The Only Exception

—CHARLIE—

It all felt weirdly normal.

I mean, I’d lost count of the nights Carly had crashed at my place over the years. There was that infamous month during senior year when her parents were renovating and she basically commandeered my guest room—which, for a solid week during a brutal heatwave, had devolved into us sharing the one room with a functioning AC. One bed, a mountain of pillows between us, and a constant stream of her complaining about my taste in movies. So, her moving in? Not exactly uncharted territory.

Which is why, later that same night, I wasn’t prepared.

I was in bed, propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on my knees as I scanned a supplier report from Sweden. The loft was quiet, just how I like it.

Then the door opened.

No knock. It just swung inward. Carly stood there, backlit by the hallway light. She was wearing my gray Wayne Construction hoodie—the soft one I’d been looking for last week. It drowned her, hanging off one smooth shoulder and ending high on her thighs. Her legs were bare. She had her laptop hugged to her chest like a shield.

Hot.

The word clicked in my mind, simple and undeniable. My best friend was a knockout. I’d always known it, the way you know the sky is blue. A fact. Nothing more.

But here, in the quiet of my own room, that fact just sat there. Heavy. Obvious. Like a spotlight on something I usually didn't bother to look at.

I shut it down. It was just Carly. My brain was tired. My eyes were tired. That’s all.

“Charles, can you look at this overlay for the quarterly presentation?” she said, her voice a blend of annoyance and fatigue. “The margins are doing this weird pixelated thing when I export, and I swear if I have to rebuild this chart one more time…”

She trailed off, walking into the room like she owned the place. I blinked, forcing my gaze back to her face.

I didn’t look away from my screen. “The concept of knocking. Ever heard of it?”

She waved a dismissive hand, not even breaking stride. “Oh, please. I’ve seen you in bubble bath up to your chin with a rubber ducky on your head. We’re past knocking.”

“I was six.”

“Same thing.” She shoved her laptop at me. “Scoot over. This’ll take two seconds.”

There was a whole other side of the California king. But this was Carly. Arguing was more effort than just giving in. I shifted over with a grunt I didn't fully feel.

She climbed in, the mattress dipping. She smelled like my shower gel and her coconut stuff. It was… familiar. Not a good or bad smell. Just Carly.

I took her laptop. “I’m working, you know.”

She gave me the pout. The full-blown, bottom-lip-out, eyes-wide one she’d used to get extra cookies since kindergarten. “Please? My brain’s fried. You’re the only one who gets their weird formatting.”

I glanced at the screen. The problem was obvious. A layer misalignment so basic it was almost insulting. Carly, who could build a financial model in her sleep, had missed it.

“Here,” I said, turning the screen. “Your transparency layer’s set to the background. It’s eating your data.”

She leaned in to look,her hair brushing my arm.

“Huh.”

“Huh?” I snorted. “The great Carly Dorrington, brought down by a default setting?”

She took the laptop back, fixed it with two clicks, and set it on the nightstand. “Maybe I’m just tired.” She stretched, a soft sound escaping her as the hoodie rode up. “Or maybe I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

The words hung in the air. She’d said them quietly, almost to herself. That was the weird part. Carly didn't do soft. She did loud laughs and sharp comebacks.

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean disturb my peace.”

Her grin was instant, sharp, and familiar. The weird softness vanished. “Spot on.”

Then she did the thing. She slid down, pulled the duvet over herself, and got comfortable. On my side. In my spot.

“What are you doing?” My voice was flat.

“Going to sleep.” She nestled into the pillow, eyes closed.

“Your room is twenty feet away.”

“Mhm.”She was already playing dead. “Sleepy people don’t do logic, Charlie. It’s a scientific fact.”

“Get out of my bed, Dorrington.”

“Night night, Charles.”

And that was it. She was asleep. Or doing a convincing impression.

I stared at her for a full minute. Carly Dorrington. In my bed. Asleep.

Any other woman, and this would be a five-alarm fire. A blatant play for attachment. A boundary stomped into dust.

With Carly… it was just Tuesday. Annoying? A little. But also… normal. She’d been doing this since we were kids. Claiming my space like she had a right to it. Because with her, she kind of did.

I went back to my report. The words blurred. The quiet of the loft felt different. It wasn’t empty anymore. It was… occupied.

When I finally shut my laptop, the city lights were the only glow. I looked at her. In the shadows, all her sharp edges were softened. Her stubborn mouth was relaxed. She looked young. Like the kid who used to fall asleep during movies and I’d have to carry to bed.

Cute.

The thought was simple, clean, and carried zero voltage. It was just a fact.

I slid down on my side of the bed, keeping a canyon of space between us. I faced the window, my back to her. My rule was intact. I wasn’t sharing the bed with her. She was just… there. A familiar piece of furniture that breathed.

I closed my eyes. The last conscious thought I had was a mild irritation that my sheets would smell like her coconut shampoo tomorrow.

And the part of my brain that should have been screaming about violations, about boundaries, about the dangers of letting someone this close… was silent.

It didn’t even recognize her as a threat.

---

To be continued...