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Charlie was a tactile guy. It was one of the first things you’d noticed when you met him, and something you definitely noticed now that you were officially his partner.
It was during quiet evenings like these that it would really show. The two of you on his couch, limbs intertwined under a shared weighted blanket, with the TV playing the show you’d mutually agreed on binging for the foreseeable future. Beyond the cuddling that made it impossible to pinpoint where you ended and he began, there was the kissing.
He would kiss damn near any surface of you he could get his lips on. Your shoulder and neck if he was laying on your chest, the top of your head if you were on his, and especially your hands no matter what position you laid in. As sweetly and tentatively as one may handle a precious piece of glass, he’d lift your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. Each finger, from pinky to thumb, a soft peck on the knuckles of each.
“Hey, that tickles,” you’d grumble halfheartedly, while simultaneously bringing your hand to wrap around his cheek and pull him closer. The dopey grin he gave was worth the act. Every time.
“Oh, you think that tickles?” He asks as if you’d handed him an invitation to be proven wrong, and leans in to kiss all over your face. You squeal and try to get away, but he’s right there to meet you. Your cheeks, jaw, temples, and the corner of your mouth. As the laughter dies down, he lands on your forehead, tender and sweet.
“You missed a spot.” You pucker your lips at him, extreme enough to be tastefully obnoxious.
“Wuh– no way!” He exclaims, sarcastic, and leans in with equally annoying fervor. You think it’s cute. Only because it’s Charlie, really.
Just as your lips are about to meet, a familiar ringtone peeps up from somewhere deeper into the house. Your phone lies on the kitchen counter, lit screen visible though text not legible. If someone’s calling you this late at night, it must be important.
You shift on the couch to heft yourself off, when an armful of Charlie makes itself known to you.
“Noo you can’t go. We’re so coozy and warm here.. Who’s gonna be my personal heater if you get up?” He tugs at your arm, resembling a 6 year old having a tantrum with how he shakes it incessantly. You roll your eyes, fond affection making a grin form on your face.
“And what if it’s important? Being warm and cozy takes priority over an emergency?” The way Charlie flops onto you, arms sliding around your torso, is plenty answer. You sigh.
“If I get another call in the next 3 minutes, I’m getting up. Deal?” He clutches your hand in his, shakes it, and leaves a kiss on the back of your hand for good measure.
Charlie hums contentedly, snuggling back against you like a satisfied cat. His hair brushes your chin as he buries his face against your neck, and you can’t help but feel the corners of your lips tug upward. His warmth, his weight—everything about him feels like a grounding force, and you hate to admit you’re just as reluctant to leave this bubble of comfort as he is.
“You know,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and lazy, “I think we should make it a rule that no one’s allowed to interrupt couch time. Ever.”
“I like it,” you reply, your voice light with amusement. “You gonna call up the president? Make it federal law?”
“Nah,” he says, tilting his head to grin up at you. “We’ll just have to enforce it ourselves. Anyone who breaks the rule gets banished to dish duty for a month.”
You laugh softly, the sound rumbling against his cheek. “Harsh punishment.”
“Deserved punishment,” he counters with mock seriousness. “Couch time is sacred.”
The moment is so sweet you almost forget about the phone call entirely—until the screen lights up again. This time, the ringtone is accompanied by the faint buzz of the vibration against the counter. A second call.
Charlie groans dramatically, his arms tightening around you. “Nooo. You said three minutes!”
You glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s been two and a half, and besides, that’s two calls. It might actually be important.”
Charlie lets out a long, exaggerated sigh like the world is ending, but he doesn’t fight you as you shift to sit up. His hands trail down your arms as if he’s reluctant to let go, and just as your feet touch the floor, he grabs your wrist gently, pulling you back toward him.
“Wait,” he says softly. His tone is so different now—quieter, tender—that it makes you pause.
Before you can ask what’s wrong, he leans up and presses his lips to yours. It’s not one of his usual playful pecks or teasing kisses. This one lingers, slow and sweet, like he’s trying to tell you something words can’t quite convey. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as his lips move against yours.
When he pulls back, his gaze meets yours, and there’s that familiar dopey grin again, but this time it’s laced with a hint of shyness. “Okay,” he says simply, releasing you with a squeeze of your hand.
You stare at him for a moment, your heart fluttering in your chest, before giving him a small smile in return. “I’ll be back in a sec,” you promise, standing and heading toward the kitchen.
As you answer the phone, your lips still tingling from the kiss as they greet (“hello?”), you can’t help but think about how Charlie’s touch seems to linger long after it’s gone.