room, he sees it— his clothes neatly folded and hung in the cupboard, the bag he left half-unpacked now tidied away.

He blinks, confused for a second — then smiles, small and fond.

Nick.

He doesn’t know that Nick’s phone had died hours ago, that he’d come back from the laundrette bone-tired, quietly folding both their clothes before collapsing into bed.

Nick’s sprawled across his sheets now, phone on the nightstand, the screen still lit with a few faint notifications — Charlie’s message at the top—

Charlie: Okay :) Wish you were coming though. Promise I’ll bring stories. 

[Status: Unread]

Charlie hesitates outside his door, watching the soft rise and fall of Nick’s chest in the dim light.

He wants to wake him, to tell him about the night — the music, the laughter, the strange comfort of someone new — but he doesn’t.

Instead, he tucks his phone into his pocket, whispers, “Good night, Nick,” to the quiet room, and slips into his own bed.

The faint scent of clean laundry lingers in the air, and somewhere between the warmth of the sheets and the memory of Evan’s smile, Charlie falls asleep — dreaming of laughter that sounds like clinking glasses, and a message still waiting to be read.

---

Nick wakes to pale sunlight pooling across the duvet, soft and slow. His phone lies face down on the nightstand; when he flips it over, the first thing he sees is Charlie’s unread message from the night before.

Charlie: Okay :) Wish you were coming though. Promise I’ll bring stories.

A small smile tugs at his mouth — fond and guilty all at once. He types before thinking too hard about it—

Nick: Morning, Char. Sorry, I fell asleep right after laundry. Didn’t even realise when you got home. Did you have a good night?

He hits send, even though he can hear the faint, even rhythm of breathing through the wall.

When he pads out into the hall, he notices Charlie’s door isn’t fully shut — left slightly ajar, the way it always is when he’s too tired to bother.

Nick pushes it open just enough to peek inside.

Charlie’s still asleep, curled half under the duvet, face soft in the morning light.

His curls are a mess, his arm tucked beneath the pillow, lips parted just slightly. Peaceful.

Nick lingers a second longer, smiling to himself. Then he pulls the door gently back to where it was and leaves him be.

It’s still early, and he’s got a long day ahead — rugby training at seven-thirty, then his shift at the visitor centre.

He brushes his teeth, pulls on his hoodie and sweats, folds his rugby kit neatly into his bag, and lays out his uniform for later — the polo shirt already smelling faintly of detergent from last night’s wash.  

In the kitchen, he gives his protein drink a shake, takes one sip, and grimaces. Right. That’s why he stopped buying this brand.

He makes a mental note to ask the team if they’ve got any discount codes for something that doesn’t taste like chalk.

He’s just slinging his bag over his shoulder when he pauses, glancing toward Charlie’s half-closed door again.

The flat feels too quiet without at least one sarcastic remark floating through it.

Nick pushes the door open quietly, leaning against the doorframe with his hoodie half-zipped, “Hey, Char… it’s time for rugby practice.”

Charlie only stirs a little, face buried halfway into the pillow, clearly still asleep.

Nick sighs, amused. “Charl-ieee,” he tries again, softer. “I’m heading out now.”

A faint, incoherent mumble is all he gets in response.

On impulse, he steps closer, kneels by the bed, and leans in just beside Charlie’s ear. His voice drops low — mock-sultry, teasing.

“Baby… you’re so beautiful when you sleep,” he murmurs with a grin.

“I’m heading out now. Open your eyes, love.”

Charlie’s eyes snap open instantly, wide with sleepy alarm. “What—”

Before Nick can blink, Charlie shoves him, and Nick stumbles backward onto the floor, landing with a loud thud and a burst of laughter that fills the room.

Charlie’s already sitting up, clutching his pillow like a weapon. “You can’t say things like that when I’m still asleep, Nick!”

Nick’s laughing too hard to defend himself, sprawled on the carpet. “Worth it,” he wheezes between chuckles. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Charlie hurls the pillow at him, half laughing, half mortified. “Out! Go before I dump water on you!”

Nick catches the pillow mid-air and tosses it back onto the bed, grinning from ear to ear. “See you later, sleeping beauty.”

Charlie groans, flopping back into the duvet. “You’re evil.”

Nick just laughs again, heading for the door.

“Love you too.”

Charlie hears it faintly through the crack in the door as Nick leaves —

the way it sounds like a joke, but also not quite.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s wide awake now. There’s no chance of going back to sleep — not after that.

His heart’s still hammering, his skin too warm under the duvet. The room suddenly feels about ten degrees hotter, and it’s entirely Nick Nelson’s fault.

He groans into his pillow. Who even says that?

He can still hear it — that mock-sultry voice, soft and low, too close to his ear. “Baby… you’re so beautiful when you sleep.”

God. He’s never getting back to sleep after that.

He rolls over, grabs his phone, and squints against the screen glow before typing a message.

Charlie: thanks nick. can’t go back to sleep now

Charlie: also, thanks for doing my laundry. marry me or whatever

He hits send before he can think better of it, then tosses the phone onto his chest with a groan.

It pings a minute later.

Nick: bold proposal for someone who threatened me with a pillow this morning 😏

Nick: also, you’re welcome. the laundry smelled so bad it was a public service

Charlie laughs out loud despite himself. His stomach flips, traitorous and warm.

He types back quickly—

Charlie: rude. I’ll make you a fancy drink later as penance

Another reply buzzes almost instantly.

Nick: deal. but only if you say “baby” back when you hand it to me

Charlie stares at the screen, groaning into his blanket again.

He’s smiling too hard to be properly annoyed.

Eventually, he tosses the phone aside and drags himself out of bed. The floorboards are cold under his feet, the air thick with the smell of detergent from last night’s laundry — clean, warm, domestic. 

It feels too intimate somehow, knowing Nick hung his shirts neatly in the cupboard, like they lived together for years already. 

He opens the door anyway, half expecting to see the ghost of him standing there, grinning.

He shakes it off, brushes his teeth, and puts the kettle on.

While waiting for it to boil, he sits at the kitchen table, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. He should read, or shower, or stop thinking about his best friend saying baby in that voice—

He's mid scrolling as his phone buzzes again.

Mia: “He’s half of my soul, as the poets say.” I can’t get that line out of my head. That book wrecked me

Charlie blinks at the quote, smiling faintly. He types back—

Charlie: i know right. i think i’m still recovering emotionally

Mia: same. group therapy should be part of the club activity 

He chuckles.

Charlie: true. think i missed the next book title when i left early though— what are we reading next week?

Mia: It’s called 'Every Summer After'. Little lighter, but kind of devastating in its own way

Charlie: oh no. sounds like a total chick flick

Mia: maybe, but it’s friends to lovers. it’s not about the romance, really

Mia: it’s about timing. about how sometimes you meet the right person too early to realise they’re right. and how love isn’t always this grand, cinematic thing 

Mia: sometimes it’s just growing up beside someone until one day you see them differently

He blinks at the screen, taken off guard by how much that hits. A slow smile spreads across his face, caught somewhere between amused and impressed.

Charlie: sheesh, you’re deep. i love it. what are you majoring in again?

Mia: English Lit. What else? I live for the pain of fictional heartbreak

Charlie grins at the screen. Of course she is.

Charlie: first year?

Mia: yeah. you too, right?

Charlie: yup, same. at least now we can go through fictional heartbreaks together haha. see you at lectures next week, Mia

He sets his phone down, the smile still tugging at his mouth — but Mia’s earlier text keeps looping in his head.

Friends to lovers. He hasn’t read Every Summer After, but he can guess what it’s about — the slow ache, the missed timing, the quiet inevitability of two people realising too late what’s been right in front of them all along

A story like that doesn’t belong to him and Nick.

They’re not friends-to-lovers.

They’re friends-to-not-lovers.

Just... friends— steady, familiar, safe. He tells himself that’s enough. It has to be.

His eyes drift toward the kitchen — two mugs drying by the sink— one with a cat, one with a golden retriever. 

The sight makes something in his chest ache and soften all at once.

He smiles anyway, because that’s what you do when it hurts — you smile and pretend you’re fine.

Outside, sunlight spills through the curtains, painting the room gold. It should feel warm, peaceful.

But beneath it, Charlie feels that faint, unshakable ache — the kind that reminds him fictional heartbreaks aren’t always fictional after all.

---

The morning air bites a little, crisp and bright, the kind that smells faintly of wet grass and possibility.

Nick jogs onto the rugby pitch, bag slung over his shoulder, nerves fizzing just beneath his skin.

Rob’s already there — the team captain, second-year, confident in that calm, grounded way.

“Alright, everyone,” he calls, clapping his hands together. “Welcome back, and a big welcome to our first years — Nick, Josh, and Callum. Glad to have you lads join the squad.”

They all give a quick cheer, a few pats on the back.

Josh, standing a few feet away, waves with an easy grin. He’s got streaks of dyed lilac in his hair, a silver chain around his neck, and the kind of open confidence Nick admires instantly.

“Hi, I’m Josh. Law. I’m dating one of the student ambassadors — he’s in Economics, so I’m basically doomed to a lifetime of GDP talk at dinner.”

Laughter ripples through the group. Nick laughs too — a little surprised, a little in awe. Out and proud, and no one blinks. His heart lifts just a bit at that.

Callum goes next — tall, easygoing, the sort of person who looks perpetually on the verge of laughing.

“Media studies,” he says. “I play the guitar badly and bake when I’m stressed. So if we lose a match, expect brownies.”

By the time it’s Nick’s turn, he feels steadier. “Nick,” he says with a grin. “Education major. First year. I like dogs, coffee, and Formula 1. Not all at once, though.”

“Man of simple pleasures,” Rob chuckles. “Good. We like that.”

Then Rob gets a bit more serious.

“Alright, before we get going — just a quick thing I like to remind everyone. This team’s a safe space. No judgement here. Doesn’t matter who you are, what you believe, or who you like. You’ve got an issue, you come to me. No hesitation,” Rob says firmly, scanning the circle of players.

“No matter what it’s about — pitch stuff, class schedules, flat drama — we’ve all got each other’s backs here.”

A few nods, a few murmured “yeahs.” The air feels grounded.

Rob claps his hands once. “Right, couple more updates before we kick off. First — good news. The uni finally approved our long-standing request for a twenty-percent discount with TitanFuel — that’s protein shakes, bars, the works.”

A cheer goes up — actual whoops and fist-pumps from the older players. Someone yells, “About bloody time!”

Rob grins. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Apparently we drink enough of the stuff to qualify as a sponsorship. I’ll drop the link in the group chat later, so keep an eye out.”

He flips a page on his clipboard. “Next — new kits and hoodies should arrive next week. Please, for the love of rugby, don’t lose them this time, Lewis.”

Laughter ripples through the group as a tall second-year groans, “It was one hoodie!”

“One very expensive hoodie,” Rob fires back, smirking. “And last thing — rugby social tonight at The Dry Dock. Starts at seven, but I need everyone who’s free to meet there by five to help set up. Banners, tables, the usual chaos. Got it?”

A chorus of “Got it!” echoes across the pitch, and the energy lifts — all camaraderie, anticipation, and the promise of a good night ahead.

Warmups start — laps around the pitch, stretches, passing drills. It feels good to move, to sweat, to fall into rhythm with the others.

Josh cracks jokes between sprints, Callum hums some ridiculous tune, and Rob’s voice carries over the field like a coach who’s seen it all but still cheers like it’s the first game of the season.

When practice finally slows to a jog and then to a stop, Nick bends to grab his water bottle from his bag, unscrewing the cap with shaky hands.

The air’s cool against his flushed skin, and sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

He takes a long drink, then reaches for his small towel to wipe his face, chest still heaving from the last sprint.

And that’s when he sees her.

Erin, walking along the edge of the pitch, sunlight glancing off her hair.

She’s wearing a dark green cardigan over a white tank and a flowy skirt patterned with tiny flowers — easy, effortless, like the day itself.

Two takeaway cups in her hands, one raised in greeting when she spots him.

