It had been three days since Nero's birthday, and Charlie's house was finally starting to return to its usual semi-chaotic state. Balloons, half-deflated, lazily floated around the room like they'd partied too hard, the cake had mysteriously vanished (Berta being the prime suspect), and the decorations were now a sad pile in the corner, forgotten but likely to remain there until someone tripped over them.
Charlie lounged on the couch, remote in hand, flipping through channels with no real intent to watch anything. The quiet wasn't exactly peaceful, but it was comfortable, and for Charlie, comfort was king. Berta was banging around in the kitchen, grumbling about something, but that was her standard mode of operation.
Nero, on the other hand, wasn't quite enjoying the quiet. He sat at the piano, playing a slow, moody melody that sounded like it belonged in a drama about tragic love affairs. His fingers barely pressed the keys, and it was clear he wasn't into it. The kid had been off since his birthday, and while Charlie wasn't exactly an expert in emotional matters, even he could tell something was brewing.
Just as Charlie debated whether to step in (which, in his book, meant offering Nero a pizza or something equally life-changing), the front door creaked open. Charlie didn't bother to look up, already assuming it was Berta returning from some misadventure.
"Berta, did we order pizza, or are you breaking into our own house again?"
Instead of Berta's usual sharp retort, a familiar voice cut through the room.
"Hey, kiddo."
Charlie's attention snapped to the door, and he immediately regretted it. Standing awkwardly in the entryway was Nero's dad, clutching a crinkled gift bag like he'd grabbed it from the gas station five minutes ago. The guy looked like he was about to present a peace offering to a very angry nation.
Nero looked up from the piano, eyes narrowing. Charlie could practically feel the tension rise in the room like a badly timed elevator soundtrack.
"You're three days late," Nero said quietly, but with a sting that even made Charlie wince. The kid had some bite. Maybe he was learning something from living here after all.
Nero's dad winced too, but tried to brush it off with a sheepish smile. "Yeah, I know. Work's been crazy, you know how it is." He held out the gift bag, like it was some kind of band-aid for the situation. "I got you something."
Nero peeked inside the bag, revealing a pair of fancy sneakers—expensive ones, no doubt. Charlie had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a crack about dads trying to buy love with overpriced footwear.
"Thanks," Nero muttered, setting the bag aside like it was full of bricks.
Nero's dad shifted awkwardly, clearly realizing this wasn't going to be a Hallmark moment. "So, uh, wanna grab some food? Catch up?"
Charlie sighed internally. This was going south faster than he expected, and while he hated getting involved in family drama, this situation had disaster written all over it. Before Nero could respond, Charlie decided to intervene the only way he knew how: with humor.
"Well, well, well," Charlie said, pushing himself up from the couch and leaning against the doorway, a smirk plastered on his face. "If it isn't Father of the Year—right on time, three days late and with sneakers. Classic."
Nero's dad shot him a look that could cut glass. "Charlie, this doesn't concern you."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Really? 'Cause you're in my house, pal. That makes it my business. Plus, I've been dealing with all this teen angst while you've been 'swamped.'" He threw in air quotes for effect.
Nero's dad's expression darkened. "I've been working non-stop. Not all of us have the luxury of sitting around, drinking beer, and pretending to be a parent."
Charlie grinned, completely unfazed. "Hey, don't knock it. Sitting around, drinking beer, and parenting requires a lot of finesse. You'd be surprised." He paused. "Plus, I'm here. Beer in hand or not."
Before Nero's dad could fire back, Berta stormed in from the kitchen, dish towel over her shoulder and a scowl on her face. "Oh, great. Are we really doing this macho 'who's the better dad' routine? Spoiler alert: none of you win."
Charlie threw up his hands. "Hey, I'm just pointing out the obvious. You know, like how Nero's been living here rent-free while his dad's busy saving the world, one spreadsheet at a time."
Nero's dad clenched his fists, but before he could escalate things further, Berta stepped between them, glaring at both men like a schoolteacher fed up with unruly kids. "That's enough testosterone for one day. You wanna fight? Take it outside. But I'll tell you right now, Charlie fights like a girl."
Charlie raised a hand. "Rude, but accurate."
Berta turned to Nero's dad, ignoring Charlie completely. "You're not fixing anything by standing here and arguing with Captain Margarita. If you want to be a dad, start by not showing up three days late with gas station sneakers."
Nero's dad deflated a little, turning back to his son. "Come on, Nero. Let's go get dinner. We can talk."
Nero just stared at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. "No," he muttered. "I don't want to go."
The room fell into an awkward silence. Charlie crossed his arms, but there was a surprising amount of softness in his voice when he spoke. "You heard the kid. He's not going anywhere."
Nero's dad stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. "Charlie, stay out of this."
"Oh, I plan to," Charlie said, his casual tone back in full swing. "Right after you leave. Take your sneakers with you. They don't really fit the kid's mood anyway."
Before things could spiral completely out of control, Berta grabbed Nero's dad by the arm and yanked him back. "That's enough. We're not turning this into a Jerry Springer episode. If you really care about the kid, stop making this about you."
Nero's dad looked from Berta to Charlie, and then finally to Nero, his face softening. "I'm sorry, Nero," he said quietly, but the words felt like they had come too late.
Nero didn't respond. He just stood there, looking small and tired, like he'd heard it all before.
With a sigh, Nero's dad turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The room was quiet again, but this time the silence felt heavier.
Charlie rubbed his jaw, breaking the tension. "Well, that was… fun."
Berta gave him a deadpan look. "You're a real hero, Harper."
Charlie smirked. "Hey, just doing my part."
He turned to Nero, his expression softening. "Listen, kid, your dad's... well, your dad. But you've got people here who actually show up—on time, even."
Nero gave a small nod, and for a moment, Charlie thought he saw a flicker of a smile.
Berta patted Nero's shoulder. "Come on, let's go raid the fridge. I think there's still some cake left. Unless Charlie inhaled it."
Charlie grinned. "Hey, I left you the frosting!"
With a faint smile, Nero followed Berta into the kitchen, and Charlie flopped back onto the couch with a sigh. He wasn't the perfect parent—hell, he wasn't even trying to be. But at least he was here.