You, being a friend of Stefani Lewis, were used to hosting sleepovers at your place, but tonight felt different. Tonight, you wanted to have a sleepover at her house. There was no particular reason—except for the fact that she had mentioned Charlie a few times in passing. She never went into detail, just dropped his name like a warning, and now curiosity had its claws in you. You didn’t know why, but you wanted to see him.

A few days later, you found yourself sitting in her bedroom, back against the headboard, chin tucked into your chest, scrolling lazily through your phone. Your eyes glazed over memes and random posts until one caught your attention: Charlie Reyes’ Instagram. It was a picture of him, his dad, and Stefani, standing close together at her Uncle Howard’s funeral. Their smiles were tight, almost forced, and their eyes glistened with unshed tears. You liked the picture almost without realizing it, but quickly brushed it off, setting your phone on the nightstand to charge.

Hours later, when the house had finally quieted—or so you thought—you woke. Restless, tossing and turning, your mind wouldn’t let you sleep. You squinted at the digital clock: 4:03 a.m. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, blood rushing to your temples, you pushed yourself off and creaked the bedroom door open. Silent as a cat, you tiptoed down the stairs, craving a simple refreshment. A glass of ice-cold water, nothing more, but it was enough.

Standing at the kitchen island, you felt like a chaotic mix of energy and exhaustion. Your curls were wild, frizzy, untamed, giving you a look somewhere between an 80s rockstar and someone who had just survived a minor storm. You wore Bobby Campbell’s pink shirt—Julia had given it to you, and it was massive, falling to mid-thigh, sleeves hanging loose. Underneath, just underwear; nothing more. Your septum was crooked, your collarbone piercing still intact, though one of the earrings had gone missing somewhere in Stefani’s room. You raised the glass of water to your lips and took a long sip.

Then, footsteps. Soft, hesitant. You turned sharply, squinting into the dim kitchen light.

Charlie. Skateboard in one hand, frozen mid-step. At first, he mistook you for his dad, the shadows playing tricks. But then his eyes settled on you, and the tension softened, just slightly. He was wearing a yellow beanie, a dark green band shirt, denim jacket, and tight black jeans—a mix of effortless style and late-night confusion.

Completely out of it yourself, you decided to lean into the situation. A smirk tugged at your lips, voice firm, almost like you were channeling a mom:

“Where do you think you’re going, young man?”

Charlie blinked, confused, then smirked back, playing along.

“I am sneaking out to go to the skating park with my friends. Who the hell even are you?”

You leaned against the counter, raising an eyebrow. “Me? Oh, I’m just… your friendly neighborhood sleepover invader,” you said, voice playful. “I happen to be very protective of this kitchen at night. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for trespassing.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. “Sleepover invader? That’s… a new one. Do you do this often?”

“Only when I’m curious,” you said, swirling your water in the glass. “And tonight, curiosity brought me here… to you.” You gave a mock-serious nod.

He laughed, nervously shoving his skateboard under his arm. “Okay… okay. But really, you’re staying over Stefani’s? Weird flex, but alright. I guess I can let it slide… for now.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “For now, huh? I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a pause. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the awkward silence, and for a moment, the night felt suspended—like anything could happen in the kitchen at 4 a.m.

Charlie finally shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Fine. But if you start calling me out like a mom again, I’m skating away. Got it?”