Nick blinks, caught completely off guard — and grinning before he even realises it.

One of the lads — Josh probably— lets out a low whistle. “Mate, didn’t realise you had a fan club already.”

Nick laughs, cheeks warming. “Shut up,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “See ya, lads.”

He jogs toward her, heart still thumping from the drills — though it’s not just the running now.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Erin holds out one of the cups. “Surprise. Thought you might need caffeine after running around in the cold.”

He takes it, their fingers brushing lightly. “You’re an actual angel.”

She smiles, tilting her head. “Don’t tell my seminar group that. They think I’m terrifying.”

Nick chuckles, settling onto the bench beside her. “I’ll keep your secret.”

The steam curls between them as they sip, voices softening against the hum of the field behind.

The team’s laughter fades in the distance — but Nick’s still smiling, warmth blooming in his chest that has nothing to do with the coffee.

They sit for a while, the kind of silence that feels earned — steady breaths, cooling skin, the faint thud of a ball being kicked somewhere down the field.

Erin breaks it first. “So… how was your first proper training?”

Nick exhales a laugh. “Gruelling. Rob’s nice, but he’s basically a friendly dictator. My legs might file a complaint later.”

She grins. “Sounds like you’ll survive. You looked like you were having fun, though.”

“I was,” Nick admits, leaning back against the bench. “The team’s good. Really good, actually. Josh — one of the new guys — he’s hilarious. His boyfriend’s a student ambassador too.” 

Erin’s eyebrows lift, a small smile tugging at her mouth. For a moment, she studies him — the easy way he says it, the warmth in his voice when he mentions them — and something curious flickers in her expression. Then she leans back, tone light again. “Guess they’re proof you can do it all — rugby, uni, ambassador work, and still have time for romance.”

Nick laughs, ducking his head a little. “Yeah, maybe. He just said it so casually — like it’s normal, no big deal. I thought that was kind of brilliant. Made me feel like… I dunno. Maybe things here really are different, in a good way.”

Erin nods, her smile softening. “That’s the best part about starting fresh. No one really knows you yet, so you get to be exactly who you want to be.”

Nick hums, thoughtful, fingers tracing the seam of his paper cup. “I think that’s what I like about this place already. Everyone just… is. No one feels the need to pretend.”

“Even you?” she teases lightly, bumping her shoulder against his.

He glances at her, half-grinning. “Working on it.”

She hums again, pleased by the honesty. “That’s fair. First year’s all about figuring yourself out. Some people do it through their course, others through really bad hair dye choices.”

Nick snorts. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Guilty,” she says without shame, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Blue streaks, last year of sixth form. Thought I was making a statement. Mostly just looked like I dipped my head in poster paint.”

Nick nearly chokes on his drink, wheezing through his laugh. “No way. There’s got to be a photo.”

“Maybe,” she says, smirking. “You’ll have to earn the right to see it.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning in just slightly. “And how does one do that?”

Erin shrugs, all faux-nonchalance. “By not teasing me about it. And maybe buying me coffee next time.”

Nick feigns consideration, gaze playful. “That’s a steep price.”

“You can afford it, Mr. Ambassador.”

They both laugh — the easy kind that spills naturally between people who are beginning to find their rhythm.

The wind picks up slightly, carrying the smell of grass and espresso. Nick glances sideways, watching how the sunlight catches along Erin’s jawline, how her smile lingers even when she’s quiet.

It feels easy, being here with her. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask for anything too heavy.

“Hey,” Nick says after a moment, tone casual. “There’s a rugby social tonight — over at The Dry Dock, around seven. You should come. It’s pretty low-key, I promise. Pizza, chaos, probably some bad singing.”

Erin’s eyebrows lift, amused. “Low-key chaos sounds like my kind of night. Sure — I’ll come.”

Nick grins. “Great. I’ll save you a seat before Theo turns it into a karaoke contest.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Ambassador.”

Still, as they talk about their first-year schedules, how confusing the online portals are, and which lectures they’re already dreading, a small ache curls beneath Nick’s ribs — the echo of a laugh that sounds like someone else’s, from somewhere else.

He pushes the thought away, returning Erin’s grin when she says, “So, coffee next time’s a yes?”

Nick nods. “Definitely a yes.”

---

The bell above the cafe door chimes the second Charlie walks in, and the rush is already in full swing.

Students crowd the tables, laughing, catching up after break; the hiss of milk steamers blends with the thrum of voices.

Hannah’s a blur behind the counter, working the till at lightning speed.

Evan glances up from the POS, gives Charlie an almost conspiratorial nod — the kind that says I remember last night. His grin’s easy, a touch too smooth.

Charlie ducks his head, heat creeping into his cheeks, and slips to the back room. He sets his tote down, ties on his apron.

Adrian looks up from his laptop, eyes kind behind his glasses. “Morning, Charlie. How are things?”

Charlie manages a smile. “Good. You?”

“Busy as expected,” Adrian replies, leaning back in his chair.

“Good thing there’s three of you today.” He slides a clipboard over, tone more thoughtful than bossy.

“You’re on runner and backup duty — stock the takeaway cups and lids, refill the frappe tubs. Chocolate base is low again, mugs in the dishwasher, glass doors and chillers need wiping. And…”

Charlie groans, already knowing what’s next.

Adrian chuckles. “Yes, the grease trap too. Sorry, mate. You know how it is.”

“At least you said sorry first,” Charlie mutters good-naturedly, earning a laugh.

He gets to work. Stocking, clearing, scrubbing — the kind of rhythm that keeps his hands busy but his mind restless.

Between the rushes, he barely catches more than passing comments from Hannah or Evan.

But when the line finally thins, Evan sidles up while wiping the counter.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and teasing. “I had fun last night. We should go out again sometime — if you like.”

He pauses, leaning an elbow on the counter, a faint glint in his eyes as he studies Charlie’s reaction — playful, confident, testing the water. 

Then, with a crooked grin, he adds, “See? I’m saying it sober, and it’s zero alcohol talking.”

Charlie laughs, startled but flattered, fumbling for something clever. “That so?”

Before he can answer properly, Hannah leans over from the espresso machine with a grin. “Should I book you two a table or just put it on the rota?”

Evan nearly chokes on air; Charlie’s face burns. “Oh my God, Hannah,” he says, laughing through his embarrassment.

“Just keeping the vibes alive!” she calls, returning to the frothing wand.

Charlie shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and slips toward the glass doors.

The cool air outside feels good as he wipes smudges from the panels, propping one open to let in a draft.

That’s when a familiar voice pipes up.

“Charlie!”

He turns, surprised — Mia, tote bag over her shoulder, clutching a book and her phone.

She’s glowing in the late-afternoon light, the sort of person who looks effortlessly put-together even after a library session.

“Hey,” Charlie says, leaning on the door. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Needed caffeine before the library claims the rest of my soul,” she jokes, stepping inside.

“Good luck,” he says, smiling.

She nods, moving toward the counter. “I’ll text you later. Headed to the library.”

He watches her join the short queue where Evan’s waiting, still grinning at something she’s said.

For a second, everything looks perfectly ordinary — the cafe hum, the smell of coffee — and yet Charlie feels a faint, unshakable pull of something heavier beneath it.

---

He finishes wiping down the last of the glass panels, puts the cloth back into the cleaning supplies cabinet, and grabs the small metal stool from beside the fridge.

The dreaded moment has come.

The grease trap waits under the counter — a squat, metal box that already smells faintly of doom.

Charlie flips the lid open and immediately gags. A layer of congealed, brownish-grey sludge floats on top, marbled with bits of hardened whipped cream and coffee oils.

“Oh, that’s vile,” he mutters, pulling a face.

He stares at it a beat longer, then snorts, because honestly, what else can he do?

He pulls out his phone, angles it for a quick selfie with the open trap in frame, his expression a perfect mix of horror and fake enthusiasm. The caption practically writes itself—

Charlie: Would you like me to pack you some chocolate mousse tonight? 🤢🍫

He grins at his own joke, thumb hovering for a second before sending it. Then he waits — half-hoping for the familiar ping of a reply, a snarky you’re disgusting or a string of laugh emojis.

Nothing.

He locks his phone, staring at the thick swirl of sludge in the sink for a long moment.

The air smells faintly of burnt sugar, dish soap, and the sour tang of the grease trap — the kind of scent that clings no matter how many times you wash your hands.

He exhales, slow and quiet. “I can do this,” he murmurs, like it’s about the mousse, or the mess, or anything but the silence pressing in around him.

Still, after a beat, he unlocks the screen again. Just to check.

Still nothing.

Charlie swallows, locks the phone once more, and slips it into his pocket.

Then he gets to work scraping the sludge into the bin — slow, deliberate, the rhythm steadying him.

The smell is awful, but focusing on it helps.

It’s easier than thinking about the message still waiting in the dark.

---

Nick finishes his post-practice shower, hair still damp as he pulls on his student-ambassador polo and chinos.

His backpack’s half-zipped, the lanyard tucked in one pocket and a protein bar in the other.

By the time he reaches the Visitor Centre, the morning’s adrenaline has mellowed into a kind of quiet excitement.

Inside, the hum of conversation greets him — clipboards, flyers, and bright smiles.

Lila Thompson, their coordinator, is already there, handing out group assignments.

“Alright, ambassadors,” she says. “You’re on your own today. Nick, Rafael — you two are paired up. No shadowing, just show them why Leeds is the best place on earth.”

Rafael grins at him, easy and teasing. “Guess we’re co-captains now, Nelson.”

Nick laughs. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”

Nick and Rafael guide their small group across the cobbled paths and leafy quads.

Rafael’s quick with his charm — joking about how the campus ducks are the true mascots, throwing in small facts about the oldest buildings, and earning a few laughs from the prospective students. 

Nick keeps pace beside him, pointing out landmarks, sharing genuine snippets about student life — late-night library sessions, overpriced coffee, the rugby pitch that somehow always smells like rain.

When they reach the library, Rafael says, “Alright, everyone, this is the heart of Leeds — caffeine, stress, and inspiration all in one convenient location.”

Laughter ripples through the group. Nick smiles, glancing toward the glass-fronted cafe across the courtyard.

He spots him.

Charlie — wiping the counter, curls slightly messy, apron strings loose.

Evan leans in, saying something that makes him laugh — a real, unguarded laugh that Nick can almost hear through the glass.

A small pang hits somewhere low in his chest, sharp and uninvited.

He brushes it off quickly, shoulders squaring as he turns his attention back to the group. It’s fine, he tells himself. Good for him. Evan seems good for him.

His hand drifts toward his phone anyway — an old reflex. He almost types something, maybe a “how’s your day?” or a dumb joke about that disgusting grease trap selfie Charlie sent earlier.

But he stops, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, with a quiet sigh, he locks it and slides it back into his pocket.

Later, he tells himself. He’ll text later.

Beside him, Rafael gestures toward the upper floors of the library.

“And up there,” he says, grinning, “is where ambition goes to die — or thrive, depending on how much caffeine you’ve had.”

Nick laughs on cue, but the sound feels a little thin, stretched over something he doesn’t want to name.

By the time the tour wraps up, Rafael’s cracked three more jokes, the group’s all smiles, and Nick’s managed to shake the image of Charlie and Evan behind the counter — almost.

---

Nick and Rafael return to the Visitor Centre just as the afternoon light starts to tilt golden through the glass doors.

Lila’s wrapping up a chat with another ambassador, and by the desk stands a boy Nick hasn’t met before — blond hair, bright smile, posture relaxed like he belongs there.

“Hey!” the boy says cheerfully as they approach. “You must be the new guys. I’m Will.”

Nick shakes his hand. “Nick. And, yeah — Rafael.”

Something clicks in Will’s eyes. “Oh, Nick! Right. Nice to officially meet you — I’m Josh’s boyfriend. He mentioned you made the rugby team. Congrats, by the way.”

Nick’s eyebrows lift, pleasantly surprised. “Oh, wow, thanks! Josh was great today. He’s hilarious.”

Will grins. “Yeah, that’s his coping mechanism for everything — humour and carbs.”

