Charlie
Two Months Later
The city’s skyline shimmers beyond the car’s tinted windows—towers of glass and steel glowing, their lights rippling across the dark surface of the bay. We drift through evening traffic, the engine’s low purr mingling with distant horns and the sounds of the city at night.
In the backseat, I curl against Niko’s side.
My sneakered foot rests on the edge of the plush leather seat; my fingers idly twist the pastel rainbow straps of my soft denim shortalls.
The fabric is worn-in and gentle against my skin, the tiny stitches of rainbow thread across the bib bright and cheerful, like confetti frozen in motion.
This outfit earned me a look when I came downstairs.
Not judgment—quite the opposite. His gaze had lingered, and I’d felt my cheeks heat with pleasure and pretended I hadn’t noticed.
My cropped white shirt leaves a narrow band of skin exposed at my waist, something I would have never worn in the past. Now, I feel desirable.
He stared for a full five seconds before clearing his throat, his voice carefully measured. “You look adorable.”
In Greek mafia—he swears it’s not the mafia—boss language, that translates to: I’m completely losing my mind.
Now he sits beside me in a charcoal suit whose fabric probably costs more than my first car did. The contrast between us is ludicrous—me, like a living marshmallow in soft pastels; him, like an executive poised for a board meeting. And somehow, we’re headed to the same destination.
My head finds its usual spot against his shoulder. His arm slides around me—automatic, effortless, familiar.
Home.
Two months ago, I thought I’d lost my home before even being able to tell Niko that I loved him.
My ribs no longer ache when I laugh, the bruises on my arms have faded, and the swelling over my nose subsided weeks ago. Only a faint tenderness remains if I bump it. Physically, I’m nearly myself again. Mentally… that’s a different journey. Healing isn’t linear in my mind.
Every Wednesday afternoon, a therapist arrives at the penthouse.
At first, I hated it—hated dredging up memories of the warehouse, hated the way harsh words made the past feel vivid.
But my therapist insists trauma doesn’t vanish when you lock it away; it simply waits.
It’s unfair, but she’s helped. Nightmares come less often now, though they still visit.
Sometimes I wake convinced I can taste stale cigarettes and vodka on my tongue.
Sometimes I wake half-hidden under the weight of tape around my wrists.
Sometimes I wake screaming. But every time, Nikolaus is there.
His arms circle me before I’m fully awake, his voice an anchor beneath the storm of my panic.
His heartbeat matches mine until the warehouse fades, the nightmare unravels, and the soft reality of linen sheets, his lips brushing my forehead, and Duckie lying between us, sets in.
My thumb glides over the friendship bracelet looped around my wrist. I haven’t taken it off. He hasn’t taken off his matching one. The beads click softly together whenever our hands brush. I like that sound—maybe more than makes sense. A smile tugs at my lips.
“What are you thinking about?” Nikolaus murmurs.
I tilt my head back against his shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Hmm. Little liar.”
I grin; the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Was it about me?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
“Mhm.”
I roll my eyes, and his expression softens. God, how I love him. The feeling no longer crashes over me like a tidal wave; it simply exists now, steady and true, as natural as breathing, as certain as knowing he’ll catch me whenever I fall.
A gentle buzz vibrates against my thigh—my phone. I pull it out and laugh before I even glance at the screen.
“What?” He leans forward to look, and I tilt it toward him. The caller ID reads: Mama Maria. His groan is immediate.
I answer anyway. “Hi, Maria.”
“My sweet boy!” Her voice is all theatrical delight. “Tell me your Daddy isn’t forcing you into something boring tonight.”
Yes, she knows.
And has been oddly normal about it.
Supportive of it, even.
I burst into laughter, and Nikolaus pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m literally sitting next to him,” I tell her. “But we’re going out tonight, so don’t worry.”
“Okaaaay,” she sings, utterly unapologetic. I hear her rearranging things on her end before she announces, “You will never believe what happened at lunch today.”
Nikolaus sighs.
I sink deeper into the seat and let Maria launch into a five-minute epic about three conniving women, two clandestine affairs, a gleaming yacht, and “absolutely criminal plastic surgery.” By the time I hang up, my sides ache from laughing.
“You encourage her,” Nikolaus accuses, folding his arms.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“She’s funny.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“She bought me a cat.”
His outrage is instant. “A cat that will not sit on me.”
I beam. “It’ll happen eventually, Daddy. He’s just scared of giant men with mean faces.”
He looks personally offended. I laugh again, the sound bright and easy in my chest—an honest, unforced happiness.
Outside, the city slides by in ribbons of color. We’re trying out a nearby kink club tonight. We might talk, meet new faces, or simply exist side by side in a bubble that feels ours entirely.
My hand finds his, and his fingers close over mine. The car turns a corner, and strings of neon lights come into view, painting his profile in electric hues.
I don’t feel like I’m waiting for life to start anymore.
I’m on a new treatment that seems to be helping with my symptoms, and I’ll be starting physical therapy to build strength next week.
I have a home.
A super fluffy cat.
Maria’s gossip calls twice a week.
People who care if I wake up in the morning.
And beside me, the man who brought me back from hell. I squeeze his hand, and he glances down.
“Everything all right, baby?”
I smile, more certain than ever. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Everything’s all right.”