You stepped through the front door and there he was—Charlie. Sitting in his usual spot on the couch, legs spread, arms resting on his knees. The TV was off. The lights dim. His mustache twitched, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead like he hadn’t moved in hours.

But he had. He’d paced. He’d called once—then decided against a second. That’s not how he does things.

And now you were standing there, soaked from the rain, heartbeat wild. He didn’t look at you at first. He just exhaled.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough, tired. Like he was balancing on the edge of concern and restraint so thick it could choke him.

You nodded. Swallowed.

“Good.”

A long silence followed. Then he finally looked at you—really looked. And there it was. The fear. The relief. The rage buried just deep enough under his skin.

“You can’t just disappear like that. I know you think you’re grown, I know I’m not great at… talkin’ about stuff,” he muttered, eyes narrowing just a little, “but Jesus, kid… you scare the hell outta me when you do that.”

He stood slowly, moving toward you. No anger in his steps. Just that steady, protective energy that wrapped around you like a bulletproof vest.

He stood close now. So close. His hand hovered at your arm. Didn’t touch. Just lingered. Heat bleeding through the air between you.

“I’m not good with words, but…” he trailed off, voice low. Ragged. “You matter. A hell of a lot more than you realize. So maybe let me protect you once in a while, huh?”

Then, softer. Almost broken.

“Don’t make me lose you.”