Nikolaus
I wake to the raw, ragged sound of Charlie’s sobs, the kind that aren’t gentle whimpers or the soft, muffled gasps he makes when nightmares linger at the edges of sleep.
This is crying—full-throated, heart-wrenching crying—and it jerks me from slumber so quickly that I’m sitting upright before I’m fully conscious.
My heart hammers against my sternum, every protective instinct in my body flaring to life.
“Charlie?” I whisper, voice hoarse in the darkness.
Charlie sits bolt upright at my side, shoulders trembling. For a dizzy moment, I fear he’s hurt himself—until a sharp, acidic tang slaps me awake.
Vomit.
My gaze drops to the sheets where a dark, soupy stain pools, a miserable ruin of bile and chunks of presumably his dinner against the crisp white linens. His shoulders shake in another broken sob.
“Oh, baby,” I murmur, voice soft as down. His whole frame quivers.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
I reach out, fingers brushing damp strands at the nape of his neck. His skin is coolish, clammy to the touch—no fever, but close enough to worry me. His eyes lift to mine, wide with self-loathing.
“I ruined everything,” he whispers, sounding absolutely devastated.
My chest physically hurts at the sight of him crumbling under guilt and humiliation, but I force a gentle smile. “You threw up, that’s all.” I brush a trembling hand over his cheek, feeling the slick remnants of sickness and salt-stung tears. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
Everything else—sheets, mattress, time—fades to insignificance. Charlie is all that matters.
I throw back the bedding and slide from the bed. “Can you stand?” I hold out an arm.
He nods, then sways. I catch him, his fingers clutching my forearm like a lifeline.
“Easy,” I say, sliding an arm around his waist and guiding him upright. His pajama sleeve is soiled, and I cringe at the sight of vomit matted into the fabric. His cheeks flush scarlet when he notices my gaze.
“Oh god,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I say gently. I steer him toward the bathroom, the light coming in from the bedroom windows a pale halo around us. “What happened?”
Charlie’s shoulders hitch. When we enter the bathroom, I flip on a light switch as he slides onto the closed toilet lid, voice trembling.
“I woke up with a migraine… I didn’t want to wake you.
” He twists his hands together, knuckles white.
“I tried to take a Tylenol, but the pill got stuck—like in my throat—and then I gagged, and… I couldn’t stop. ” Tears pool in his eyes again.
“Accidents happen,” I murmur, turning the faucet to a cool trickle and fetching a washcloth. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But I made a mess,” he says, voice small.
“You could set the entire penthouse on fire,” I reply, pressing the cloth to his cheek, “and I’d still be more worried about you than the furniture.”
A tiny, rusty laugh escapes him—a single spark of relief.
Once his face is clean, I tug his soiled pajama top over his head and toss it aside.
I soak a fresh cloth and wipe down his exposed skin—collarbone, shoulders, forearms, hands.
With each gentle stroke, his shoulders drop a little lower, the world feeling safer beneath my hands.
At last, his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
I press a soft kiss to his damp hair. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Charlie’s pupils dilate with alarm. “Niko—”
“I’m stripping the bed, not abandoning you,” I promise. Relief floods his features, and I can’t help but smile fondly.
Back in the bedroom, the destruction isn’t nearly as catastrophic as Charlie imagined. The mattress protector has done its job, and the sheets slide into a laundry bag with easy efficiency. I fire off a brief text to Marta telling her the bedding will need to be washed first thing in the morning.
Returning to the bathroom, I find Charlie still seated on the lid, shoulders drooped.
I hold out my hand. “Come on.”
He takes it without hesitation, leaning on me as I guide him out of the bedroom, down the hall to the nursery. Moonlight spills through the gauzy curtains as we enter, pooling silver on the floor.
Charlie’s pace slows, his head drooping with exhaustion. I pick up a footed sleeper from the drawer—soft cotton in a pale, comforting blue—and ease him into it, button by button. By the time I zip the front closed, his lashes are too heavy to lift.
“Sleepy?” I murmur.
He nods, blinking up at me with a trust so complete my chest aches.
The daybed creaks as I settle down, pulling Charlie down with me. He nestles in without hesitation, head resting beneath my chin, arms curling around my sides. I drape a blanket over us both and let a hush settle in the room.
