Chapter 112: Cracks
Chapter Thirteen
Cade
The problem with Charlie staying in my house is that he exists.
Constantly.
Everywhere.
All the time.
I discovered this Monday morning when I walked into the kitchen and found him already sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, his laptop open in front of him.
He’s frowning at the screen.
Not his usual playful frown either.
A real one.
Focused.
Serious.
His brows are drawn together, his green eyes scanning whatever data is displayed on the laptop, and for a moment, I just stand there in the doorway watching him.
Not because I’m staring.
Because I’m assessing.
There’s a difference.
Probably.
Charlie mutters something under his breath, taps a few keys, then leans back with a sigh like the laptop has personally insulted his bloodline.
I smile before I can stop myself.
The smile vanishes the second I realize what I’m doing.
Of course, that’s the exact moment Charlie looks up.
His mouth curves.
“There he is.”
I sigh and step fully into the kitchen. “What?”
“The smile.”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I wasn’t.”
Charlie points toward my face. “You’re doing it right now.”
I roll my eyes, but that only makes him grin wider, as if annoying me is an Olympic sport and he’s going for gold.
“What are you working on?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His expression brightens, and I regret asking.
Not because I don’t want to know.
Because I do.
That’s the problem.
Charlie turns the laptop slightly toward me. “Protein expression data. We’re testing a modified vector system at HelixPoint. It’s supposed to increase yield without destabilizing the protein structure, but this run is weird.”
I blink at the screen.
There are graphs.
Numbers.
Tables.
Things that probably make perfect sense to him.
I understand almost none of it.
Charlie seems to notice, because his grin softens into something less teasing.
“Basically,” he says, “the cells are producing the protein, but not consistently. If the pattern holds, it could mean the modification isn’t as stable under stress conditions as we thought.”
I lean against the counter despite myself.
“You sound like you know what you’re doing.”
His eyebrows lift. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was.”
“It was an observation.”
“An admiring observation?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He laughs softly and looks back at his laptop.
I turn toward the coffee maker, needing something to do with my hands.
The scent of coffee fills the kitchen.
Normally, that smell calms me.
Today, it barely has a chance.
Because beneath it is Charlie.
Storm over the ocean.
Rain hitting dark water.
Salt in the air.
Thunder rolling in the distance.
His scent is everywhere now.
It clings to the kitchen chair he’s claimed as his workspace.
To the blanket he used on the couch.
To the hallway outside the guest bathroom.
To the air itself, somehow.
My omega notices all of it.
Constantly.
The traitor.
I pour myself coffee and take a sip, burning my tongue in the process.
Wonderful.
“You okay?” Charlie asks.
I swallow through the pain. “Fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I drank hot coffee.”
“Coffee is usually hot.”
I turn and give him a flat look.
He smiles like he’s delighted to have received it.
The man is impossible.
Jordan wanders in a few moments later, still half asleep, hair sticking up, shirt wrinkled, looking like he lost a fight with his pillow.
He opens the refrigerator.
Stares inside.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
I sigh. “Jordan.”
“What?”
“Nothing new appeared in the last three seconds.”
“It could have.”
“It didn’t.”
Charlie snorts from the table.
Jordan points at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m encouraging him by agreeing with him?”
“Yes.”
“That feels unfair.”
“You’re unfair.”
Charlie grins. “Excellent comeback.”
Jordan grabs a bagel and drops into the chair across from him. Within seconds, they’re arguing about something from college. I don’t even try to follow the conversation. With them, it could be anything. A bad roommate. A video game. A professor. The time they tried to cook pasta in a coffee pot.
I still don’t know the full story there.
I’m not sure I want to.
Watching them together should help remind me why this can’t happen.
Jordan trusts Charlie.
Completely.
He laughs with him like breathing.
Talks to him like they’re extensions of the same thought.
He loves him like family.
And every time I look at them, guilt curls tighter in my chest.
Because what kind of father looks at his son’s best friend and thinks mine?
My fingers tighten around my mug.
No.
Not mine.
Never mine.
I take another sip of coffee and ignore the part of me that aches at the denial.
By midday, Charlie is still at the table working.
Jordan has left for some errand he insisted would take “like twenty minutes,” which means I won’t see him for at least two hours.
I try to use the quiet time to get things done.
Laundry.
Emails.
A grocery list.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Things that should keep me busy enough not to notice that Charlie has taken over a corner of my kitchen as if he belongs there.
Except he does belong there.
That thought comes too easily.
I stop in the laundry room with a basket in my hands and close my eyes.
No.
No, he doesn’t.
He’s visiting.
That’s all.
He’ll go back to his life soon.
Back to work.
Back to his friends.
