it was supposed to be a chill night.

blankets, snacks, maybe a little psychological horror to lull you into sleep. you’d queued up a true crime documentary—your usual poison of choice—and charlie had settled in beside you with a bowl of popcorn and his hand already draped over your thigh like second nature.

all was fine.

until approximately seventeen minutes in, when the reenactment showed a man pushing his wife down the stairs.

“nope. absolutely fucking not,” charlie muttered, sitting up straighter. his jaw was clenched. his brows were furrowed. the popcorn bowl was now on the floor, entirely forgotten.

you should’ve known.

“who does that? who hurts someone they’re supposed to love?” he was off, fully spiraling. “i swear to god, if anyone ever tried to lay a hand on you, or our future kid, or even looked at you weird—i would find them. i would track them down, and they would pray for prison.”

you blinked. the episode was still playing. a haunting violin started building in the background.

charlie gestured vaguely at the screen, absolutely seething now. “how can people do this to their own family? it disgusts me. you love them, you protect them. that’s it. that’s the whole job.”

he looked personally offended. like the documentary had insulted his bloodline.

you reached for a piece of popcorn, slowly, cautiously. he caught the movement and squinted at you.

“you’re watching this with a straight face,” he said, voice lower, slightly concerned now. “a straight face. babe, we need to talk to someone. like a counselor. or a priest. just to make sure you’re okay.”

you laughed—just once—and he looked even more worried.

“i’m serious,” he added, softer. “you’re too calm. it’s a little alarming.”