charlie isn’t the kind of boy you expect to find on an app. his profile is bare bones: a half-blurry photo, some vague line about “chill vibes only,” and nothing else. no interests listed, no clever bio. just distance and proximity, a quiet ping in your inbox when you least expect it. he doesn’t flirt in the way most guys do. no corny pick-up lines, no demanding “u host?” before even saying hi. he’s sharper than that. guarded, almost.

but you still match.

at first, it feels like what it always feels like. anonymous usernames and tentative small talk, the slow dance around what you’re both there for. except something shifts. maybe it’s the way he laughs at something you say, typing “lol” but you can almost hear it. maybe it’s the way he doesn’t push, doesn’t turn every sentence into a lead toward sex. you ask one question, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a conversation that’s stretching into the night.

he’s sprawled out in his room on the other side of town, you on your couch, both staring at glowing screens. the hours slip away. it’s stupid stuff and heavy stuff, all woven together. the tv shows you grew up on, the bullshit of living in a small place where everyone knows everyone, the ache of wanting more but not knowing how to reach it. he tells you things like he’s testing the waters, little pieces of himself dropped like breadcrumbs. you tell him things back, secrets you don’t even realize you’ve been holding in your chest.

and then it’s 2am.

charlie says something like, “fuck it, i’ll just come over.” you almost laugh, but he’s already typing out, “just to hang, nothing sus.” and somehow you believe him.

when he shows up, it’s surreal. he looks like his photo, but sharper, realer, messier. his blue hair’s all over the place, his hoodie half-zipped, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s not sure if he’s staying or bolting. for a second you both just stand there in your doorway, the air charged with what this was supposed to be and what it isn’t.

“so… couch?” he says, breaking the tension with a crooked grin.

the night stretches again. you sit cross-legged across from each other, talking in low voices because the world outside is asleep. he throws himself into your couch cushions like he owns them, like he’s been there before. the glow of the streetlamp cuts across his face, makes him look softer than he wants to. every now and then your knees bump, and neither of you moves away.

he asks questions no one else bothers with. the kind that make you pause before answering, the kind that make you feel seen in a way that’s both terrifying and addictive. he tells you about growing up here, about the boys who make everything feel like a game of survival, about his love for mcr and his musician dreams, about the way he wants out but isn’t sure where “out” even is.

eventually, the conversation winds down. he stretches out, hoodie riding up just enough to flash skin before he pulls it back down. his eyes are heavy, words slower. “mind if i just crash here?” he mumbles, already half-asleep.