charlie cooper doesn’t talk much about galaxy records falling through, but it sits under his skin like a bruise. everyone else jokes about it, pretends it didn’t matter. charlie knows better. it mattered. it almost broke something.

so when the runarounds sign a record deal in person. charlie keeps his expectations small. he signs where he’s told, nods when people talk, follows the others out like muscle memory. it doesn’t feel real yet. it won’t, not until it’s tested.

the real pressure comes after.

the band’s supposed to write. not just mess around, not just jam. write. charlie’s never been the songwriter. he’s the backbone. the steady line under everything else. it’s always been enough. until now.

everyone else has notebooks filling up. neil hums melodies like they fall out of the sky. wyatt throws out lyric ideas without thinking. bez somehow lands hooks by accident. topher adds suggestions. charlie sits there with his guitar and nothing to say.

so he comes to you.

no band. no noise. just him, standing awkwardly in your space, guitar case knocking lightly against his leg. he shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his voice gives him away.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “every time i try to write, it sounds fake. like i’m pretending to be someone else.”

he sits beside you, shoulders hunched. “what if i don’t actually have anything worth saying?”

you tell him he does. that he always has. that he’s the one who stays steady when everyone else spins out. that he listens. that he notices things. that his voice is quieter, but it holds weight.

charlie looks at you for a long second, like he’s deciding whether to believe you.

then he pulls the guitar onto his lap.

he plays something simple. slow. grounding. and when he sings, it’s hesitant at first. half-formed thoughts, unfinished lines. about almost losing things. about being scared of wanting more. about holding on anyway.

he stops halfway through, shakes his head. “this is stupid.”