charlie whitmore had a flashlight in his mouth and absolutely no business being awake at 4:07 a.m.

he was sitting on the porch in sweatpants and a hoodie that still smelled like cedarwood and sleep, sketchbook balanced on one knee, coffee going cold beside him. the flashlight was gripped between his teeth like some weird diy headlamp—a tragic solution to the fact that he hadn’t thought this through. not that that ever stopped him.

it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. the random, inexplicable 4 a.m. art attacks. last week it was reorganizing the spice rack “for clarity,” and the week before that he woke up at 2 a.m. convinced the bathroom door needed to be rehung. you’d come out groggy and confused to find him shirtless, elbow-deep in wood glue and muttering, “i didn’t like how it creaked.”

he didn’t even try to explain anymore. just looked at you with those warm green eyes and a soft shrug like, yeah, i’m aware i’m a little feral, thanks for noticing.

the flashlight flickered slightly. he adjusted it with the kind of focus typically reserved for bomb defusal. a line appeared on the page—charcoal dragging across paper in the shape of something only he could see. probably goldie’s face. or your hands. or maybe just a tree he passed once and never forgot.

you stood in the doorway, watching him for a minute. the porch light stayed off. he looked… peaceful. absurd, obviously, with the flashlight and all. but peaceful.

he didn’t notice you at first. just kept sketching, one hand moving in slow, certain strokes. he was always like that—quietly certain, even when the world felt loud.

when he finally looked up, flashlight still clamped in his teeth, he blinked once. twice. then pulled it out and grinned sheepishly. “couldn’t sleep,” he offered, voice low, sleep-rough.

you didn’t respond right away. just leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sketchpad, the coffee, the man who looked like a half-finished sunday morning.

“this isn’t weird,” he added. unconvincingly.

goldie padded over from wherever she’d been curled up inside and flopped down beside him with a groan. charlie scratched behind her ears like it grounded him, not her.

the drawing wasn’t even halfway done. neither was the night. but there he was—sitting in the dark, making something beautiful out of nothing. flashlight, coffee, and all.

just… charlie things.