Nikolaus #3
It shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be here alone, in a club filled with people whose only interest is to consume and discard anything with a pulse.
There’s something predatory about the whole environment—the way the members lounge around, searching, measuring, waiting for the next new body to pass through so they can tear it down to the bones.
It makes me sick how outmatched he is compared to the average guest. Anyone could walk in there and destroy all that sweetness in the span of a night.
The outrage is enough to make my hands shake.
I curl them into fists, pressing hard against my knees until the feeling recedes.
Time blurs, then snaps back into focus as Constantine returns. He drops into the chair beside me, less elegant than usual. His face is a little red, which means he’s either flustered or excited, or possibly both. He leans in, voice pitched so only I can hear.
“Well,” he says, “you’re going to like this.”
I don’t bother to look at him. “Tell me.”
“He’s single.”
My fingers twitch. I force myself to stay seated, though every cell in my body wants to get up, walk straight into that room, and take him by the hand.
“I won’t have to deal with a partner,” I say. “Good.”
“There’s more.” Constantine leans forward, conspiratorial. “He’s never played with anyone here. Not once.”
“Never?” The word is a little too loud. I catch myself, lower my voice. “Are you sure?”
“Lana at the desk says he comes in, says hello, goes directly to the nursery—doesn’t touch any of the other rooms—and stays there the entire night. When it’s over, he leaves. Doesn’t linger, doesn’t socialize. Nothing.”
I study the boy’s hands as he replaces blue with yellow, then back to blue, then pink.
“He doesn’t talk to anyone?” I ask.
“Not that she’s seen,” Constantine says. “I asked for his name, but all I got was ‘Charlie’. She wouldn’t give up a last name. Or any other info.”
Charlie.
The sound of it feels perfect in my mouth, like a taste I’ve waited a lifetime to recall. I whisper it again, quietly, savoring the syllables. Charlie. There’s a softness to it, all the edges sanded down. It fits him.
Inside the room, Charlie pauses with the crayon midair, as if even that small effort has drained him.
He flexes his fingers, then massages his wrist with his other hand.
The gesture is automatic and sad, the kind of movement you learn after years of ignoring discomfort because you’re sure no one else will notice or care.
I want to go in there, kneel at his side, and offer my hands to cradle his, to tell him he never has to hurt alone again.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I study every detail. The way he tucks his feet under him, the line of his neck as it bends, and the small furrow between his brows that appears when he’s concentrating.
He isn’t conventionally handsome, but he’s beautiful in a way that is both private and holy, as if his entire existence is a secret meant for only one person.
Me.
I have a vision, sudden and intense, of him kneeling at my feet, looking up with those impossibly sad eyes, waiting for orders. I could make it so easy for him. I could remove every decision, every uncertainty, and replace it with my own certainty.
I shift in my seat, the growing hardness in my pants making the chair uncomfortable. I cross my leg over my knee, masking the movement. Constantine is watching, amused, but he won’t tease me about it; he knows better.
I say, “He’s in pain.”
Constantine frowns, glancing through the glass. “You think?”
“He rubs his wrist every few seconds. Could be a past injury, or something chronic.”
“I can look into it,” Constantine offers, but I shake my head.
“Later,” I say. “For now, just… keep watching.”
There’s an ache in my chest, equal parts empathy and possessiveness.
I imagine what his life must be like, with the exhaustion etched into his bones.
Maybe he works a shit job, maybe he’s running from something worse.
It doesn’t matter. I want to take all of it from him, to scoop him up and give him a world made of softness and light and unconditional care.
He colors for a while, then stops. He gazes at the television, but he isn’t watching. He’s somewhere else, far away. I want to call to him, to draw him back and anchor him in place.
“Charlie,” I murmur again.
Constantine leans back, folds his arms, and gives me a sidelong look. “You’re fixated.”
“You’re surprised?” I retort, though my voice is softer than I intend.
He smirks. “I just didn’t think it would happen this quickly. You usually do a lot more due diligence.”
I think of all the screening processes, the weeks of texts, the awkward coffee dates, the careful negotiations, and checklists that have defined my romantic life until now.
It was all a means of building a wall, keeping myself safe from disappointment.
But this—this is different. I don’t need a checklist. I don’t need a background check.
I know, with the clarity of a revelation, that this is the one.
“Might I suggest you go in and try to talk to him?”
I nod, then stand, and just before my hand reaches the door handle, I tell Constantine, “Stay here. I don’t want anyone coming in.”