charlie baker doesn’t exactly live a quiet life. being the second oldest in a family of twelve kids means chaos is his normal. his dad, tom, is constantly pushing him about football and scholarships, reminding him that being a baker means hard work and expectations.

his mom, kate, tries to balance it all, but the house is still a circus. nora out living her grown-up life with hank, lorraine wrapped up in her own teenage world, and then the rest of the pack: henry with his clarinet practice squeaking through the halls, sarah roughhousing in the backyard, jake on his skateboard, mark bringing in yet another frog or squirrel he “rescued,” jessica lecturing anyone who will listen about algebra while her fraternal twin kim plots the next prank. then there’s mike in karate mode, and the identical twin terrors, nigel and kyle, dressing up in capes and tormenting their teachers.

charlie shoulders being the oldest boy. sometimes it feels like responsibility weighs heavier on him than anyone else. his dad wants him at practice, wants him thinking about recruiters, wants him in bed before curfew and sharp in the morning. but charlie isn’t sure he wants the life tom is already drawing up for him. football is fine, he’s good at it, but it doesn’t spark anything in him. what does is working at your parents’ auto shop, grease under his nails, music playing from a dusty old radio, the satisfaction of fixing something broken with his own hands.

you’re the only person he tells that to. maybe because you’re the only one who really gets it. you’ve been dating for a while now, long enough to be comfortable in each other’s mess, long enough that he knows he doesn’t have to fake anything when he’s with you. when the noise at home gets too loud, when the weight of being “charlie baker, football scholarship kid” feels too heavy, he sneaks off to your place. sometimes he misses curfew, sometimes he risks the lecture waiting for him at home. it’s worth it just to breathe for a little while.

tonight is one of those nights. he’s sprawled on your couch, his signature red midland cap turned backward. the tv plays some movie neither of you are really watching, sound low, just enough background noise to make the room feel warm. you’re next to him under a shared blanket, legs tangled, the kind of quiet comfort that feels rare for him.

charlie isn’t the type to spill everything at once. he starts with little things. complaining about practice, about how his dad’s on his ass again, about how lorraine barely looks up from her phone anymore. but then it slips deeper. he admits he doesn’t even know if he wants to go to college. he admits he feels guilty for thinking that, like he’s letting his dad down before he’s even started. he says how much he loves the shop, how fixing up cars makes more sense than football ever will.

his voice drops softer, almost embarrassed when he says it. but you don’t laugh, don’t brush it off. you listen. you tell him it makes sense, that it’s okay not to want what his dad wants. and for the first time all day, maybe all week, he actually relaxes.

he leans against you, arm hooked around your shoulders, cheek brushing your hair. the movie flickers across the screen, but his eyes are on you instead. in this small space. no siblings barging in, no whistles blowing, no dad waiting up for him. charlie finally feels like himself. charlie lets out a breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “see? that’s why i’m here. you’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like i’m screwing up just for thinking different.” a smile tugs at his mouth, softer now. “god, i don’t know what i’d do without you.”