Back to being twenty-two and free and full of possibilities that don’t involve a thirty-seven-year-old omega with a grown son and too much history.
When I return to the kitchen, Charlie is standing on a chair, reaching up toward the top cabinet.
I freeze.
“What are you doing?”
He looks down at me. “Fixing your cabinet hinge.”
“My what?”
“This door is crooked.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re going to fall.”
“I’m six-four. I live closer to the ceiling than you do.”
I glare at him.
He smiles down at me.
Then the chair wobbles.
My heart lodges in my throat.
“Charlie!”
He catches himself easily, one hand braced against the cabinet. “Relax. I’m fine.”
“Get down.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Get down before you break your neck in my kitchen.”
He pauses, then looks at me with open amusement. “You worried about me?”
I hate him.
I hate his face.
I hate his stupid height.
I hate that my heart is still pounding.
“I’m worried about paperwork,” I snap. “If you die in my kitchen, I’ll have to explain that to Jordan.”
Charlie laughs, but he climbs down anyway.
When his feet hit the floor, he’s standing much too close.
The storm scent reaches me again.
Closer now.
Stronger.
His arm brushes mine as he steps around me.
A light touch.
Barely anything.
It still sends a faint spark across my skin.
Not as strong as before.
Not enough to stop time.
But enough.
Enough that I suck in a quiet breath.
Charlie hears it.
Of course he does.
His eyes find mine.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The room shrinks around us.
I remember the kiss.
The kitchen.
His hand at my waist.
The warmth of his mouth.
The way I leaned into him before remembering all the reasons I shouldn’t.
I step back first.
Because I always do.
Charlie lets me.
That’s worse.
He doesn’t chase.
Doesn’t tease.
Doesn’t push.
He just watches me with those patient green eyes, and somehow that makes it harder to breathe.
“You should probably not climb on chairs,” I say stiffly.
His lips twitch. “Yes, sir.”
I point at him. “Don’t call me that.”
His smile turns wicked.
My body reacts before my brain does.
Warmth.
Interest.
Need.
Absolutely not.
I turn away and start folding towels with far more concentration than towels deserve.
Jordan comes home later with three shopping bags and no explanation.
Charlie closes his laptop and joins him in the living room, and I tell myself I’m relieved.
The lie doesn’t even convince me.
Dinner that night is loud because Jordan is loud, Charlie is louder, and together they apparently share one volume setting: unnecessary.
I make chicken pasta because it’s easy and because feeding people is something I know how to do when everything else feels uncertain.
Jordan eats like he hasn’t seen food in days.
Charlie takes one bite and groans.
Actually groans.
My grip tightens on my fork.
“This is amazing,” he says.
Jordan nods around a full mouth. “Dad’s cooking is elite.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say automatically.
Charlie grins at me. “You always cook like this?”
“No.”
Jordan snorts. “Yes.”
“Jordan.”
“What? You do.”
Charlie looks at me with too much warmth. “That’s dangerous information.”
I focus on my plate. “It’s just food.”
“It’s never just food when it tastes like this.”
My omega preens.
Preens.
Over a compliment about pasta.
I need a doctor.
After dinner, Jordan announces he has plans.
I look up. “Plans?”
He grabs his jacket from the back of a chair. “Yeah. I’m meeting Marcus and Tasha for drinks.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I’m mentioning it now.”
I narrow my eyes. “How responsible.”
Charlie laughs.
Jordan points between us. “Behave while I’m gone.”
I nearly choke on my water.
Charlie’s eyes flash with laughter.
“Us?” he asks innocently.
Jordan gives him a look. “Mostly you.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Then my son leaves.
The door closes behind him.
And the silence that follows is deafening.
Charlie and I stand in the kitchen, dishes between us, the air suddenly too full of everything unsaid.
For a minute, we clean without speaking.
It should be uncomfortable.
It isn’t.
That scares me more than discomfort would.
Charlie dries while I wash.
He hums under his breath, some song I don’t recognize.
He puts things away in the wrong cabinets twice, but instead of annoying me, it makes me smile.
He catches the second one.
“What?”
“You put the mixing bowl with the plates.”
He opens the cabinet and looks inside. “Maybe it wanted friends.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does emotionally.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
His expression softens.
The kitchen feels too warm.
Or maybe I do.
My phone rings before either of us can say anything.
Patrick.
Saved by my brother.
Or doomed.
Hard to tell.
I wipe my hands and answer. “Hello?”
“Are you alive?”
I frown. “Why do people keep asking me that?”
“Because you answer the phone like a man being held hostage.”
Charlie snorts from beside me.
I glare at him.
Patrick goes quiet.
Then, in a tone far too interested, he asks, “Is that Charlie?”
“No.”
Charlie grins.
