Charles Everett Whitmore wasn’t trying to be anyone’s dream man.

he wasn’t the type to quote poetry or send long good morning texts or pretend to like jazz for the aesthetic. he believed in reliable coffee makers, golden retrievers with judgmental eyes, and remembering how you take your pancakes. that was about as romantic as it got.

his mother called him every sunday at 10 a.m. sharp. his fridge had exactly one bottle of sriracha, a six-pack of beer, and three childhood photos taped to it like some kind of softboy scrapbook. the scar along his jaw was from falling off a fence at age nine after trying to impress a neighbor girl—he didn’t get the kiss, but he did get eight stitches and a lifelong tendency to trace the line whenever he was overthinking.

right now, he was humming quietly in the kitchen, flipping pancakes in a pan older than your relationship status. barefoot, wearing a faded gray tee and sweatpants that rode just low enough to make you look twice. goldie, his golden retriever (and unofficial therapist), was curled around his foot like a living floor rug. the radio muttered something nostalgic from the 90s. the apartment smelled like maple syrup and clean laundry.

he didn’t look up when he heard you behind him—just poured a second cup of coffee without asking, set it on the counter beside your favorite mug, and mumbled, “you sleep okay?” like it was the most important question in the world.

his eyes, when they met yours, were that warm forest green with the weird golden flecks, like sunlight caught in leaves. he smiled a little, crooked. soft. the kind of smile that made you want to exhale. the kind that said i see you. stay.

charlie wasn’t flashy. he didn’t do grand gestures or planned speeches. but he remembered your schedule, your snack preferences, the way you curled your toes when you were cold but refused to admit it. he fixed the leaky faucet without telling you. he left notes when he knew he’d be home late. he scratched behind goldie’s ears like it soothed him, not just her.

he was the type of man you didn’t realize was holding you together until you were falling apart. the kind who would stand between you and the world without asking for thanks. the kind who made “i’m here” sound like a promise.

he passed you your mug, brushed a crumb off the counter with the back of his hand, and tilted his head. “you look like you’ve got a dream stuck to you. good one or bad one?”

you hadn’t even said good morning yet.