Rafael chuckles. “Honestly? Mood.”

The three of them fall into easy conversation about first weeks, ambassador shifts, and the chaos of balancing everything.

Will’s warmth makes it feel natural — grounded.

Before they part, Will adds, “Hey, you guys going to the rugby social tonight? Josh roped me into going. Says it’s tradition.”

Rafael perks up. “Social? Sounds fun. Count me in.”

Nick grins. “Yeah, I’ll be there too. Helping set up, actually.”

“Perfect,” Will says. “See you there, then.”

They wave goodbye, and Nick feels that familiar flicker of anticipation start to build — not just for the event, but for the whole evening ahead.

He heads back toward his dorm, loosening his lanyard, rolling his shoulders. The day’s been long, but a good kind of long.

Back in his room, he drops his bag, changes into something comfortable, and lies back on the bed, letting the quiet settle before the night’s noise begins.

Five o’clock will come soon enough — and with it, the start of whatever this new chapter of uni life is going to be.

---

By the time five o’clock rolls around, Nick’s traded his ambassador polo for something easier — a soft navy jumper, jeans, and his battered trainers.

Nothing fancy. Just comfortable. The kind of outfit that says I didn’t overthink this, even if he definitely did.

The pub sits just off campus, old brick walls stained by time and stories.

The air smells of stale beer, fried food, and disinfectant — the trifecta of every student bar in existence.

Inside, the space hums with movement— chairs scraping, laughter echoing, Rob’s voice carrying over the low thrum of classic rock on the speakers.

“Nelson!” Rob calls from behind the bar, clipboard in hand, grin wide. “Glad you made it. Grab Josh and Callum — you’re on table duty.”

Nick spots them by the jukebox. Josh, all quick smiles and sharp humour, waves. Callum, quieter but sunny, raises his pint glass in greeting before getting back to arranging chairs.

They get to work.

Folding tables unfold with a satisfying click, banners unfurl with that familiar whoosh of cheap plastic.

Someone unrolls a tangled string of fairy lights that looks like it’s been through war.

From across the room, Theo — the social secretary with a permanent look of cheerful chaos — throws up his hands.

“Oi, Rob, I said I’d handle the rugby lining mistake. It was one time!”

“Once was enough,” Lena, the treasurer-slash-chaos-controller, quips as she walks past, carrying a box of cups. “We’re still finding blue chalk in the showers.”

Laughter ripples through the group. Nick’s wiping dust off a tabletop when he hears the low buzz of his phone in his pocket.

Charlie: I’m back at the dorm! No chocolate mousse, don’t worry. What are you up to?

A smile tugs at his mouth. He starts to type back, thumb hovering.

Maybe he’ll send a quick photo — the half-hung rugby banner, the mess of boxes waiting to be put away. He can already imagine Charlie’s teasing reply.

But before he can even finish typing a word of reply  —

“Nelson! Josh!” Rob’s voice cuts through the noise. “Think you two can grab the pizzas? They’re ready for pickup at the shop down the street.”

“On it!” Josh says, tossing a rag onto the bar.

Nick pockets his phone, grin sheepish. “Guess that’s us.”

--- 

By the time the cafe clock hits six, Charlie’s feet ache and his hair smells faintly of espresso and sugar.

He unties his apron, folds it neatly, and slings his tote bag over his shoulder.

At the counter, Evan’s finishing up a customer’s payment — flashing that easy grin of his, leaning on one arm as he hands the receipt over.

When he catches Charlie’s eye, he gives a small two-finger salute and a smile that lingers just a little too long. “See you tomorrow, superstar,” Evan says, voice light but loaded.

Charlie huffs a soft laugh, pretending to fuss with his tote strap. “Yeah. See you.”

The noise of the coffee machine fades into background hum as he steps out, waving a quick goodbye to Hannah and Adrian.

Outside, the evening air feels sharp and cool against his skin. He checks his phone.

Nothing.

No reply to the grease trap selfie he’d sent earlier.

He huffs a small laugh to himself, half amused, half deflated. “Probably busy,” he mutters, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He’s got two leftover pastries in a paper bag — one for him, one for Nick — because that’s what he does now, automatically.

He could skip dinner entirely, but Nick’s always happier when there’s food involved.

On his way back, he ducks into the bookstore near campus, the one with the creaky floorboards and faint smell of old paper.

He scans the display near the counter, and there it is — Every Summer After. The book club pick for next week.

He buys it, tucks it into his tote, and tells himself he’s excited to read something light for a change.

When he finally reaches the dorm, the light in the shared kitchenette spills dimly across the floor. Empty. Quiet.

Charlie checks his phone again — still no reply from Nick.

Maybe he’s still with his student ambassador group, he tells himself. Maybe they went out for dinner. Maybe Erin’s there.

He opens their chat and types,

Charlie: I’m back at the dorm! No chocolate mousse, don’t worry. What are you up to?

He watches the screen.

The message ticks to read.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then — nothing.

“Huh,” he murmurs to the empty room. “Weird.”

He tosses his phone onto his bed and heads to the shower.

The water’s warm, grounding, but even as the steam fogs the mirror, his mind drifts — to Nick’s grin, his ridiculous morning voice, the way he says love you too like it’s half joke, half not.

When he’s done, he makes tea, settles on the sofa, and opens Every Summer After.

He reads a few pages, maybe a chapter, though none of it really sticks. Every few minutes, his hand twitches toward his phone.

Still nothing.

He exhales, frustrated with himself, and stands. His tea’s gone lukewarm, but he carries the mug to the window anyway.

The night outside is alive with chatter from the courtyard, students laughing somewhere below. He peers out, searching.

No sign of Nick.

“Maybe his phone died,” he whispers to no one. “Maybe he’s with Rafael. Or Erin.”

He nods once, as if that settles it. “He’s allowed to have a life.”

But the words taste hollow.

He retreats from the window, picks his book back up, and tries again to read — but the words blur into meaningless shapes.

After a few pages, he gives up and grabs his phone. If he’s going to obsess, he might as well do it productively.

Charlie: Hey, Mia — started Every Summer After. Quick question, did you actually like the main character or were you just rooting for chaos?

He hits send before he can second-guess it, smiling faintly when her typing bubble pops up almost immediately.

Mia: Oh, Percy Fraser? I wanted to shake him half the time. But also… kinda got him. He’s messy, but in a very human way

Charlie: So “emotionally confused but means well” is your type

Mia: You get me 😂

Mia: Also, he spends half the book running from things he can’t admit. It’s painful but real

Charlie: Ugh. Relatable. I’m only a chapter in and they’ve already ruined my trust in fictional happiness

Mia: That’s the point! The tension, the heartbreak, the denial — it’s art

Charlie: You sound like our book-club leader

Mia: Being pan helps

Charlie: Oh?

Mia: Yeah. Attraction gets confusing. I’ll like someone, think it’s just admiration — next thing I know, I’m writing bad poetry about their smile. Once I stopped worrying about gender, it all made a lot more sense

Charlie: That’s… actually really cool. How long’ve you known?

Mia: A while. I came out last year. Told my mum over pancakes — she nearly choked on the syrup, but she’s fine now 

There's a pause, then —

Mia: If you don’t mind me asking… have you ever figured that out for yourself?

Charlie: Yeah. I’m gay. Have been since I was about fifteen, I think. It wasn’t exactly a secret — people just sort of… knew

Mia: That must’ve been heavy

Charlie: Yeah. It was... But I had friends who made it easier. Someone who always had my back

Mia: That the same rugby friend you live with? Nick, right?

Charlie: …yeah. That’s him. He’s good people

Charlie: Anyway — Percy. He’s a disaster, isn’t he?

Mia: Totally. But you root for him anyway. He messes up and still learns to love himself. That’s the kind of chaos I like

Charlie: Brave, messy, human. Sounds about right

Mia: So you’re liking it then?

Charlie: Against my better judgment, yes. And you’ve officially destroyed any chance I had at a calm night’s reading

Mia: My pleasure 😌 emotional chaos is my brand

Charlie chuckles, tossing his phone lightly onto the table.

The fridge hums quietly in the background, the flat otherwise still except for the faint pulse of city noise outside.

He leans back, eyes drifting to the paper bag sitting on the kitchen table — the one with the pastries he’d packed for him and Nick.

It’s folded neatly, untouched.

For a moment, he just looks at it, the sight making his chest ache in a way he can’t quite name.

The world outside buzzes with Friday laughter; inside, it’s still.

He picks up his phone again.

Charlie: Thanks for the chat, philosopher of chaos.

Mia: Anytime, barista boy. Go easy on Percy — he’s about to ruin your night.

Charlie smiles. Too late, he thinks.

---

Outside, the air is cooler — crisp and smelling faintly of rain. The quiet is a relief after the noise.

They walk side by side, jackets zipped, the pub’s laughter fading behind them.

Josh nudges Nick with his elbow. “So, how’s the first week been? Surviving ambassador life?”

Nick chuckles. “Barely. I think I’ve said the words ‘campus tour’ more than my own name.”

“Occupational hazard.” Josh grins. “At least you look like you actually enjoy people. That’s ninety percent of the job.”

Nick hums, smiling. “Yeah, I guess.”

They walk a few more paces in companionable silence — until both their phones buzz almost simultaneously.

Notification: Pride Society presents: PRIDE NIGHT this Saturday! 🌈 Drinks, music, safe space, good vibes.

Josh glances over, smirking. “Pride night, huh?”

Nick laughs lightly, pocketing his phone. “Yeah. I actually went to one of their socials last Sunday. First day on campus.”

Josh arches a brow. “Oh yeah? Alone?”

“Not exactly.” Nick rubs the back of his neck. “Went with my flatmate. Charlie.”

“Charlie…” Josh repeats, curiosity flickering. “Wait — was he the one at the rugby tryout? Curly hair, reading on the stands?”

Nick’s chest tightens, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. That’s him.”

Josh grins. “Cute.”

Nick flushes instantly. “He— I— he’s just— we’re best friends.”

Josh chuckles, gentle. “Relax, mate. I’m not accusing you of anything. How long have you two been friends?”

Nick exhales, staring at the pavement. “Since Year Eleven. We met at school — he was… he is one of those people you just click with, you know? You can sit in silence for hours and it’s not weird. He’s sarcastic and kind and… funny in this really dry way.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m talking about him so much.”

Josh smiles, easy and knowing. “Because you care about him. That’s not weird.”

Nick huffs a breath, half a laugh, half a confession. “He’s just… Charlie. He makes everything feel lighter. And I guess that’s why it’s so hard.”

He hesitates, words tumbling faster now—“When I got here, everything felt huge and loud, but with him it’s… easy. He makes things make sense.” He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. “God, I sound pathetic. I should probably stop talking now.”

Josh shakes his head gently. “No, it’s fine. Perfectly understandable.” His smile softens. “You sound human.”

Nick looks down at his trainers, voice dropping low—

“I’m bi… I know that now. But I’ve never told anyone before. I’d never even kissed a guy. So when I told Charlie that — when we were unpacking on Sunday — it just kind of slipped out. I’d literally just come out to him, and he didn’t even flinch. Just nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

Josh listens quietly, hands in his pockets.

Nick huffs a small laugh. “Then he said — and I swear he was half joking — ‘why don’t we… kiss... purely for science.’”

Josh raises an eyebrow, amused. “For science?”

“Yeah.” Nick laughs, embarrassed.

“And I said yes, because apparently I have no self-preservation. But.. when it happened, it didn’t feel like an experiment. Not to me. It felt…” He trails off, searching for words that don’t sound ridiculous.

“It felt like something real. Something that stuck.”

Josh’s expression softens — equal parts sympathy and understanding. “And now?”

“Now nothing.” Nick shrugs, trying for nonchalance but failing. “He wouldn’t have said ‘for science’ if he actually liked me like that, you know? It was just… him being kind. That’s who he is.” He exhales, the words catching slightly.

“And I think he’s seeing someone now. Someone he works with.”

