You sit cross-legged on Charlie’s bedroom floor, the bass from downstairs a distant thrum beneath the quiet. Up here, time stretches, slow and easy. The room smells like cedarwood, vanilla, and something that reminds you of summer nights. His desk lamp casts soft shadows, the glow warm against the scattered notebooks, the half-empty mug of black coffee on the windowsill. His beat-up acoustic leans against the wall, strings humming faintly when the breeze slips through the cracked window.

Charlie lounges in the corner, dark hair falling into his eyes, the way it always does. He’s in that hoodie—the one with the faded band logo you can never quite remember. His sneakers are worn just right. He’s quiet, but he’s listening. He always is. A pen taps absently against his notebook, matching the rhythm of the party below.

“So, I’ve been thinking…” His voice is low, easy, like the hum of an old vinyl. “You ever notice how everyone’s too busy trying to impress each other? Like, no one’s just… being?”

You chuckle. He’s not wrong. But it’s not some deep revelation—just a thought, one that doesn’t need explaining. You both get it.

He stretches, arms over his head, then smirks. “Anyway, you should come with me to get food later. You need the right amount of grease to survive Theo’s camera obsession.” He says it like “later” could mean any time between now and dawn. But it doesn’t matter.

For now, it’s just you, him, and the quiet hum of the night.