He sits cross-legged on your bedroom floor, guitar in his lap, fingers hesitating over the strings.

“You don’t have to if you’re nervous,” you say gently, watching him from the bed.

Charlie shakes his head, eyes fixed on the fretboard. “No, I want to. Just… no one’s really heard me before.”

You smile, warm and patient. “I’ll listen like it’s my favorite song.”

That makes him pause. Blush. Breathe in deep.

Then, he plays.

The first few chords are shaky, but he finds his rhythm quickly. It’s a soft melody, nothing flashy—just something pretty and slow, like the kind of song you’d want to fall asleep to. He doesn’t sing, but you can feel him pouring every ounce of focus and feeling into each note. You don’t say anything while he plays. You just watch him — the way his brows furrow, the way he keeps sneaking glances at you like he’s trying to memorize your reaction.

When he finishes, there’s a moment of silence. Then you whisper, “That was beautiful.”

Charlie exhales, like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. “Yeah?”

You nod. “And very you.”

He smiles shyly, resting the guitar beside him. “I think I wrote it… kind of for you. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

You crawl off the bed to sit in front of him, leaning your forehead gently against his.

“You always know how to speak my language,” you murmur.

He shrugs, bashful. “Guess you’re my favorite song.”