Free

Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

Charlie

Watching Nick in the kitchen is more tantalizing than I expected. The man is pure art, a sculpture in motion—broad shoulders filling out his shirt, strong forearms flexing as he flips steaks in a pan. His new shaggy hair frames his chiseled features, softening the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jawline. And for the first time in a long while, he seems… lighter. Unburdened, if only for the moment.

The smell of sizzling butter, rosemary, and garlic fills the space, mixing with the faintest hint of his cologne. I swirl my wine glass, trying not to openly gawk at the way his shirt pulls across his back and shoulders as he moves.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Nick says, turning from the stove, spatula in hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked for anyone.”

“Yeah?” I lift an eyebrow, glancing at the candles flickering softly on the counter and the bottle of wine he opened earlier. “You don’t look rusty. You look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

He grins, sending the disarray of his hair into something even more swoon-worthy. “I’ll let you in on a secret: this is the first time I’ve cooked for anyone. Ever.”

I gape at him. “ Ever? ”

“Ever,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “First time for everything, right?”

“Well, I’m honored to be the test subject,” I tease, smiling as I lean into the counter.

His expression shifts, softens. The humor fades just enough for something else to flicker there—something deeper. “No, Charlie. The honor is mine.”

I duck my head, warmth blooming across my cheeks, pretending to examine my wine glass.

“Wow,” Nick mutters, threading a hand through his hair. “That was cheesy. Let’s forget I said that.”

“Can’t,” I shoot back, smirking. “Won’t. I’m gobbling up the cheese.”

Nick looks at me for a long second, his mouth tugging into a reluctant grin before he turns back to the stove.

Dinner is perfect. Steaks seared to perfection, tender and buttery, paired with baked potatoes and a salad. It’s simple, unfussy—so very Nick. We eat at his small dining table, and conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and teasing, the wine flowing just enough to warm my blood and ease my nerves.

It strikes me how little time we’ve actually spent face-to-face. So much of our history is long-distance—texts, letters, calls, brief moments stolen during Hutton family gatherings. It always felt impossible to build something real, so we didn’t. Didn’t take the risk. Didn’t put in the effort. But tonight? There’s time. Time to just… be.

When dinner’s done, Nick pulls me to the couch with a glass of wine in hand, dropping onto the cushions with a satisfied sigh. He lifts his arm, an invitation I don’t even hesitate to accept. I curl into him, my head resting on his chest as his arm wraps around me, steady and strong.

The movie he puts on quickly becomes background noise. I can hear his heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of his breathing, and something inside me softens. For all the push and pull between us, this—being in his arms—has always felt right.

“You comfortable?” he murmurs, his voice low and warm against my hair.

I hum in response, resting my head against his chest. “More than.”

We stay like that, the movie rolling on in the background, until I feel Nick shift slightly beneath me. His hand slides down my arm, his fingers tracing a soft line to my wrist before his touch stills. When I glance up, his eyes are already on me, darker now, intense and searching.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves. There’s just the hum of the TV, the faint scent of dinner still clinging to his skin, and the weight of everything unspoken hanging between us.

Nick lifts a hand, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re so beautiful, Charlie.”

His voice is a whisper, rough at the edges, and it makes my breath catch.

I don’t know who moves first—if it’s me, if it’s him—but suddenly, his lips are on mine, soft and searching. The kiss is slow at first, tentative, still testing the waters, still not sure we can trust this is real, but then he tilts my chin and deepens it. His hand slides into my hair, his thumb brushing along my jaw as his mouth moves against mine, and it’s everything.

When we finally pull apart, breathless, Nick rests his forehead against mine, his hand still tangled in my hair.

“I’m a pretty big fan of kissing you,” he murmurs, his voice so low I almost don’t hear it.

“Ditto,” I whisper back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

For a few seconds, we just sit there—foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding, neither of us ready to break the moment.

Then, as if sensing that we’re on the edge of something fragile, Nick leans back, his arm slipping back around me. “I don’t want to rush this,” he says softly, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t want more of that.”

A blush flares across my cheeks, and I drop my head against his chest with a laugh. “Smooth, Hutton. Real smooth.”

“I aim to impress.”

We settle back against the couch, his arm wrapping around me tighter this time. I don’t know how much time passes—minutes, hours—but at some point, Nick dozes off.

His breathing changes first. It deepens, slows. I smile to myself, carefully sliding out from under his arm to study him. In sleep, Nick is softer. His brow smooths out, his jaw unclenches. There’s no weight pulling him down, no ghosts haunting his eyes. He looks like the man I used to know—the man I fell in love with.

But then his breathing changes.

At first, it’s subtle. A twitch in his jaw. A faint crease between his brows. But it escalates quickly.

His fingers curl into fists. His chest rises and falls faster.

“No…” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and desperate. “No, don’t?—”

The change is so sudden it’s jarring. I sit up, panic tightening in my chest as Nick’s head jerks to the side, a low groan slipping from his throat. His whole body tenses, like he’s bracing for something. Fighting something.

Oh, God. Nick.

I reach out instinctively, my hand hovering over his arm, before I remember what he said that day in the truck and pull back.

“Nick,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Nick, wake up.”

He flinches violently, his eyes snapping open, wild and unfocused.

“Nick, it’s me.” I keep my voice low and calm, my heart thundering in my chest. “It’s okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”

It takes a moment—long enough that my throat tightens with worry—but recognition finally bleeds into his gaze. His chest heaves as he scrubs a trembling hand over his face.

“Sorry,” he rasps, his voice raw. “Bad dream.”

“It looked more than bad,” I say quietly, my heart breaking as I watch him sit forward, elbows on his knees. Sunshine stirs at our feet, sensing something’s wrong, and she pads over to rest her head on his lap. Nick strokes her absently, his hand still shaking.

“Does that happen a lot?” I ask softly.

He nods once, his shoulders rising and falling with a slow, heavy breath. “Used to be worse. It’s better now. Or… it was.”

I hesitate, then rest my hand gently on his knee. “Nick, how can you heal when you’re not even sleeping?”

“I’m fine, Charlie,” he says reflexively. But then he stops. His shoulders sag, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Or… I guess I’m trying to be.”

There it is. Honesty. He doesn’t try to push me away this time, and that feels like progress.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say, my voice soft.

Nick looks down at my hand on his knee, then back up at me. Something shifts in his expression—something that feels like gratitude, like relief.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he murmurs.

“And I’m glad you didn’t have to go through it alone.”

He swallows hard, his jaw working as he nods slowly. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. But then he exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging as he nods. “Me too.”