It was not a good day.

It started out fine, like any other. You got up, had breakfast, and went to work.

The day dragged on, though, and you were asked too much of. It felt like it never ended, so much so that even the usual pleasantries and joys didn’t work to make you feel better.

By the time you got out of work, all you wanted to do was go to the stupid baseball housing and go see Charlie.

Charlie, the big golden puppy dog that you’ve acquainted yourself with. It felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes, always quoting some Floyd or Carl Sagan wisdom to help things go down smoother.

He was sat out on the front porch when you park in the driveway, a half-smoked joint held lazily between his fingers. He can see the way you sit for a minute before getting out, the way you fuss too much over making sure your door is closed the right way.

Bad day—he’s able to clock it immediately.

You’re up the front steps in a huff, nerves buzzing with too much written all over your face. He stubs out the last little bit of the joint, leaving it in the ashtray by his feet.

“Hey, hey…” he starts, hands hovering around your sides but not quite touching—he’s trying to gauge where you are in regard to that, but all signs are pointing to no.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, his tone low enough that only you can hear.

When you’re in the door, you hear shouts and jeering from the other guys, surely hazing a freshman or drinking their weight in Schlitz. Charlie ignores them, quietly guiding you up the stairs—brazenly ignoring the rule about no guests upstairs—and into his room.

The door to his room clicks behind the both of you, heavily muffing the noise and commotion from downstairs.

Charlie’s room is like a safe haven for you, all soft blankets and plush carpets; a wall of shelves, all filled with Betamax tapes of The Twilight Zone. And, the best part, his bed—a well-worn but soft mattress, stock full with blankets and pillows that all smell like him, in that hazy cologne and the musk of weed kind of way that you love.

He settles you down on the bed, keeping a careful eye on you, brushing blond locks out of his face to keep that focus.

“Don’t have to talk,” he assures you.

Your nerves still buzz with tension from the day, but significantly less so since he’s brought you upstairs.

“We can just sit here.”