Josh’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Nick presses on, quieter. “I don’t want to ruin what we have. He’s too important. So… yeah. We’ll just stay friends.”

For a moment, all they hear are their footsteps and the low hum of passing cars.

Josh finally says, quiet but sure, “You know, sometimes the people who make the world feel smaller aren’t the ones boxing you in — they’re just the ones who make it feel like home.”

Nick glances at him, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

Josh smiles faintly. “I mean… if something feels like more than friendship, it probably is. You can ignore it for a while, but it won’t go away. It just waits until you’re ready to stop being scared of it.”

Nick doesn’t answer. The words land somewhere deep, settling like an ache that’s half relief, half terror.

They reach the pizza shop, the air thick with the smell of cheese and oregano. Josh swings the door open dramatically.

“Move it, bi boy — your soulmate’s waiting in a pizza box.”

Nick laughs — startled, embarrassed, but lighter somehow. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” Josh says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

As they push open the door to the pizza place, the warm air hits them — the smell of dough and oregano, laughter spilling from a group near the counter.

Nick grins back at Josh, but the words linger, curling somewhere deep inside him—

if something feels like more than friendship, it probably is

it just waits until you’re ready to stop being scared of it.

He wonders if he’ll ever be ready to stop being scared of it — of what it means, of what it could change.

And what happens when he finally is.

--

They collect the boxes from the counter — the heat seeping through cardboard, smelling like melted cheese and pepperoni — and step back into the cool air.

The quiet hum of early evening sits between them, the kind that makes conversation come easy.

After a while, Nick asks, “What about you? You said you figured things out later — how’d you and Will meet?”

Josh grins, the corners of his mouth quirking like he’s replaying the memory.

“Sixth form,” he says. “He was in the year above me. We were both on the debate team — he argued like it was a blood sport, and I thought he was insufferable.”

Nick laughs. “So naturally, you fell for him.”

“Obviously.” Josh smirks. “He asked me to help him prep for a tournament once. I said yes because I liked the challenge. Halfway through, I caught myself watching him a little too often — trying to figure out what it was about him that got under my skin.”

Nick shakes his head, grinning. “That’s kind of perfect.”

Josh shrugs, his tone softening. “It took me a while to say it out loud, though. I didn’t even start calling myself gay until recently— and figuring out the demisexual part came even later. I used to think I was broken or slow or something. But then I met Will, and it just… clicked. I don’t usually get sparks right away. With him, it took time — but when it happened, it was real.”

Nick stays quiet for a beat, processing that. The way Josh says it — calm, certain — hits something deep.

“That’s really… I don’t know. Brave,” he says finally.

Josh gives a small laugh. “Not brave. Just tired of pretending. You’ll get there too, you know. In your own time.”

Nick nods slowly, his thumb tracing the condensation ring on one of the pizza boxes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

They walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence — streetlights blinking on above them, the evening air carrying the faint sound of music from the bar up ahead.

And though Nick’s smiling when Josh bumps his shoulder playfully, part of him can’t shake the thought of Charlie’s laugh echoing faintly in his head — and the quiet, impossible question of whether he’ll ever stop being scared of it.

By the time they reach the pub again, the sky’s fading into that soft amber hour — windows glowing, laughter spilling faintly from inside.

The tables are pushed together now, the big LEEDS RUGBY SOCIALS banner taped a little crooked above the bar. Someone’s already set out a few bowls of crisps and paper cups.

Josh elbows Nick lightly as they step in. “Delivery heroes, reporting for duty.”

Nick laughs, setting the pizza boxes on the nearest table under the banner. The smell hits instantly — warm, cheesy, familiar — and for a moment, everything feels easy again.

He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over Charlie’s message.

Charlie: I’m back at the dorm! No chocolate mousse, don’t worry. What are you up to?

Nick glances at the pizzas, thinking about snapping a quick photo to send — something stupid like “Feeding the masses” — but before he can, there’s a shout across the room.

“Finally!” Rafael calls, waving them over. “We were about to stage a rescue mission!”

Will appears beside him, grinning. “Took you long enough. I was about to eat the banner.”

And Erin’s there too, perched on a barstool, her eyes lighting up when she spots them. “Heroes! The pizza saviours have arrived.”

Josh snorts. “You’re welcome,” he says, already grabbing plates.

Nick smiles, laughing along as Rafael mock-salutes him, and Will cracks another joke about starving athletes.

The moment swells with noise — chatter, movement, the sound of someone testing the speaker volume.

He slips his phone back into his pocket, the unreplied  message still sitting there, a tiny weight he’ll come back to later.

Right now, it’s all music, laughter, and the familiar scent of melted cheese — the start of a night he doesn’t yet know will matter.

---

Charlie’s message had come through almost an hour ago, and though Nick’s seen it — thumb hovering over the screen once, twice — he hasn’t found a quiet moment to reply.

Every time he tries, someone calls his name, or shoves another box of pizza his way, or pulls him into a conversation.

Now the pub feels alive. The low hum of conversation blends with the bass of whatever playlist Theo’s thrown on — something upbeat and just loud enough to make shouting across the room an Olympic sport.

The tables are covered in mismatched plates, open pizza boxes, and half-empty cups.

Rob’s standing near the bar, already holding court with his usual mix of authority and warmth. “Right, lads — and guests — before this gets completely out of hand, let’s raise a glass!”

There’s a cheer, and Lena rolls her eyes from her seat beside him, arms crossed but smiling. “You realise it’s been five minutes, Rob.”

“That’s five minutes longer than last time,” Theo adds from the DJ table, grinning.

Nick laughs along with the others, a little dazzled by how easy this feels — this sense of belonging.

He’s only been at Leeds a week, but somehow the chaos feels like home.

Josh and Will have migrated to the corner booth, already in their own world — Josh gesturing wildly mid-story, Will leaning in, laughing until his shoulders shake.

Rafael, perched nearby with a drink, keeps making dry little comments that have Erin nearly snorting into her cup.

“Hey,” she says, catching Nick’s eye across the table, “you’re not escaping this, Ambassador. Come join us before Rafa starts a debate about pineapple pizza again.”

Nick grins, sliding into the empty chair beside her. “Please tell me you’re on the right side of that argument.”

Erin tilts her head. “The right side being…?”

“No pineapple. Ever.”

She gasps, mock-offended. “You monster.”

Rafael chimes in, swirling his drink. “Tragic, really. Another victim of closed-minded taste buds.”

Nick groans, laughing as Theo yells from the bar, “Oi! Save the philosophy for your dissertations!”

The night rolls on — messy and loud, in the best way. Someone’s set up a drinking game at the next table, the kind that involves ridiculous dares.

Callum’s in the middle of trying to down half a pint without using his hands while Liam counts dramatically beside him.

“Ten seconds left, you absolute legend!” Liam bellows, and the entire table erupts when Callum somehow manages it, foam spilling down his chin.

Rob claps him on the back. “That’s the spirit, first year!”

Nick’s laughing so hard he nearly drops his drink, the sound mingling with the chorus of cheers and the steady thrum of music.

At some point, Theo turns the lights down a notch, swapping the playlist for something more nostalgic — pop hits and guilty pleasures.

The energy softens a little, people pairing off to chat, laugh, or dance.

Erin ends up beside Nick again, both of them sharing the last slice of pepperoni and talking over the music.

She’s glowing under the dim lights, cheeks pink, hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders.

Rafael’s across from them, spinning a story about how he once accidentally joined a rowing society social.

Nick laughs, listening, but part of him still feels that faint itch in his pocket — his phone, Charlie’s message waiting quietly there.

He tells himself he’ll reply in a bit — after this song, after this laugh, after this one last drink.

Theo swaps the playlist again, the opening riff of some old Britpop track roaring through the speakers.

Someone cheers, someone else groans, and before long the small dance floor in front of the bar fills with rugby lads swaying off-beat and shouting lyrics they only half-remember.

Erin tugs Nick’s sleeve, grinning. “Come on. You can’t just sit there all stoic. You’re in the team now — dance tax applies.”

Nick laughs, but she’s already pulling him up. “You’re relentless.”

“Occupational hazard,” she says, twirling once before pressing her drink into his hands. “Hold this.”

He does, helplessly smiling as she moves to the beat — not showy, just confident, easy, the kind of energy people naturally gravitate toward.

When Rafael joins her halfway through, the crowd cheers; he pretends to conduct the music, over-the-top and ridiculous, but Erin just laughs and spins closer to him, matching his rhythm with surprising ease.

Nick stays at the side, watching with quiet amusement, Erin’s drink sweating in his hand. Even Josh and Will are clapping along now, shouting encouragements from the booth.

It’s messy, loud, and stupid — and for the first time in days, Nick feels completely unguarded.

When the song ends, Erin collapses into the seat beside him, breathless and glowing. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” Nick says, handing her drink back. Their fingers brush — lingering a second too long — and Erin grins, eyes bright. She leans in, close enough that he can smell her perfume, and plants a quick, teasing kiss on his cheek.

“Reward for not chickening out,” she says, laughing.

Nick’s halfway through stammering a reply when Rafael appears from behind, pressing in beside him on the other side — warm, all shoulders and laughter — and throws an arm around his neck.

“Mate, you’ve officially passed initiation. Look at you — golden boy of Leeds Rugby already.”

Nick rolls his eyes, caught between them, but he’s laughing too, helpless. “Please don’t start that.”

“Oh, it’s started,” Rafael teases, giving him a squeeze that pulls him even closer. “Ambassador by day, rugby heartthrob by night.”

Erin giggles, reaching across Nick to give Rafael’s thigh a quick squeeze. “Leave him alone. You’re turning him pink.”

“I’m not,” Nick insists — except his ears are burning, his heart’s somewhere near his throat, and both of them are still far too close.

Lena passes by with a tray of empty cups, pausing just long enough to grin. “Oh, you definitely are,” she teases — and before Nick can protest, she raises her phone and snaps a quick picture.

Nick groans, laughing despite himself. “Lena—”

“Relax, ambassador boy,” she says, already walking off toward the bar. “It’s a great shot. I’ll tag you on Insta Story.”

The table erupts in laughter again. Rafael’s arm stays slung casually over Nick’s shoulder, the moment frozen between them — warm, loud, and a little too easy.

Nick’s still grinning, cheeks hot, but somewhere under the noise, he can’t shake the thought of who he wishes was here to see it.

Later, when his phone buzzes with a notification —

Lena tagged you in a story

— Nick taps Add to Story without thinking. Just a repost. Nothing more.

He slides out of Instagram, thumb brushing over the text app icon.

There it is — Charlie’s message from earlier, sitting quietly in the thread.

It's been hours — he means to reply. He really does.

But Rafael’s laughing across the table, someone’s shouting for another round, and the whole room hums with warmth and noise and music.

Nick pockets his phone again, telling himself he’ll text back in a bit.

The message stays there — read, unanswered — while the night carries on without him.

---

The pastry hisses faintly in the microwave — a steak and onion pie from the cafe's leftovers, the kind of comfort food that’s still decent after a long shift.

Charlie sits at the kitchen table, fork in one hand, phone in the other, the dorm quiet except for the low hum of the fridge.

After dinner, he reads for a while — Every Summer After, a few more chapters in, the words starting to blur around the edges.

The flat’s too quiet. Even the city outside seems softer tonight, all distant laughter and the occasional slam of a door down the hall.

He picks up his phone again, opens the group chat.

Charlie: hey, you lot. what’s the long-distance chaos report tonight? 🫡

Tao: rude. elle and i are halfway through rewatching Howl’s Moving Castle. she’s pretending it’s for “art inspo.” 🎨

Elle: it is for art inspo. also because tao won’t shut up about how he’s “basically howl.”

Isaac: you wish. howl bathes

Tao: betrayal from my own book club. disgusting

Charlie: can confirm. you are not howl. more like calcifer with better hair

Elle: LMAO accurate. how’s your night, charlie?

