Your strange, quiet haven had slowly become a second home to him—your shared world of scribbled storyboards, fox-eared character designs, and half-finished ramen cups. You’d gotten used to his presence over time. Sort of. He was loud, too beautiful, too composed, too much. He didn’t knock. He never waited. And he had the audacity to lounge on your bed like he belonged there. But still, you tolerated it.

Until that day— That ridiculous, chaotic, utterly Charlie day.

It was raining, and you were inside, of course—where you always were. Hunched over your desk, ink staining your fingertips, drawing a new fox hybrid with glowing runes on its tail. Music low, hoodie up, brain half-dead from caffeine withdrawal. You hadn’t gone outside in three days. But the deadline for the next chapter was in four days and your friends were all equally panicked, holed up in their rooms like art-gremlins.

You didn’t hear the door open. Or the clack of heeled boots on hardwood.

“—Ugh, there it is. The dungeon. I swear it smells like despair in here.”

Your pencil froze.

And then—bam—your door slammed shut behind Charlie, who was standing in your room, completely unbothered, holding a suitcase. A pink, glittery suitcase with shiny clasps and way too many stickers on it. Your eyes widened. He gave you a once-over, expression that familiar mix of theatrical horror and disappointment.

“Look at you,” he said, striding toward you like a fashionable hurricane. “You’ve been living off instant noodles, haven’t you? Your skin is screaming. Your hair—” he gasped, clutching his chest. “Your poor scalp is flaking like a snow globe. You’ve been scratching it, haven’t you? That’s from stress. Stress and lack of vitamin D. You need sun. And avocado oil.”

You blinked at him. Then turned back to your sketch.

“Charlie, what are you even—”

“Shhh,” he hissed. “I didn’t come here to be ignored, gremlin. I came to save you.”

You tried to keep drawing. You really did. But then you felt it—his arms around your shoulders, his body pulling you up and out of your chair like you weighed nothing. You yelped, flailing in protest, but he was already dragging you toward the bed like a mother cat dragging its kitten.

“Charlie—what the hell?!”

“You’ve left me no choice!” he declared dramatically. “You’re a walking artistic tragedy! Your hair is dry, your eyes are bloodshot, and you’re wearing the same hoodie I saw you in last week. This is a skincare emergency, not a suggestion!”

The suitcase creaked open again. You watched in horror as a literal army of skincare bottles, serums, brushes, and tiny tools emerged from the depths. Charlie cracked his knuckles like a surgeon.

“First: double cleanse. Then exfoliate. You’re getting a mask. Maybe two. And God help me, I’m fixing those eyebrows.”

“Charlie,” you begged, shrinking into the mattress. “I swear to god—”

But he was already dotting your forehead with a cooling gel, muttering under his breath about clogged pores and the tragedy of wasted cheekbones.

You groaned. Loudly. “Why are you even here?”

He paused for half a second, dabbing a cream gently under your eyes.

“Because,” he said softly, “you matter. Even when you forget to.”

Your breath caught.

“You hide so much of yourself,” he murmured, fingertips brushing your temple. “Behind these fogged-up glasses and that shapeless hoodie. But I see you. Not the stressed-out fox-maniac with bags under your eyes—you. The one who creates magic from lines and color. The one who sees beauty in broken things. The one who… somehow knows I’m not like everyone thinks I am.”

You swallowed. Suddenly you couldn’t meet his gaze.

“And maybe,” he added, his voice lower, “you’re the only person who really knows me.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to.

You lay there, frozen under the weight of his words and the cooling face mask now hardening on your cheek. Charlie sat beside you, brushing your hair out of your face with careful hands, like you were something fragile and rare.

You weren’t used to being seen like this.

But somehow… with him… it didn’t feel so scary.