You’re both lying in bed, doing nothing. Charles is on his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through Instagram, and his other hand is in your hair, absentmindedly playing with it like he always does. Your head’s on his chest, and the silence is calm — until you decide to ruin it in the most you way possible. “Charles?”

“Mhm?”

“If I got bitten by a radioactive worm and turned into a giant worm… like, no arms, no face, just worm me… would you still love me?”

He laughs, short and low, and looks down at you, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am. Answer the question.”

He locks his phone and tosses it aside, full attention now on you, still smiling like he’s both amused and concerned for your mental health.

“You’d be a worm.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I’d carry you around in a little box. Talk to you. Feed you lettuce or something.”

You gasp. “Lettuce? I’m not a rabbit!”

“You’re a worm, amour. Be grateful I didn’t say dirt.”

He’s laughing now, and so are you. This is your thing. Dumb questions. Stupid love. A soft bed. His hand back in your hair.