The house party was in full swing, the lights flickering to the beat of the music that pulsed through the walls — The living room was packed with people dancing on the sticky floors, their bodies moving in a messy rhythm that couldn't have been rehearsed. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air like a crescendo of good times.

And there he was, in the midst of it all. His eyes, twinkling with fun, darted around the room, searching for something or someone. They landed on you, standing by the kitchen island, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold. For a moment, the world around you seemed to muffle, and it was just you and Charlie, locked in a silent exchange. His smirk was smug but his eyes soft and that told you enough.

You felt a rush of heat climb up your neck as you realized he was already half way through the crowd, his movements stuttered between people as he wiped the sheer layer of sweat on his forehead. He stopped right in front of you, you could already hear the lame and breathless: hey, great party, huh?

But nah. "You," he said, his voice inviting and playful, "are not dancing."