you bought him a grill.

just a casual gift. a thank you for being him—warm and steady and always the first one to rub your back when you couldn’t sleep. you didn’t know it would awaken something feral. something primal. something that now made you question your own survival instincts.

charles everett whitmore had become a grill dad.

not a grill dad. the grill dad. apron-wearing, tongue-biting, meat-flipping, smoke-in-his-hair, tongs-as-a-weapon-of-choice type grill dad. it had been three days. three. the scent of barbecue now clung to your skin like a second soul.

you were sitting on the porch with someone else’s toddler half-asleep on your lap (cousin? niece? tiny guest? you’d stopped keeping track after the third juice box). two more children were chasing goldie in frenzied circles across the yard, screaming about something that sounded like “lava zombies.” goldie, in her golden retriever wisdom, looked thrilled.

charlie stood ten feet away, gloriously backlit by the setting sun like a war hero returning from battle, grill smoke rising behind him like divine fog. his sleeves were rolled, his jaw scar just catching the light, and he was flipping burgers like he was auditioning for the culinary olympics. probably humming something obnoxious.

“grill’s from my beautiful and best partner,” he announced proudly to no one and everyone, again, like it was the secret to world peace. your name might as well be engraved into the steel at this point. he had already told that same sentence to his brother. his brother’s wife. their kids. goldie. the mailman. twice.

you weren’t sure if he loved you more, or the grill.

you shifted slightly, trying to regain feeling in your left leg as the toddler mumbled in her sleep and drooled onto your shirt. the smell of grilled corn hit you like a wave. you were so close to snapping. or worse—offering to make a salad.

“how we doing over there?” charlie called, eyes crinkling in a soft grin, spatula in one hand, beer in the other. “burgers’ll be ready in five. maybe six if i double sear ‘em.”

you smiled back. the kind of smile that said: i love you so much, but i will burn that grill in your sleep.

he winked. goldie barked. one of the kids yelled something about hotdogs being weapons now.

you exhaled slowly.

domestic bliss. or something close enough.