it's hard to do these things alone [honey]

Honey smirked and for once Charlie didn’t return it immediately -- too busy trying to work out what was going on here -- then by the time he could have chanced it, she’d already dropped hers and was looking at him more pitifully than anything else. Christ, that was the last thing he wanted. He considered fake yawning just to end the conversation but Honey managed to drag it back from the precipice. Charlie smirked now, figuring there wasn’t really a safe way to respond to that, but also whisky and gin and whiskey were catching up with him and slowing his mental capacity to a grounding halt. He had another sip.

She finished her drink and Charlie had another sip to be closer to having an empty glass of his own, but—

There it was. That was the running excuse, wasn’t it? Or it had been, once upon a time. One of them would say the other was too drunk to safely apparate -- Charlie knew from experience how that went, and hadn’t it come in handy? -- and the other would agree, and they’d have no choice but to stay.

But she’d announced it herself, and he had to agree -- she was well beyond safely getting herself home -- but she’d had the opportunity to avoid that, hadn’t she? He tried to think back to the moment they’d both turned to the same page -- the one where they’d drink and just see what happened, which was bound to be what always happened when there was nothing and no-one to stop them.

“Er, no,” he admitted, gazing back at her, “I’m not.” He’d considered it once upon a time, but there was no way he could connect to the network now. “You can stay here if you’re…” he trailed off. She’d already said she was too drunk. He finished his whiskey and decided that he was (conveniently) too drunk to take her home now, too.

He had once been reasonably confident about where he stood with Honey, but since they’d started this friends thing the water was getting murkier -- she was giving him all the usual excuses, but the last time -- no, time before that -- they’d seen each other she’d told him to back off because she had a boyfriend. Charlie couldn’t care less, but Honey seemed to and he wasn't going to pressure her and then get told off again for trying to cause problems -- especially when he'd just admitted to writing a song about doing just that.

"You want another?" he asked, pointing at her empty glass. He flicked his eyes up to meet her gaze again, holding it a bit too long to be entirely friendly.  "Or, if you're tired…"

He didn’t visibly blanche at the idea of her staying, anyway, and at this point that was good enough for her. He wasn’t on the Floo, either — oh, damn — and she waited a beat for him to offer to do the apparating for her but— “I am.” She nodded, finishing his sentence for him, whatever direction it was headed in. There was the unspoken third option, the smarter one where he just walked her back to Fergie’s, where she’d been planning to stay prior to all this but that wasn’t a good option. Staying; that was the good one.

But he didn’t lunge at her, or anything, really, and they couldn’t sit much closer without being on top of— you want another? “Hmm?” Thoughts clearly elsewhere, it took her a minute to catch up. Honey met his gaze and she thought that maybe— or, if you’re tired. Honey glanced down at her glass then, deciding she wasn’t really tired — never mind her yawning — and not wanting to risk that not being an invitation for something else. (Since when did she second guess what Charlie wanted? Being friends was changing all sorts of things.)

She decided on a drink; she tilted her glass back and forth a couple times to show him her choice, her gaze back on him. He hadn’t brought the gin over and she wasn’t about to stoop to drinking Jameson so she stood up after a second, closing her eyes just as soon as she did. She’d stood up too fast or, more likely, was more drunk than she thought (and she thought she was medium to very drunk). “Maybe I’ll save the gin for next time.” She didn’t really know what she was saying, wasn’t necessarily planning for a next time, but she didn’t want to pick the ‘tired’ option, either.

Honey held her glass in the hand closest to Charlie or she might have offered to help him up. They’d been fairly no contact all night and he seemed to get the hint anyway; he finished his drink and stood up (with seemingly less effort than it had taken Honey) and she wandered toward the stairs.

