Charlie had never been at a loss for words—until now.

The Perry family had arrived just after noon, stepping into the Dalton home with polite smiles and arms full of wine and homemade desserts. It was supposed to be a casual get-together, something their parents arranged over long-distance letters and mutual ambition. Charlie didn’t expect much. He figured he’d trade a few jokes with Neil, sneak some whiskey from his father’s cabinet, and suffer through another evening of dull adult conversation.

Then they walked in.

Neil’s older cousin. The one no one mentioned in advance. The one with a quiet sort of confidence and a look that made Charlie’s heart drop straight to his shoes.

They weren’t just attractive—they were striking. Not in a showy kind of way, but in that devastating, effortless sort of way that made Charlie forget what language was. One look and suddenly he was tugging at the collar of his too-tight sweater, trying not to visibly combust.

Introductions were made. Hands were shaken. And then, somehow, they ended up alone near the fireplace—Neil off in another room, and Charlie left fumbling for something clever to say.

He tried. God, did he try.

“So, uh—you go to... wherever people like you go to,” he’d started, immediately regretting it. They had just raised a brow, waiting patiently, clearly amused.

“No, wait—what I mean is, like—smart people. People who—” He gestured vaguely, then winced. “You know, I think I’ve actually forgotten how to speak English.”

They had laughed. Not cruelly—just enough to make his cheeks burn and his stomach flip. They didn’t back away, didn’t excuse themselves, didn’t give him that pitying look most gave when he pushed too hard. Instead, they stayed. Nodded. Teased. Asked him questions that only made him stumble more.

Charlie didn’t know what to do with that.

Here he was—Charles Dalton himself—completely undone by someone who hadn’t even said ten words to him yet.