Charlie: long shift. survived the grease trap from hell. ☠️ treating myself with pie and silence

Isaac: grease trap??? please elaborate immediately

Charlie: no. i’m protecting your sanity. you’re welcome

Tao: 😭😭 okay but seriously. how’s life in Leeds? any chaos? any boys? 👀

Charlie: i’m fine. uni’s good. it’s just orientation week, but busy

Elle: Busy sounds like code for “there’s a boy.”

Charlie: no boy. just caffeine and responsibility

Isaac: uh-huh. right. because the last time you said that, you were “not dating” Nick — while literally glued to his side

Charlie: technically we were never— actually, never mind. he’s… around

Tao: around?? 😏

Elle: oh, charlie…

Charlie: don’t start 😭

Isaac: too late. we’re starting

Elle: fine. but for the record, you don’t have to pretend you’re fine if you’re not. okay?

Charlie: i know. ❤️ thanks, elle

Tao: group call soon? i miss your face

Charlie: only if calcifer brings snacks

Isaac: impossible. calcifer’s broke

Elle: goodnight, chaos crew 🌙💫

Tao: night, legends

Charlie: night, nerds. love you all

He tosses the phone onto the table, smiling faintly. The quiet settles again — gentler this time.

But reading feels impossible now. He’s too restless, too wired.

So, naturally, he opens Instagram. A few scrolls in, there it is.

Nick’s story.

At first, he smiles — reflexive, automatic — until he notices the photo.

Nick mid-laugh, cheeks flushed, Rafael’s arm slung casually across his shoulders.

Pub lights casting a golden glow behind them, music frozen mid-beat, Lena’s caption bright and teasing—

Rugby socials = chaos already 🏉🤣@nick_nzzzz @rafael.r 

And at the top, that small, impossible sting — Nick reposted.

Charlie stares at it longer than he should, thumb hovering like he might tap through, like it’ll somehow change what he sees.

His chest feels hollow — not sharp, not painful exactly, just… empty.

He sets the phone down, face-first on the table, pressing his palms to his eyes until he sees stars.

The fridge hums. The air hums. His heartbeat hums.

They used to do everything together. Every laugh, every late-night text, every stupid inside joke.

Now — silence.

Don’t be needy.

You’re not his mum.

He has new uni friends now.

It’s good. This is good.

But—

Why didn’t Nick reply?

Did he do something?

He told Nick once that he didn’t need his permission to go out, to make friends, to live his own life.

So why does it feel so shit?

He pushes up from the table, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor.

The flat feels too big, too quiet. The paper bag with one pastry left — Nick’s — still sits on the counter, untouched, waiting.

Charlie retreats to his room, shuts the door, and drops onto the bed.

He tosses. Turns. Checks his phone one last time. Nothing.

The silence feels too heavy, so he pulls on his headphones, scrolling aimlessly through playlists before landing on something loud — sharp indie rock, heavy drums, messy lyrics that say everything he can’t.

He turns the volume up until it fills his head completely, the sound pressing against his thoughts like armor.

It’s easier this way — to let someone else’s voice shout for him, to hide behind the noise instead of feeling it all.

His throat tightens anyway.

He blinks hard, staring at the ceiling until it blurs. The ache doesn’t fade; it just moves with the music, pulsing in time with the drums.

Eventually, he curls onto his side and reaches for Kitty — the worn, soft toy tucked beneath his pillow — pulling it close against his chest.

The music hums on in his ears, a wall between him and the thoughts he’s too tired to fight.

And finally, exhaustion wins — not peace, not rest. Just sleep.

---

Nick pushes the door open quietly. The flat is dark except for the city glow slipping through the curtains.

The air smells faintly of sugar and coffee.

On the counter, there’s a single brown paper bag — a pastry inside, folded neatly at the top.

In the bin, another crumpled one.

Nick swallows. One for Charlie. One for him.

Charlie’s door is closed tonight.

Not the usual “almost shut” kind of closed, where light leaks through the crack and soft music hums faintly — properly shut.

A quiet line drawn between them.

Nick hesitates in the kitchen, thumb brushing his phone screen. Charlie’s message still glows there, hours old.

He thinks of typing something — sorry, or I’m home, or maybe a joke about chocolate mousse — but the words blur. He’s too drunk. Too tired. Too guilty.

Instead, he pockets the phone, stares once more at the pastry bag on the counter.

“Thanks, Char,” he murmurs, voice small in the dark.

No answer.

Just the hum of the fridge, and behind the closed door, the soft rhythm of Charlie breathing.

The light from his phone fades out, leaving him standing in the dark.

Chapter Text

Charlie wakes to the faint hum of traffic outside.

9:04 a.m.

The light through the curtains is already too bright.

He lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, the quiet pressing against his chest.

He’s only got a short shift later — twelve to four — but the thought of getting up feels heavier than it should.

Then, inevitably, his mind drifts to last night.

To Nick’s reposted photo.

To Rafael’s arm slung casually around his shoulders.

A dull ache blooms behind his ribs. Don’t make it a big deal, he tells himself. Nick’s allowed to have fun. You’ve been busy too. You’ve made new friends. It’s fine.

Except it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like distance.

With a sigh, Charlie finally swings his legs out of bed and pads into the hallway.

He’s not exactly in the mood to talk to Nick — not with everything sitting unsaid between them — but some quiet instinct still pushes him toward Nick’s door.

It’s half open.

Nick’s sprawled across the bed, still in last night’s jeans and navy jumper, one arm flung over his face.

His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed from sleep — or hangover.

Charlie lingers for a moment, watching.

Then he turns, fills a glass of water from the kitchen, shakes two paracetamols into his palm, and walks back in.

The faint clink of glass on wood makes Nick stir.

He blinks awake, eyes unfocused, voice rough with sleep. “Char…?”

Charlie’s voice is even, careful. “Hey. I got you some water and paracetamol. We don’t have Lucozade, but… that should help.”

Nick pushes himself upright, wincing at the movement. His head feels like it’s pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, throat dry.

Fragments of last night flicker back — laughter and music, Erin’s kiss on his cheek, Rafael’s arm slung around him, Josh’s voice telling him it’s okay to stop being scared, his own words spilling out about Charlie — about coming out, about the kiss for science.

Then Charlie’s message — left on read.

Guilt hits like a weight to the chest, thick and heavy.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the floor. “Sorry about last night, Char. I…”

What’s he even supposed to say?

I meant to reply but didn’t. I kept getting distracted. I saw you at the cafe laughing with Evan and— God, I hated it. I was jealous and confused and wished it was me instead. I didn’t know what to do, so I just… didn’t?

Charlie doesn’t give him time to find the words.

“It’s fine, Nick,” he says quickly, voice flat. “I told you — you don’t need my permission.”

The silence that follows feels colder than the morning air.

Nick looks at him — the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he’s standing like he’s ready to leave — and knows, without a doubt, that Charlie’s upset.

No sarcasm.

No soft teasing.

Just distance.

“Right,” Nick murmurs, swallowing the rest of what he wants to say. “Thanks. For the water. And the paracetamol.”

He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I was thinking of going out to grab some breakfast… would you maybe want to join me?”

Charlie’s mouth opens like he might say yes — then he shakes his head instead, eyes already drifting away. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

The words are polite, neutral — but the tone is flat, final.

Nick nods once. “Sure. Yeah. See you later then.”

Charlie leaves quietly, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Nick exhales, slow and heavy. He looks down at the glass of water and the two tablets still sitting beside it.

He takes them, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, then sets the empty glass back down on the table.

When Charlie’s door clicks shut, the silence that follows feels too big for the room.

The dull throb in his head is nothing compared to the heavier ache that sits somewhere behind his ribs.

He runs a hand through his hair, pressing his palm to his eyes. “Brilliant job, Nelson,” he mutters under his breath.

Pushing up from the bed, he pulls on his grey hoodie — the one Charlie always steals when he’s cold — and digs out a pair of joggers from the drawer.

The flat feels emptier than usual, or maybe it’s just him.

As he steps out of his room, the kitchen greets him with quiet stillness — the faint hum of the fridge, the muted city noise through the window.

His eyes land on the fridge, and the memory flickers back— the brown paper bag he’d tucked inside last night, just before he stumbled into bed.

He’d been drunk, but not enough to forget. He’d actually thought to keep the pastry chilled — something to look forward to in the morning.

He opens the fridge door, staring at the shelf for a moment before reaching in.

Inside the paper bag, a pie sits neatly wrapped in a napkin — careful, thoughtful, exactly how Charlie always does things.

Nick swallows, the air feeling heavier. His gaze drifts to the bin — a crumpled brown paper bag sitting on top. Charlie’s dinner, probably eaten alone.

The guilt hits harder this time, followed by something else he can’t quite name — too tangled to process, too much to sit with.

He exhales, folds the bag closed again, and sets it gently back on the shelf like it might shatter.

He needs air.

Grabbing his wallet from the counter, he slips on his shoes and heads for the door.

The thought follows him as he steps outside, the morning air cool against his skin.

He tells himself breakfast will help — food, fresh air, maybe a way to think straight.

But the guilt trails him down the corridor, soft and persistent — a quiet reminder of the conversation they didn’t have, and the one he knows he’ll have to find the courage for soon.

He walks farther than usual — past the row of familiar shops, past the corner cafe where Charlie works — until he reaches the far end of campus. The air is crisp, the kind that clears his head a little.

There, tucked between a bookstore and a laundrette, he finds a small cafe with breakfast menus taped to the window: eggs, toast, bacon rolls — the kind of food that might fix whatever’s still spinning in his head.

Inside, the place is warm and half-awake, the air heavy with espresso and burnt toast.

Nick settles into a corner table, hoodie drawn up, elbows on the cool wood. The low hum of chatter presses around him — clinking mugs, laughter too bright for this early on a Saturday.

He scans the menu through bleary eyes, trying to decide what might actually stay down. Maybe just toast. Maybe a bacon roll — salty, greasy, the cure-all for bad decisions.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the counter, waiting for his order. His head still throbs dully, and his stomach twists between hunger and regret.

The bell above the door rings, and a familiar voice breaks through the background noise.

“Nelson?”

Nick looks up. “Josh?”

Josh grins, sunglasses perched crookedly in his hair. “Mate, you look how I feel.”

He steps up to the counter, places an order — two coffees, a breakfast sandwich, a croissant — then wanders over to Nick’s table.

“You mind if I sit?”

Nick shakes his head. “Go for it.”

Josh drops into the chair across from him, stretching his arms. “I’m packing breakfast to go for me and Will. He’s still dead to the world.”

Nick huffs a quiet laugh. “Lucky him.”

They lapse into an easy silence, the kind that sits between hangovers and unspoken thoughts. The hiss of the espresso machine fills the pause, and then a voice calls from behind the counter—

“Black coffee and bacon roll for Nick!”

Nick gets up, murmurs a thanks, and returns with the tray — steam rising from the cup, the smell of butter and salt teasing his stomach.

He unwraps the bacon roll, takes a tentative sip of coffee, and winces at the heat before setting it down again.

Josh watches him, one eyebrow raised, amusement flickering behind tired eyes. “So,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “how’re you feeling?”

Nick exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like my head’s been used as a drum. So, you know. Fine.”

Josh chuckles. “Same.” He studies Nick for a moment, something wry but kind in his eyes. “Though, call it a hunch — something tells me alcohol last night isn’t the only thing bothering you.”

Nick looks up, caught. For a second he wants to deflect, crack a joke about tequila or bad pizza. But Josh’s gaze is steady — not prying, just open — and the question hangs between them like morning light through the window.

He swallows, staring at the swirl of foam in his coffee. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice low. “Something like that.”

Josh nods, like he’s been there — like he already knows. “Thought so.”

The barista calls Josh’s name then, breaking the moment. “Guess that’s me,” he says, glancing back at Nick.

He stands to grab his takeout tray, balancing the coffees and paper bag carefully.

“Good — you’ve got food already. Try and actually eat it, yeah? Hangovers feed on neglect.”

Nick huffs a small laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Josh grins, warmth flickering through the exhaustion. “Atta boy. See you tonight?”

Nick nods, quieter this time. “Yeah. See you tonight.”

