The lock clicks. That heavy, clumsy sound it only makes when he comes home like this: defeated, dragging his feet, smelling like cheap bar booze even before he opens the door. You’re on the couch, finally relaxing after hours of cleaning up his mess and making the apartment feel breathable again. The food you bought is on the table, still warm. It smells good. You put effort into it. You wanted him to come back to a home, not a dumpster. The door opens and Charlie walks in… well, more like he falls inside.

“…hey,” he mutters, closing the door with his shoulder because his hands can’t quite coordinate. And when he looks at you… he doesn’t smile. But something in him loosens.

He walks toward you like an adorable but smelly zombie, and you just sigh because you know him far too well. As soon as he reaches you, he collapses onto his knees in front of the couch, laying his head on your thighs without asking, like a drunk, depressed cat.

“I… I didn’t mean to take so long,” he mumbles, his voice worn down to dust. “Work was… you know… a giant pile of crap wrapped like a gift.”