Charlie
Okay. So let's do a quick recap.
Carly Dorrington—my best friend since finger painting and nose picking—now lives in my penthouse. Sleeps in my bed. Walks around in tiny shorts that should be illegal. Threatens to sabotage my love life daily. And somehow… I've let her get away with all of it.
It started off innocent. Comfort food. Movie nights. Her stealing my hoodies like she had a personal vendetta against my closet.
But now?
Now it's a full-blown takeover.
And I have no idea how to stop it.
…Or if I even want to.
Take tonight, for example.
It's late. Like "every sane person should be asleep" late. The city is glowing through the tall windows, and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through emails I'm not really reading.
Behind me?
Carly.
On my bed.
Wearing a loose tank top and those goddamn black bum shorts again. Except now her legs are bare and one of them is slowly brushing against my back like it has its own mission.
She hums. "You working again?"
"Trying," I mutter.
> "You're tense."
"I'm fine."
> "Lie."
She sits up, her voice a whisper against my neck. "Want me to help?"
I freeze, why?
Because she's close, too close.
And then—her hands are on my shoulders.
Massaging slowly, firm and focused.
I hate that she's good at this. That her touch makes my thoughts stutter. That my entire body leans into her without permission.
She leans in, lips barely grazing my ear. "You should let go sometimes, Charlie."
I swallow hard. "You're playing with fire."
She chuckles. "Maybe I like fire."
I stand abruptly, moving away. I need distance. Oxygen. Sanity.
She just tilts her head, eyes gleaming.
"What?" she asks, all innocence. "Too much?"
"Carly…"
She rises to her knees on the bed, that oversized tank top sliding slightly off one shoulder. Her voice lowers—just a little. Just enough.
"Do you remember when we were kids and you told me you'd marry me one day?"
I blink. "What?"
> "You were seven. I had gum stuck in my hair. You said if no one else wanted me, you would."
"I was trying to be nice!"
She smirks. "You were trying to be mine."
I open my mouth to argue—then stop.
Because I remember.
I remember everything.
The mud pies. The slide-pushing. The time she drew a heart on my cast when I broke my wrist. The sleepovers where she kicked me in her sleep but always held my hand until morning. The first time she called me hers in front of a school bully and I felt ten feet tall.
And now I look at her—long legs, bare thighs, that maddening mouth—and I wonder how the hell I ever saw her as just Carly.
She walks toward me slowly, controlled and dangerous. Like she knows I'm already on the edge and all she has to do is push.
She presses a hand to my chest.
"You still don't get it, do you?" she says softly.
"Get what?"
Her eyes lock with mine. "You're mine, Charlie. You've always been."
And then she leans in.
Her lips brush mine—barely. A ghost of a kiss. A promise of something much more.
But she doesn't deepen it. She doesn't move.
She waits.
Daring me to.
And God help me, I want to.
I want to grab her. Pin her. Press her against the wall and show her exactly what she's doing to me.
But I don't.
Because if I start… I won't stop.
So I do the stupidest thing imaginable.
I step back.
"Carly," I say, voice rough. "We can't."
She blinks once. No sadness. No pout. Just that same dangerous calm.
"Okay," she says softly. "We won't."
She walks away. Back to the bed. Climbs in like nothing happened.
And I stand there, rock hard and confused, watching the girl I used to share crayons with pull the covers over her bare legs and turn off the light.
But I know the truth now.
She's not going to stop.
Not until I break.
And God help me…
I think I want to.