He's not my dad

part 30

We barely make it three steps into my apartment before we both freeze.
Bree is bent over the back of the sofa, completely naked, her skin glowing in the low lamplight. For half a second my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing—then Chuck’s hands are suddenly over my eyes, warm and firm, and he physically steers me backward into the hallway.

“Nope,” he says decisively. “Absolutely not.”
The door shuts behind us with a soft click, leaving us standing in the corridor, stunned and blinking.

I drop my hands to my sides and stare at him. “Well,” I say weakly, “that’s… not what I expected to come home to.”

Chuck looks both amused and horrified. “Who the hell was that?”

“That,” I sigh, rubbing my forehead, “was Bree.”

He blinks. “I got that part.”

“And the guy?” he asks carefully.

“That was Noel.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Noel? As in fiancé Noel?”

“Ex-fiancé,” I correct automatically, though it doesn’t make it any less shocking.

“I thought you said he was in Afghanistan.”

“So did I,” I reply, lifting my hands helplessly. “Apparently geography is flexible now.”

Chuck lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. I walk into your life and it’s just chaos everywhere, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea,” I mutter.

He glances toward the apartment door, then back at me. “So… I’m guessing staying here is off the table.”

“Unless you want lifelong emotional scarring,” I say dryly.

“Hard pass,” he replies immediately. “Looks like we’re staying at mine.”

I grab my keys, and we head back outside. Chuck unhooks the Airstream from the car and leaves it parked neatly in the lot. “She’ll be fine for the night,” he says. “Unlike us if we stay here.”

The drive back to his place is quiet, both of us replaying the moment in our heads. I keep seeing Bree’s bare back, the sheer audacity of it all, and wondering how I didn’t hear anything when we walked in.
Chuck’s apartment door swings open, and the smell hits me immediately.

I wrinkle my nose. “Why does it smell like stale food and mothballs in here?”

He grimaces. “Yeah… about that.”

“What happened to your maid?” I ask, toeing off my shoes.

“I gave her some time off,” he admits sheepishly. “Didn’t think I’d need her.”

I look around at the cluttered counters, the empty takeout containers, the laundry chair that’s clearly been doing overtime. “You were wrong.”

“Painfully aware now,” he says, grabbing a trash bag. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I swear.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I drop my bag by the door. “Rock god, billionaire’s son, cannot survive one week without supervision.”

He grins. “Hey, I survived. Barely.”

I step closer, wrapping my arms around him. “Thanks for saving me from walking in on… whatever that was.”

“Anytime,” he says, kissing my hair. “And for the record? Your life is way more entertaining than mine.”

I smile into his chest, even as my thoughts drift back to Bree and Noel, tangled on my sofa. Tomorrow was going to be messy—but for tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be.

......

Chuck’s apartment is quiet in a way my place never is. No music bleeding through the walls, no Bree commentary from the couch, no sudden chaos waiting behind a door. Just the low hum of the city outside and the muted glow of a lamp in the corner.
He tosses his keys into a bowl by the door and exhales, long and tired. The bravado he wears onstage slips off as easily as his jacket.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’ve seen worse,” I reply gently, though I make a mental note to never tell him that his idea of “mess” would give my mother a panic attack.
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with two glasses of water. No alcohol. It feels intentional.
We sit on the edge of his bed, shoulders brushing, not touching enough to be anything other than aware of each other. My body still feels wound tight from the day—the party, Greg, Bree, the shock of walking in on something I never wanted to see.
Chuck watches me carefully. “You okay?”
I nod, then shake my head. “I will be.”
He reaches out, slow, giving me time to pull away if I want to. I don’t. His thumb brushes my knuckles, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
“You don’t have to carry everyone else’s mess,” he says quietly. “I know you try.”
That almost undoes me.
I lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder. His arm comes around me, solid and warm, holding without expectation. No jokes. No teasing. Just there.
“I feel like everything’s complicated lately,” I admit. “Work. Bree. Your dad.” I sigh. “You.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
Silence stretches between us, comfortable. He smells like soap and something faintly smoky—him. I trace absent circles on his forearm, watching the tattoos disappear under my fingers.
“I don’t want this to be messy,” I say. “Us.”
He turns his head slightly so his temple rests against mine. “Then we won’t let it be.”
I look up at him. “You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I can promise I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in his voice is steady, unshowy. It feels real.
We lie back on the bed fully clothed, tangled together in a way that’s more comfort than desire. His hand moves slowly up and down my arm, a quiet rhythm. I focus on the sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
“I am,” I reply, already half asleep.
For once, the world outside doesn’t feel like it’s demanding anything from me. Just this moment. Just us.