Josh lifts his cup in a lazy salute before heading out, the bell above the door chiming behind him.

Nick watches him go, then looks down at his own coffee — cooling fast, untouched.

Outside, the sunlight’s too bright, the world too normal.

Inside, his chest still feels unsteady — full of everything he didn’t say and everything he wishes he could.

---

Charlie arrives at the cafe a little before ten, the air still crisp with the tail end of morning.

Inside, the place hums with soft chatter and the hiss of steamed milk. Evan and Sasha are already behind the counter, mid-routine — Sasha stacking clean mugs, Evan laughing at something she says.

“Didn’t expect you until two more hours,” Evan calls when he spots him, grin lazy but warm. “You trying to make the rest of us look bad?”

Charlie shakes his head, dropping his tote behind the counter. “Just needed a change of scenery.”

Evan hums, a teasing note curling at the edge of his smile. “Well, you picked the right place. Nothing like caffeine and chaos to start the day.”

Charlie gives a noncommittal grin, his gaze drifting across the cafe — half-expecting, half-dreading to see Nick tucked somewhere near the windows with his usual mug.

But there’s no sign of him. Relief and disappointment twist together in a way Charlie can’t name.

He orders a flat white and a toasted tomato-and-cheese sandwich with his staff discount, then settles in at a corner table.

The sunlight slants across the wooden floor, catching the faint sheen of spilled sugar on the counter.

He takes out Every Summer After, the page he dog-eared last night waiting for him — though he’s not really in the mood to read.

A quiet lull comes between orders, and Evan wipes his hands on a towel before wandering over.

“You look miles away,” he says, leaning lightly against a nearby chair. “What’s got you all pensive this morning?”

Charlie shrugs, forcing a small smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

Evan studies him for a moment — too perceptive for his own good — then tilts his head. “You coming to Pride Night later? The one near campus?”

“Don’t really feel like it, to be honest.”

Evan makes an exaggerated face of disappointment, clutching at his heart. “Tragic. The world loses a perfectly good dance partner.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering despite himself. “Alright then — convince me. Why should I go?”

Evan leans forward a little, his tone dropping just enough to blur the line between playful and sincere.

“Because it’ll be fun. Because it’s the start of term and we deserve to celebrate surviving the first week. And…” — his smile softens, gaze steady — “because I enjoy your company. It’d be sad without you there.”

Charlie blinks, caught off guard — the words simple, but disarming in their honesty.

He looks down at his sandwich, fighting a smile. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”

Evan grins. “Best kind.”

---

The dorm is quiet when Nick gets back. He pushes the door open and calls out, “Char?”

Nothing. The silence that answers tells him Charlie’s already left for his shift.

Nick drops his keys onto the counter and exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s got no student ambassador shift today, no rugby practice, no real reason to leave the flat — and yet, somehow, he feels antsy.

Breakfast helped; the dull throb in his head is mostly gone, just a faint echo behind his eyes.

He ends up scrolling aimlessly through TikTok, half-watching videos he won’t remember in ten minutes — dogs, rugby clips, a barista tutorial that weirdly makes his chest ache.

When that gets old, he switches to YouTube, but even that doesn’t hold his focus.

He’s restless, uneasy in a way he can’t quite name.

Eventually, hunger wins over boredom. Nick opens the fridge and spots the paper bag Charlie left for him — the one he’d nearly forgotten about.

Guilt twists in his stomach as he pulls it out, unfolding the top carefully like it might crumble under his fingers.

The smell of steak and pastry fills the kitchen as he slides it into the microwave.

A few minutes later, he sits at the table, the pie steaming in front of him. It’s simple, but it feels like more than lunch — it feels like an apology he doesn’t deserve.

He stares at it for a moment, then pulls out his phone. The camera opens almost on instinct.

He takes a quick selfie — messy hair, hoodie, the pie front and center — and types out a message.

Nick: Thanks for bringing this home, Char

Nick: Sorry I was a bit of an idiot last night

He hesitates, thumb hovering over send.

Then he presses it anyway.

The screen glows for a few seconds, message sent. Nick sets the phone down beside his plate and finally takes a bite — flaky, warm, heavy with butter and guilt.

---

The lunch rush hits before Charlie even has time to breathe. The line curls toward the door, cups stack high by the espresso machine, and the milk steamer hisses like it’s personally offended by the crowd.

He’s halfway through calling out a cappuccino when his phone buzzes in his apron pocket.

He doesn’t check it right away — just feels the vibration once, twice, then silence again.

By the time things slow enough for him to grab a sip of water, he pulls it out, thumb swiping across the screen.

Nick: Thanks for bringing this home, Char

Nick: Sorry I was a bit of an idiot last night

Charlie stares at the message a second longer than he should.

The photo’s attached — Nick at the kitchen table, hoodie rumpled, that stupidly endearing grin that’s half apology, half habit. The pie sits in front of him like a peace offering.

Something soft and sore stirs in Charlie’s chest.

Evan passes by just then, reaching for a tray. “You good?” he asks casually, nodding at Charlie’s phone.

Charlie locks the screen a little too fast. “Yeah. Fine. Just Nick.”

Evan hums, that knowing little grin tugging at his mouth. “Ahh. Your best mate?”

Charlie exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a defence. “Something like that.”

He grabs the next order slip, focusing on the espresso machine — measure, tamp, pour, swirl — the familiar rhythm grounding him.

But his thoughts won’t stay still. The guilt from last night, the silence, the message. Nick’s voice echoing from memory— Love you too.

When the queue finally thins, Charlie wipes his hands on a towel and opens his phone again.

The photo’s still there — Nick smiling, the steak pie front and centre, like nothing’s broken.

His thumb hovers for a long moment before he types.

Charlie: You’re forgiven

Charlie: Just… don’t make a habit of it, yeah?

He stares at the words, then adds another line — softer, but distant.

Charlie: I’ll see you later

He sends it, pockets the phone, and goes back to wiping the counter.

Outside, sunlight spills through the cafe windows, catching on the streaks of steam and sugar dust in the air.

Everything looks golden, but Charlie’s chest feels tight — like mending might take a bit more time.

---

Nick reads Charlie’s reply as he leans back on the couch, half-finished tea beside him.

He lets out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in his chest all morning. Forgiven — but not quite.

The words sit somewhere between relief and regret, a fragile truce he’s not sure how to keep from cracking.

He sets the phone face down, rubs at his temples. The flat is too quiet, the air still carrying the faint smell of reheated pastry.

He remembers promising that morning — “See you tonight,” just before Josh left the cafe — but now, even the idea of walking into a crowd feels heavier than it should.

He’s about to text Josh that he might skip when his phone buzzes.

Erin: hey you! free tonight? there’s a pride night thing at one of the student bars — rafa n mia are going too. wanna come?

Nick blinks at the message, thumb hovering. Part of him wants to say no — to stay here, hide, let the day pass quietly.

But another part of him, the one that hates sitting still with his thoughts, pushes back.

He stares at the screen for a few seconds longer before typing—

Nick: yeah. sure. see you there then

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

For a moment, he stares at the message thread— Erin’s cheerful bubbles and his too-simple reply; then locks the phone and leans back again.

He tells himself it’ll be fine. It’s just one night. Just friends, drinks, noise. Nothing complicated.

Still, he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s walking straight into something he isn’t ready for.

Only Charlie and Josh know — one from last week, one from last night — and even saying the words aloud still feels new, fragile, like handling something that might break if he’s not careful.

He’d gone to the Pride mixer on his first day, but that was different — anonymous, safe in the noise.

Tonight feels personal. Exposed. Like stepping into a space that already knows who he is, when he’s still learning it himself.

The silence in the flat starts to crawl under his skin, so Nick changes into his workout clothes — navy tee, black shorts, trainers — and grabs his water bottle.

If he can’t stop thinking, maybe he can tire himself out instead.

---

The campus gym hums with Saturday energy — weights clanking, treadmills thudding, the low buzz of music from overhead speakers.

He spots a few familiar faces from rugby — Liam spotting Lewis on the bench press, someone laughing too loud near the dumbbell rack — but he doesn’t stop to say hi.

Earbuds in. Volume up. World off.

He starts with warm-ups — stretches, slow breathing, a few laps on the treadmill. Then squats. Deadlifts. Shoulder presses.

Anything that burns.

Anything that keeps his body too busy to think.The ache in his muscles becomes a rhythm, a dull comfort.

Between sets, his thoughts flicker anyway — Charlie’s flat tone this morning, Josh’s advice echoing from last night, Erin’s text, the image of Rafael’s arm across his shoulders. He shakes his head, lifts heavier, pushes harder.

Sweat drips into his collar, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He tells himself this helps.

That if he just keeps moving, maybe everything else will quiet down too.

---

By the time the cafe clock hits four, Charlie’s hands smell faintly of caramel syrup and dish soap.

The post-lunch rush has slowed to a lull; sunlight glints off the espresso machine as he unties his apron.

Evan wipes down the counter beside him, grin lazy. “You heading out?”

“Yeah. Shift’s up.”

“Good.” Evan leans an elbow against the machine, voice casual but coaxing.

“Tell you what — I finish at six. Give me a bit to go back, shower, change into something less coffee-stained, and then we can grab dinner. Maybe head to Pride Night after? My treat.”

Charlie hesitates, rolling the idea around like a coin in his palm. “Still not sure if I’m going.”

Evan’s grin tilts wider, equal parts charm and challenge.

“Come on. You said you’d let me convince you. Consider this my final argument — good food, decent music, and me in a clean shirt. What’s not to love?”

Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Flattery noted,” Evan says, already turning back to the milk steamer. “So — I’ll text you after I change?”

“Sure,” Charlie says, trying not to smile as he slings his tote over his shoulder.

---

Back at the dorm, the quiet hits first.

No music, no laughter. Just the distant hum of the city and the faint tick of the kitchen clock.

Charlie drops his tote on the chair, kicks off his shoes, and changes into something comfortable.

He makes a cup of tea, shuts his door a little harder than he means to, and sits cross-legged on the bed, the novel he’s been reading waiting like an excuse.

A few chapters in, the words start to blur. His mind drifts — to Nick, to the unreadable look on his face that morning, to the reposted photo still haunting the back of his mind.

He exhales and shakes it off. Not my business. He’s allowed to have fun. He’s allowed to have a life that doesn’t orbit me.

He slips on his headphones, scrolling through his playlist until he finds something low and steady — quiet enough to read to, loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

The soft thrum fills his ears as he leans back, eyes scanning the same paragraph over and over.

At some point, he hears the front door click — faint through the music — followed by footsteps and the sound of a shower starting up. Nick.

Charlie’s chest tightens.

He turns a page he hasn’t read, pretending to focus, then quietly nudges the volume higher until the noise swallows everything else.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t.

---

When Nick finally stops, chest heaving, he catches his reflection in the gym mirror — flushed, tired, hair sticking up in every direction — and almost doesn’t recognise the version of himself staring back.

He exhales, pulls his earbuds out.

The noise of the world rushes back in — laughter, music, the clang of weights.

He grabs his towel, wiping sweat from his neck, and mutters under his breath,

“Better.” Even if he doesn’t quite believe it.

By the time he steps out of the gym, the light’s beginning to fade — pale and cold against the quiet buildings.

The air smells faintly of damp leaves, the kind of chill that seeps through his hoodie.

Somewhere across the quad, laughter echoes — distant, belonging to someone else.

His phone buzzes as he crosses the path.

Rafael: hey mate — heard you’re coming to the pride thing later 👀

Rafael: come by my dorm first? few of us are predrinking. erin’s bringing mia too

Nick slows, reading it twice. His thumb hovers. He should probably say no — shower, sleep, stay out of trouble.

But something in him, equal parts guilt and curiosity, pushes otherwise.

He types back before he can second-guess it.

Nick: yeah sure. what time?

Back at the flat, Nick kicks the door shut behind him and drops his gym bag by the wall.

The air inside is still — the faint hum of the fridge, the quiet tick of the clock.