Patrick laughs. “That was a terrible lie.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. How is he?”
I look at Charlie.
Charlie looks right back.
My mouth goes dry.
“Annoying.”
Charlie places a hand over his heart as if I’ve wounded him.
Patrick hums. “So things are going well.”
“No.”
“That also sounded like a lie.”
I walk into the hallway because I cannot have this conversation with Charlie listening.
Patrick waits until I’m out of earshot.
Then asks softly, “How are you really doing?”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
For once, I don’t have the energy to pretend.
“I don’t know.”
“That bad?”
“That confusing.”
Patrick is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, “You like having him there.”
I should deny it.
The denial is right there.
Easy.
Familiar.
Safe.
Instead, I say nothing.
Patrick exhales. “Cade.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
I rub a hand down my face. “He makes it hard.”
“Resisting?”
“Everything.”
The admission scrapes on the way out.
“He’s in my house, Patrick. He’s sitting at my kitchen table, working like he’s always done it. He helps with dishes. He fixes cabinets. He makes Jordan laugh. He looks at me like…” I stop.
“Like what?”
Like he sees me.
Like he wants me.
As if he isn’t afraid of all the parts of my life I think should scare him away.
I swallow.
“Like he’s waiting for me to stop being stupid.”
Patrick laughs softly. “Well.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was.”
I sigh.
His voice gentles. “You’re allowed to want him.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t know if I’m allowed to have him.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
No.
It isn’t.
But it feels close enough to hurt.
After we hang up, I stay in the hallway for a minute, collecting myself.
When I return to the kitchen, Charlie is leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone.
He looks up when I walk in.
“Everything okay?”
I nod. “Patrick.”
“Ah.” His smile turns knowing. “He checking on you?”
“Something like that.”
“He worries.”
“He meddles.”
“Same thing in my family.”
That makes me smile because it’s true.
Lottie meddles like breathing.
Liam sees through walls.
Chase asks questions that sound casual until you realize he’s already figured out the answer.
Their family is terrifying.
And warm.
And loud.
And so painfully loving that sometimes being around them makes my chest ache.
Later, after Jordan comes home and goes to bed, I think the day is done.
It should be.
I should sleep.
Instead, I end up in the kitchen again close to midnight, pouring a glass of water I don’t really want.
The house is dark.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Then Charlie appears in the doorway.
Half asleep.
Hair messy.
T-shirt wrinkled.
He blinks at me.
“You too?”
I lift my glass. “Water.”
He nods solemnly. “Important mission.”
A laugh slips from me.
Small.
Unplanned.
He smiles.
Not his usual big grin.
Something sleepy and soft and unguarded.
It hits me harder than it should.
Charlie steps into the kitchen, not too close, but close enough that his scent drifts over me.
Storm over the ocean.
I don’t move away.
That realization lands with quiet force.
I don’t move away.
For a minute, we stand there in the dim kitchen like two people who don’t know what they’re allowed to be.
Then Charlie says, “I like your house at night.”
I glance at him. “Why?”
“It’s quiet.”
“You hate quiet.”
“I hate boring quiet.” He looks around. “This is different.”
“How?”
He shrugs. “Feels lived in.”
The words settle somewhere deep.
I don’t know what to say.
So I take a sip of water.
Charlie leans against the counter across from me.
“I used to like coming here with Jordan,” he says. “Back in college. Your place always felt calmer than the dorms.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah. Jordan complained about the rules. I liked them.”
That surprises me enough that I laugh. “You liked rules?”
“Other people’s rules. Not mine.”
“There he is.”
His grin appears, slow and pleased. “You missed me.”
I should say no.
Instead, I look down at my glass.
Too slow.
Charlie notices.
His grin softens into something else.
Something quieter.
Something dangerous.
“I missed you, too,” he says.
My throat tightens.
I should tell him not to say things like that.
I should remind him of Jordan.
Of the age gap.
Of all the reasons this is impossible.
But the house is dark.
His voice is soft.
His scent is wrapped around me.
And I am so tired of running.
So I don’t say anything.
I just stand there, letting the words exist between us.
For once, I don’t shove them away.
Eventually, Charlie pushes off the counter.
“I’m going to bed.”
I nod. “Goodnight.”
He pauses in the doorway.
“Goodnight, Cade.”
Then he disappears down the hall.
I remain in the kitchen long after he’s gone, staring into the quiet space he left behind.
For the first time in a very long time, my first thought isn’t that I need to run.
It’s that I hope he’s still here when I wake up tomorrow.
The realization settles heavily in my chest.
Because that’s how this starts.
Not with kisses.
Not with fate.
Not with desire.
It starts with wanting someone in your everyday life.
And God help me—
I’m starting to want Charlie everywhere.