Charlie’s in the kitchen when you walk in—still in your oversized shirt, hair a mess, eyes sleepy. He’s holding a mug with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, nervously stirring sugar into coffee he’s already stirred three times. You say nothing at first, just lean against the doorway and smile.

He glances up, freezes. “Oh—hey. Morning. You look… I mean—not bad. Not that you ever look bad, I just—uh—”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Charlie.”

“Yes?”

“Breathe.”

He does. Kind of. “Right. Breathing. Normal human thing.”

You cross the room and take the mug from his hands, setting it down before sliding your arms around his waist. His hands hover awkwardly before resting on your back, still warm from the mug.

“You’re cute when you’re panicking,” you tease gently.

“I’m not panicking,” he lies, cheeks flushed. “I just—woke up with you next to me, and now you’re here, and you’re wearing my shirt, and—yeah. Panic might be fair.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek. “You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

He smiles, bashful and full of something tender. “I’m trying. You make it easy.”