Warm hands, warm hearts. A Heartstopper Cofeeshop AU.

Part 8: A crisis

Charlie

It was hard most days to eat around anyone.

My family, I was used to. Certain friends- larger groups sometimes on good days. But in moments that felt out of my control, unsure, like here with Nick... Those were more difficult.

But when I ask him if he's going to eat, too, and he pauses for a moment and looks at me, his eyes full with a question- then grabs himself food and sits with me. Eats even though I can tell he's not hungry.

Something unspoken shifts between us. An understanding. I finish my whole sandwich, the carrots too, and he finishes the bowl. I haven't felt like this in a long time after sharing a meal-still in control, and hungry.

But not for food. For closeness. To tell him how much it means to me that he helped me without explanation.

And when he touches my face, even just to wipe off the remnants of mustard, god it feels electric and somehow safe all at once. Like Nick touching me is both the most insane and yet natural thing in the world.

A paradox of sorts.

He washes our dishes, and it's hard not to stare. His arms are strong, muscles silhouetted beneath his shirt as he wipes the counter. The look of concentration of his face. I look at the painting at the wall so he doesn't notice my gaze- a beach scene, and now I'm imagining Nick and I at the beach instead. Salt in our hair, sand in our shoes, holding hands.

Kissing on the dock...

"Upstairs?" He asks, snapping me out of it.

Please. I want to say. I won't be a coward this time. I won't sit in the corner and watch the back of your head.

"Sounds good."

I'm not sure what comes over me as we make our way up the stairs. Maybe it's the thrill, the contentedness of feeling like this after eating. The care he showed me. But without thinking I fetch his laptop and settle into bed, head on a pillow that smells so much like him it nearly makes me dizzy.

Nick is in the doorway, mouth open slightly, a look on his face that I can't place.

Have I gone too far? Pushed him?

I pat the top of the mattress next to me, an invitation, and he takes it. The bed dips and squeaks slightly as he sits, slides down, our legs touching- faces inches apart. Once he's settled, I arch my neck back to look at him.

I want to kiss you, I want to say.

Instead, "shall we finish this?"

The film is playing now, propped up on my chest, but I'm not paying attention really. How could I? I can feel the warmth of his breath, see his chest rise and fall in my peripheral. It's so strange to be here, in his bed, when just the sight of him standing in the cafe last week made me feel winded.

Nick shifts after a few minutes, rolling his neck to the side like he's attempting to stretch, and then;

"Can we readjust?" He asks. My heart sinks a bit, a pit in my stomach. He's uncomfortable.