It smells like pastry and coffee, and underneath it, that familiar trace of Charlie’s vanilla-coconut shampoo clinging faintly to the air.

By the door, Charlie’s shoes sit neatly side by side — the ones he wears to the cafe. He must’ve just gotten back.

Nick glances toward Charlie’s room. The door is closed, the strip of light at the bottom faint and unmoving. He’s probably resting, Nick tells himself. Let him be.

He heads to the kitchen, fills a glass of water, and spots the empty brown paper bag on the counter — folded neatly from lunch. He stares at it for a long second before dropping it gently into the bin.

“Thanks for that, Char,” he murmurs under his breath, like maybe the air can carry it through the closed door, to wherever Charlie is on the other side.

The silence that settles after feels thick, almost tangible — the kind that presses against his chest until he can’t quite breathe right.

He showers quickly, the hot water loosening the ache in his shoulders but not much else. By the time he’s dressed — black jeans, grey tee, light jacket — the sun’s starting to dip.

He checks his phone: [no new messages]

His gaze lingers on the pair of shoes by the mat — Charlie’s. Still here, then. Still in his room.

Nick hesitates. He glances at Charlie’s closed door, the faint light spilling from underneath.

For a moment, he debates leaving it. Then he lifts his hand and knocks, soft at first.

No answer.

He tries again. Still nothing. Maybe Charlie’s asleep. Or tired. Or… ignoring him altogether.

Nick stands there for a few seconds longer, then steps back, exhaling quietly. “Let him rest,” he mutters.

His phone buzzes — a new message from Rafael.

Rafael: predrinks starting soon 🍻 bring your charming self

Nick huffs a quiet laugh, typing a quick reply.

Nick: on my way

He grabs his jacket, runs a hand through his still-damp hair, and heads out.

The corridor hums with faint music from other flats, the city’s weekend pulse already alive outside.

He doesn’t know if this is a good idea.

He just knows staying in would feel worse.

---

Charlie is finally dressed for Pride Night— soft green T-shirt, worn-in jeans, jacket shrugged over his shoulders — Charlie steps out of his room and pauses.

There it is. A faint scent lingering in the hallway — clean soap, Nick’s aftershave.

He glances toward the kitchen, the bathroom, the front door. Empty.

No sound, no movement. Just that scent clinging to the air like memory, fading with every breath.

He stops mid-step, eyes fixed on Nick's closed door. His throat tightens with everything they haven’t said yet.

For a moment, he lets it sit. The weight of it. The wanting.

Then he exhales, adjusts his jacket, and walks out of the dorm before he starts caring all over again.

---

Nick knocks, and the door swings open almost instantly.

Erin and Mia stand at the threshold, music already pulsing faintly from inside.

Erin’s hair is loose tonight, the soft curls catching the light; Mia’s in jeans and a denim jacket with a small Pride-flag pin on the lapel.

“Hey, you made it,” Erin says brightly, stepping aside so he can come in.

Mia gives a small wave, her expression easy but observant — not shy, just knowing. “Hey, Nick.”

“Hey,” he says back, managing a small smile as he steps inside.

“Rafael’s mixing drinks,” Erin adds, closing the door behind him. “Josh and Will are in the kitchen, still arguing about whether philosophy counts as a real science.”

Nick laughs softly. “That sounds about right. How are you feeling after last night?”

Erin laughs. “Mildly alive. You?”

“Same,” Nick says, and something about the way she laughs again — easy, unbothered — makes the tightness in his chest loosen a little.

The flat smells like cheap rum and pizza — the kind that’s half celebration, half chaos.

The overhead light flickers softly against the beige walls, and music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

Rafael’s behind the kitchen island, pouring something bright blue into mismatched glasses while Will sits cross-legged on the counter beside him, grinning.

Josh spots Nick first and waves him over.

“Nelson!” Rafael calls out, voice warm and loud over the music. “There he is! Was starting to think you ditched us for leg day.”

Nick laughs, shaking his head as he toes off his trainers by the door. “Not a chance.”

“Good,” Rafael says, sliding a drink across the counter toward him. “Grab a glass, golden boy — we’re toasting to surviving our first week of questionable life choices.”

Nick obeys, letting the room’s warmth swallow him. He’s surrounded by laughter, overlapping conversations, the thrum of bass through the floorboards.

For a while, it’s easy — the laughter, the noise, the drinks that taste too sweet.

Erin drifts toward him again, teasing him about his cautious sip. “You drink like someone checking for poison,” she says, bumping his shoulder.

Nick laughs, relaxing into it. He focuses on her — on her grin, her perfume, the way her fingers curl around her glass — anything to block out the rest.

He tells himself it’s just fun. Just easy.

In the background, Erin and Rafael are debating over the playlist— something about whether the current song qualifies as a classic or a crime.

She’s grinning, animated, gesturing with her drink; he’s leaning in, countering every point with that effortless charm of his.

Will’s stealing ice from Josh’s glass, someone’s shouting about ordering chips later.

The world spins around them — bright, dizzy, alive.

Nick just listens, laughs, and lets himself be pulled into the noise — eyes fixed on Erin’s smile, chasing the relief of not feeling so heavy.

---

Charlie steps out of the dorm building, phone buzzing in his hand.

Charlie: so where are we meeting?

Evan: the square?

He looks up just in time to see Evan cutting across the courtyard toward him— hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed from the wind, grin easy and disarming.

Of course he looks annoyingly good even in a simple white tee and dark jeans.

Charlie feels a small flutter in his chest and immediately tries to bury it. “Hey, stranger,” he says lightly, stuffing his phone away. “Didn’t think baristas were allowed to look this put-together off-shift.”

Evan laughs, falling into step beside him. “Trade secret. It’s all about confidence and caffeine.”

“Dangerous combo,” Charlie teases. “So where do you live, Mr. Confidence?”

“Over at Maple Court,” Evan says. “You?”

“Elm Building. So we’re basically neighbours.”

Evan grins. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing you around a lot more.”

They head toward the small restaurant tucked near the corner of the student square — cheap, loud, and always smelling like soy sauce and frying oil.

The kind of place you can eat for under ten quid and still tip.

Dinner is easy. Laughter comes naturally, and the conversation drifts between uni chaos, cafe stories, and random bits about home.

Evan’s jokes land smooth as ever, and Charlie finds himself matching the energy before he even realises it.

At one point, Charlie leans back, amused and a little flustered. “How are you so smooth all the time? Is that, like, a trained skill?”

Evan smirks. “You think I’m smooth?”

Charlie snorts. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” Evan tilts his head. “And for the record, you’re one to talk. You’ve got that quiet charm thing going. I’ve seen how people look at you in the cafe.”

Charlie blinks, caught off guard. “What—?”

“I’m serious,” Evan says, still smiling. “Keep it up and you’ll be collecting phone numbers on napkins by mid-semester.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, cheeks warm despite himself. “Sure, right after I learn how to make latte art that doesn’t look like a jellyfish.”

Evan laughs — loud, open, genuine — and the sound carries easily through the chatter of the restaurant.

For a while, it’s just that—two people laughing, flirting, and letting the night stretch comfortably ahead of them.

When they step out of the restaurant, the air is cooler, the kind that smells faintly of rain even though the sky’s clear.

Charlie tugs at his jacket, trying not to think too much about the tiny spark that had lingered through dinner.

Evan walks beside him, talking animatedly about a customer who once asked if oat milk came from oats with udders.

Charlie laughs, bumping his shoulder lightly against Evan’s as they make their way toward the bar.

By the time they arrive, the Pride Night crowd is already spilling out onto the pavement — a tide of chatter, music, and bass that thrums through the floorboards.

Rainbow flags drape across the doorway, and the windows glow with shifting colour from the lights inside.

The moment they step in, the noise wraps around them — voices overlapping, glasses clinking, the faint scent of cheap beer and citrusy perfume hanging in the air.

Someone’s painted a huge mural across the back wall — bold strokes of pink, blue, and gold — and there’s a small stage in the corner where a duo is tuning their guitars.

Evan leans close so Charlie can hear him over the music. “See? Not too bad, right?”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You undersold it. It’s… actually kind of brilliant.”

Evan grins. “Told you.”

They weave their way to the bar, squeezing between students in glitter and denim, a few with tiny flags tucked behind their ears.

The bartender flashes them a quick grin as Evan orders two drinks — something colourful and vaguely fruity — before turning back to Charlie.

“You sure you’re okay being here?” Evan asks, tone gentle now beneath the noise.

Charlie hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I think so.”

The drinks arrive — condensation beading down the sides of the plastic cups — and Charlie takes a sip.

It’s sweet and strong and a little too easy to keep drinking.

Evan tilts his head, still smiling. “Not terrible, right? I promise I know what I’m doing.”

Charlie smirks. “Dangerously drinkable.”

“Good,” Evan says, eyes gleaming. “Then we’ll stay for a bit. Dance later. Just promise not to judge my moves.”

Charlie laughs, shaking his head. “No promises.”

They find a spot near the back, where the crowd thins just enough to breathe.

From here, the lights sweep across faces in slow waves — blue to gold to red — and for a moment, Charlie lets himself relax.

He’s not thinking about the misunderstanding, or the slow drift that’s been tugging at the edges of what used to be easy between them.

He’s not thinking about how every laugh lately feels a little rehearsed, or how quiet their dorm’s been since Friday.

He’s just here — warm, slightly buzzed, the music pulsing through his chest — beside someone who makes him feel wanted, at least for now.

He lets Evan guide him through the crowd — the space a blur of noise, colour, and motion.

The low lights shift from magenta to gold, glinting off sequins and pint glasses.

Evan’s hand rests at the small of his back, gentle but sure, steering him through clusters of people laughing, dancing, shouting greetings across the bar.

Charlie’s aware of the touch — the warmth of it — in a way that feels almost grounding.

They stop to say hi to familiar faces— Hannah and Ryan from the cafe, already tipsy and giggling by the bar; a couple of regulars who recognise Charlie and raise their glasses in greeting; even a few from book club, waving from a table piled high with half-empty cocktails.

Evan leans in close to say something — Charlie catches only the low hum of his voice, the smell of citrus and aftershave — when movement near the entrance catches his eye.

He glances over.

Mia. Bright smile, waving enthusiastically from across the room.

Charlie waves back — instinctive, warm — until his gaze follows hers.

Next to Mia stands Erin, laughing at something. And beside Erin—

Nick.

For a split second, everything stills — the lights, the crowd, even the music feels like it drops away.

Nick’s hand is in Erin’s. They’re weaving their way through the throng, laughing at some shared joke, her fingers curled loosely around his.

It’s innocent. Probably nothing. But the sight lands hard — a jolt of disbelief that settles into something quieter, heavier. Like being left out of something you used to belong to.

Charlie’s stomach twists.

Nick and Charlie used to arrive at things together. Share the same jokes. Stick close in new spaces like they were tethered.

But now Nick’s there, smiling with his new friends, and Charlie’s here at the same party — with Evan — trying to pretend it doesn’t feel like they’re living separate lives.

Best friends. That’s what they are. What they’ve always been.

So why does it feel like something’s slipping?

Charlie glances at their hands again — Nick’s and Erin’s — and for a breathless, stupid second, he imagines it’s his.

Him, walking in beside Nick. Their fingers laced, their closeness easy. Obvious.

But it isn’t.

Evan says something again — a question, maybe — and Charlie startles, blinking hard.

“Sorry, what?” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach.

Evan just grins, unaware, his hand steady at Charlie’s back.

Charlie nods automatically, throat dry. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just Nick. It’s just Erin. They might be going out. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m with Evan.

But as the crowd swells between them — Nick half-lost in the light and noise — the echo in Charlie’s chest stays, that same ache he keeps pretending not to feel.

---

The Pride Night is louder than Nick expects — laughter spilling out the door, the bass thudding through the pavement before he even steps inside.

He’s already warm from the pre-drinks at Rafael’s flat, the echo of easy laughter and neon cocktails still humming faintly in his head.

He didn’t plan on holding Erin’s hand.