Charlie shifts once, then tilts his head toward me, a silent plea shining in his tired eyes. I offer two fingers, and he sucks them right into his mouth, tension seeping out of his limbs. I stroke his hair, each pass a wordless promise.
You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing bad happened. Nothing bad will happen.
His breaths deepen, then even out. A soft sigh escapes him as sleep finally claims him, his body going slack in my arms, and the sucking rhythm of his mouth slowly fades away until he’s just barely suckling on my fingers every so often.
I close my own eyes, though the adrenaline rush will probably keep me up for at least another hour.
I listen to Charlie’s breathing and think about how tired he must be.
How brutal it must feel to breach the surface of a safe dream and find yourself smothered in acid shame, in someone else’s bed, in someone else’s arms. His body’s need to regress into comfort, to suck my fingers as if he were starving for safety, tells me more than anything he’s ever said aloud.
I let him keep them there—a simple, steady anchor.
I find that I like it, the small, wet pressure.
I feel, in some convoluted way, honored by his trust.
There’s still a faint sourness in the air, but I can’t bring myself to get up and chase it away.
I don’t want to risk waking him, don’t want to lose the fragile equilibrium I’ve coaxed out of all this brokenness.
I imagine the stain bleeding outward on the sheets in the dark room down the hall, and I think about how many times he must have cleaned up alone.
How often he’s curled around a garbage can or cold tile, rubbing his own forehead raw and shivering, apologizing to no one as if that would make it less humiliating.
I’d combed through his medical paperwork numerous times, but numbers on a page, even tragic ones, don’t prepare you for the hollow, desperate sound of someone crying in the dark.
Not like this.
When I next open my eyes, the nursery is lighter. I check the time—barely six—and start to extricate myself, but Charlie clamps down on my fingers, his teeth pressing until it almost hurts.
“Hey,” I whisper, my hand trapped by his jaw, thumb pressed just behind the hinge like I’m holding a wild animal still. “Charlie.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, but his grip relaxes, just enough for me to slide my fingers free. He instantly curls tighter, knees folding to his chest, fists balled beneath his chin. The sleeper bunches at his ankles, making him appear even smaller than he already is.
I tuck the blanket around his shoulders, careful not to startle him. I’m already thinking about what comes next—what he’ll need this morning to feel okay, to believe that this overnight incident hasn’t nullified the fragile trust we’ve built.
I get up as quietly as I can and shuffle down the hall back to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. The sourness is worse now, amplified by the morning light. I open a window and decide to take the lump of bedding down to the laundry room for Marta.
After dropping that off, I head to the kitchen to set about making breakfast for Charlie. Something bland and easy, that will hopefully sit well on his stomach.
I end up with a bowl of warm oatmeal, sprinkled with a dash of cinnamon and two spoonfuls of brown sugar. It’s probably too much sugar, but I’m sure my baby will appreciate it.
As I’m pouring a large glass of cold apple juice, the penthouse elevator beeps, and Elise walks in, nursing a cup of to-go coffee.
She’s halfway through a slurp when she catches sight of me with the oatmeal and freezes mid-step.
She just stands there in the entryway, her lanyard with its key card dangling from one finger, mouth parted in surprise.
She blinks, then blinks again. You’d think she’d found me naked on the marble island, not just putting together a simple breakfast.
“Morning, sir,” she says, her voice laced with confusion. “I didn’t expect to see you up this early.”
I glance at the oven clock, the red neon digits reading 06:08. Early, by most standards, but not for me; I’ve always been a morning person. If anything, she’s the one who’s early since her work day doesn’t start for another 22 minutes.
I offer a nod. “Good morning, Elise. I made oatmeal for Charlie. He had a rough night.”
Her brow furrows from empathy. “Is everything alright?”
I retrieve a tray from a cabinet and begin loading the small meal onto it.
“Yeah,” I answer. “He just got a little sick, so I want him to eat something that won’t bother his stomach. Our bedding needs to be laundered, which Marta is aware of. Could you let her know when she comes in that I’ve already brought it down?”
“Absolutely,” she says. Her eyes never quite leave the tray, as if the idea of me spooning brown sugar over oatmeal has created a cognitive jam in her morning circuits.
Not a single question about who made the mess or why.
Elise seems to realize she’s staring and makes a show of checking her phone, sidestepping me with a polite “Excuse me, sir,” as she journeys farther into the apartment.