It just sort of happened — a practical thing at first, threading through the crush of bodies in the narrow doorway, her fingers catching his so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crowd.

But now, under the coloured lights and the steady pulse of music, it feels… noticeable. Like everyone can see it.

They weave in together, Erin laughing as she ducks around a tall guy wearing a glitter cape.

She gives his hand a squeeze before letting go, waving to someone near the bar. Nick’s heart’s still thudding a little too fast — from the noise, the lights, or maybe just from how disoriented the whole thing feels.

He spots Rob first — drink in hand, mid-laugh with Lena and Callum, the latter already halfway to being drunk. Rob raises his glass. “Nelson! You made it!”

“Yeah, figured I’d make an appearance,” Nick says, voice light, hiding the weight behind it.

There’s a rush of greetings, claps on the shoulder, quick introductions to people whose names he immediately forgets.

The smell of sweat, cheap beer, and perfume tangles in the air, and for a few minutes he lets himself get swept up in it — the noise, the warmth, the dizzy hum of belonging.

Then he glances across the room.

At first, it’s just a flash of light catching on curls. Then the shape comes into focus.

Charlie.

For a second, Nick forgets to breathe.

He’s not alone. Evan’s beside him — laughing, close, a hand resting low at the small of Charlie’s back.

He leans in to say something near Charlie’s ear, too close for the noise to let anyone else hear.

Nick’s chest tightens, a small, involuntary sound catching in his throat. “Oh.”

It’s stupid — it’s fine — of course Evan’s here, and of course Charlie’s with him. Still, something about it stings.

Erin tugs gently at his sleeve, asking if he wants to grab a drink, but Nick barely catches her words.

His eyes flick back to Charlie just as Charlie looks up — and for one dizzy heartbeat, they lock eyes.

Neither of them moves.

The lights sweep across the room again — pink, gold, blue — and suddenly, they’re both smiling, too tight, too polite.

When they finally end up face-to-face — somewhere near the bar, caught in the slow drift of people and music — it’s almost accidental.

“Hey,” Nick says first, voice too light, too casual. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Charlie’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you’d bring company.”

Nick blinks, caught. “Oh. Yeah. Just… came with Erin and a few of the others.”

Evan slides an arm lightly around Charlie’s waist then — just for a moment, brief but steady — and something in Nick’s chest folds in on itself.

“Looks like a good turnout,” Nick says lamely, forcing a grin.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “It’s… loud.”

There’s too much space between them, and yet it feels like the whole world’s watching.

Erin drifts back to Nick’s side, drink in hand, smiling when she spots Charlie. “Hey, Charlie! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Charlie’s smile is polite, guarded. “Yeah. Evan convinced me.”

Evan laughs softly beside him. “Took some persuasion.”

Nick forces a chuckle that feels too stiff. “Sounds about right.”

For a moment, the four of them just stand there — the music pulsing around them, conversation dipping awkwardly between noise and silence.

Erin sips her drink, glancing between them. “Well, I’m glad you came. Feels like half the uni’s here tonight.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, tone even. “Quite the crowd.”

Nick nods, his throat dry. “Yeah.”

It’s not hostility. Not quite distance, either. Just a strange, quiet space — filled with everything they both pretend not to notice— the way Evan’s hand still rests at the small of Charlie’s back, the faint trace of Erin’s perfume on Nick’s sleeve, the look that neither of them quite holds long enough.

It’s loud — laughter and bass vibrating through the floorboards — when Josh spots them from across the room.

“Nick!” he calls, weaving through the crowd with his arm looped around Will’s waist. “There you are!”

Nick grins automatically, relief flickering through him at the sight. “Hey, mate!”

Josh’s eyes brighten when he notices Charlie. “You must be Charlie!” he says, cheerful and unfiltered. “Nick told me about you — we’re on the rugby team together. This is my boyfriend, Will.”

Charlie blinks at the sudden enthusiasm, but recovers quickly, smiling. “Oh, hi. Nice to meet you both.”

“Likewise,” Will says warmly, squeezing Josh’s hand.

Nick laughs, a little too fast. “Yeah, small world.”

And then— as if summoned by the tension — Rafael appears at Nick’s shoulder, grinning. “There you are, Nelson. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Charlie straightens almost imperceptibly, offering a polite nod. “Rafael.”

“Charlie,” Rafael replies easily, all honeyed charm. “Heard plenty about you.”

“I’m sure you have,” Charlie says lightly, though his throat feels tight.

The air between them shifts — not cold, but charged, taut.

Nick fumbles for neutral ground. “So, uh— you’ve met now. Great.”

Evan and Erin, sensing the strange energy, exchange a glance. Erin catches Evan’s sleeve with a grin. “Come on, dance floor?”

Before they move, she glances back toward Rafael. “Rafa? You joining us?”

Rafael smiles, slow and easy. “Tempting,” he says, eyes glinting, "but I think I’ll sit this one out. I make better company off the dance floor anyway.”

Erin laughs, shaking her head as she lets Evan pull her into the crowd.

They disappear into the press of people and flashing lights, leaving Nick, Charlie, and Rafael standing together — two curly-haired boys and one disaster of a heartbeat trying to pretend everything’s normal.

Rafael, ever the social one, leans on the counter beside them. “So,” he says, grin lazy, “how long have you two known each other?”

Nick’s throat feels tight. “Since secondary school.”

“Ah,” Rafael nods, sipping his drink. “That explains the psychic connection thing. You finish each other’s sentences, yeah?”

Charlie laughs politely — short, small, not quite reaching his eyes. “Something like that.”

Rafael grins wider, mischief glinting. “I swear, I thought I saw you two at the Pride mixer last week,” he says, half-shouting over the music.

“Didn’t get to say hi though. You kind of stood out — thought you two were—” He breaks off, chuckling. “I mean, all that best-friend telepathy or whatever.”

Nick forces a smile. “Yeah, we get that a lot.”

For a while, they try — awkward small talk about classes, campus food, and how terrifying the library queues are.

Charlie asks polite questions. Rafael answers with his usual flirt-with-everyone ease, leaning close to make himself heard over the noise.

He launches into a story about one of the student ambassador tours from earlier in the week — a group of parents who got lost and somehow ended up in the chemistry labs instead of the visitor centre.

Charlie laughs at the mental image, quick and bright. “That’s— wow. Tragic and impressive.”

Rafael chuckles. “They were so serious about it, too. One of them tried to take notes.”

Nick smiles, but it catches somewhere in his chest. Charlie’s laugh — that easy, unguarded sound — hits like a spark in his ribs. He shouldn’t feel it. But he does.

Rafael glances between them, clearly enjoying himself. “See? You do laugh.”

“Sometimes,” Charlie says, smiling into his drink.

Nick swallows, gaze flicking instinctively toward the dance floor.

He spots Erin somewhere in the crowd, laughing with Mia and a few others, her hair catching the light.

She looks carefree, radiant — exactly the kind of distraction he’s been searching for all night.

When he looks back, Charlie’s scanning the same crowd — and Nick doesn’t miss the way his eyes catch on Evan, moving easily through the people, a hand brushing someone’s shoulder as he passes.

There’s something in Charlie’s expression then — thoughtful, distant — like he’s trying to anchor himself to anything that isn’t this.

They’re both looking for distractions, different faces to fill the same quiet ache.

Their eyes meet for half a second. Neither says a word.

The silence grows heavy again, too full of all the things they’re not saying.

Rafael, ever the peacekeeper, lifts a shot glass filled with something amber and sweet-smelling. “To surviving Week One,” he declares, grin crooked. “Barely, but surviving.”

Nick forces a small smile, raising his own. The rum burns sharp against his throat, warm and bitter all at once — fitting, somehow. “Yeah. Surviving.”

Charlie hesitates a beat before lifting his glass too, his smile thin but polite. “Barely.”

The three of them drink, and for a few long moments the only sound between them is the thrum of bass and the quiet crackle of unspoken things — laughter from somewhere behind them, a glass clinking too loudly, the air tasting faintly of lime and smoke.

The rum hits hard, steadying and unsteadying all at once.

And that’s when it happens.

A familiar voice — one of the senior players, half-drunk and grinning — calls out across the room.

“Oi, Nelson!”

Nick turns. The guy — Bailey, maybe? Benedict? — wobbles slightly, pointing at them with his pint.

“Is that your boyfriend then, Nick?”

He pauses, eyes flicking between Charlie and Rafael, grin widening. “You clearly have a type!”

Laughter ripples nearby — harmless, oblivious — but Nick freezes.

His pulse spikes. His brain scrambles.

He laughs too loudly, waving a hand as if to bat it away. “What? No — it’s not like that. Charlie’s just my mate.”

He keeps going, tripping over the words—

“We’ve known each other forever. He’s basically family.”

He means it as a shield, something easy to defuse the moment — but it lands like a door slamming shut.

Charlie goes very still.

No smile this time — just a flicker in his eyes, something small and quiet breaking.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah. Right. Think I’m gonna go.”

Rafael clears his throat, lowering his voice. “Ignore that guy, Nick — he’s had one too many,” he says, trying to smooth it over.

But Nick’s gaze is already fixed on Charlie, who’s turning away, eyes on the crowd.

Evan spots him instantly, drink in hand.

Charlie lifts a hand, half a wave, half a plea. “Let’s get out of here?”

Evan’s brows lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t look back.

Nick watches him leave — the lights, the crowd, the sound of a hundred different voices blurring into static — and feels the words just my mate rattle inside his chest like something that can’t ever be unsaid.

The room feels louder now — laughter, music, the press of bodies.

Nick’s head spins, not entirely from the alcohol. His words from earlier echo like static.

He’s basically family.

God, what a stupid thing to say.

Erin reappears at his side, bright and unbothered, Rafael close behind her with another drink in hand. Nick forces a smile. “I’ll be right back,” he tells them, voice rough.

Rafael eyes him for a moment, brow creasing. “You good?”

Nick forces a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Yeah. Just— need some air.”

He pushes through the crowd, eyes darting from face to face.

He catches flashes of curls that might be Charlie, someone’s jacket that looks too familiar — but every time, it isn’t him.

The music pounds in his chest, each beat tightening the knot in his stomach.

That came out wrong.

Charlie’s not just his mate.

He’s— more than that. Much more.

And Nick needs to fix it. Now.

But he can’t find him.

Not at the bar, not near the tables, not anywhere.

The crowd keeps moving — laughter, music, bodies brushing past.

The bass hums through the floor, glasses clink, someone’s shouting for another round — and somehow it all feels miles away.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Charlie: won’t be back at the dorm tonight

Nick stares at the message, the words blurring in the haze. His chest feels too tight, his throat too dry to swallow.

For a second, he thinks about calling. Typing wait or please or can we talk—

But his fingers don’t move.

Because right here, surrounded by noise and light and people who don’t notice a thing, he finally feels it —

the quiet truth settling heavy in his chest.

Charlie’s already gone.

---

The night air hits cool and sharp as they step outside.

Evan’s hand brushes his arm. “You okay? We kind of left in a rush.”

Charlie exhales, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… think I’ve had enough to drink. It’s too crowded in there.”

Evan hesitates. “You sure? Because Nick seemed—”

“He’ll be fine,” Charlie cuts in too fast. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like that, but the words are already out.

He looks at Evan then — steady, deliberate. “Change of scenery’s good. Take me to your dorm. I think I just… wanna spend time with you instead. Alone. If that’s okay?”

Evan studies him for a moment — long enough for the noise around them to fade a little. His expression softens, not questioning, not prying — just quiet acceptance.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Charlie pulls out his phone, thumbs hovering for a second — long enough to feel the hesitation, not long enough to stop it — before he hits send.

The screen goes dark as he pockets it, not looking back.

Beside him, Evan says something light about a late-night cafe nearby, maybe grabbing snacks after.

Charlie hums in response, barely hearing it, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.

He doesn’t care where they’re going — as long as it’s away from here, away from Nick.

Away from the sound of his voice saying just my mate.

He tells himself he just needs a distraction — something to quiet the ache, to stop the spin in his head.

Anything to make the pain go away.