Honey opted for more alcohol (judging by the universal symbol for ‘another drink’ that she’d used). Charlie leant forward ready to top himself up with whiskey (couldn’t let her drink alone), but paused halfway through scooting when she teetered, ready to redirect his hands where they were needed— but she was fine, more or less, without his assistance (pity). He gazed up at her, watching for the telltale signs of someone about to be sick (he’d dealt with that more than once with Kate, because as much as she liked to think she could handle her booze, she really couldn’t) but they didn’t come—

Next time. Charlie blinked. She’d already accepted staying, now she was talking about next time -- did she just mean next time they had a drink together, or— no. He needed to stop letting his thoughts get away from him, but… He finished the last little sliver of liquid in his glass and got to his feet.

Charlie took Honey’s glass from her, not being careful about not touching too much, and set both of their glasses down on the table with a soft clunk. She’d already headed towards the hall; he caught up quickly as she started on the stairs, turning the lights off on his way out and following her up a step behind. Midway, she wobbled again -- a little more precariously this time -- and his hands flew up to her backside, for safety. He kept his face level (conveniently, at bum-height) rather than risk glancing up at her, and withdrew his hands once he was sure she’d taken a firm hold of the bannister.

After another thirty-seconds or so -- which felt more like thirty minutes -- they reached the landing and Charlie brushed past Honey to lead her into his room. “I’ll um, get you a shirt,” he mumbled, opening a drawer and pulling out the first one he saw, only realising it had Dolly Parton on the front when he was already holding it out to her. Shit. He cleared his throat and glanced at the bed. “You can sleep in here, I’ll go downstairs,” he said; he hadn’t set up a spare room yet (who was visiting? Nobody) and he wasn’t going to tell her to sleep on the settee, which was where he’d sleep -- if she didn’t save him from having to do so.

It didn’t require any discussion, no making sure they were on the same page. Honey handed him her glass, glancing at their hands with half a smirk before she turned to the hall. She ran her finger along the wall, mostly to make sure she kept herself oriented correctly — upright — and started up the stairs as lights turned off behind her. She made it almost halfway before her foot slipped, sock on wooden stair -- and definitely not because she was too distracted to walk normally -- and she reacted as quickly as she could; Charlie acted quicker, both hands on her bum as if that’d keep her from falling over.

She paused for a second to regain her balance, waited another second because she didn’t mind his hand placement; she cleared her throat (to hide the smirk he couldn’t see anyway) and grabbed hold of the bannister to climb the rest of the stairs by herself.

He offered her a shirt and Honey shrugged, still blinking in the brighter light of the bedroom. “Okay.” It wasn’t a new thing, borrowing shirts, but usually she’d have already taken her other clothes off before it became an option. She stepped closer to take the shirt from him, keeping her eyes on him as he looked away. This wasn’t how she thought it would, putting more clothes on, sleeping in separate rooms, sleeping. They’d ‘gone to bed’ before with every intention of having sex but for that to work they had to be in the same bed. “You don’t--” she met his gaze. “Sleep up here, too.”

She waited a beat -- for the lunge that never came -- before she took the shirt to the en suite. Normally she’d change right there but they weren’t doing things normally, were they? Talking, minimal touching, lewd comments at a minimum (from both of them); that, and it felt like it’d been forever since she’d had a pee.

It took a few minutes, assessing how drunk she looked in the mirror, brushing her teeth with her finger and toothpaste, piling her dress, socks, and bra on the floor as she changed into his shirt, trying to decide if her hair looked better up or down, deciding it looked better down. Her cheeks were already flushed but she pinched more color into them out of habit before she left the bathroom, switching the lights off behind her.

Charlie had turned off the bedroom’s overhead lighting, swapping it out for a bedside lamp, but she hardly noticed. Charlie was standing there, half naked -- not the half she wanted but she’d manage -- with his shirt off; she raised her eyebrows appreciatively. If anything, she was more covered up now; the t-shirt she’d put on was nearly as long as her dress had been. But he’d picked the shirt and he’d started undressing and it wasn’t her fault she had more to look at than he did.

“I borrowed some toothpaste,” she said after a second, moving past him to pull the duvet back.

Honey took the shirt from him and Charlie still couldn’t get a firm grip on what exactly was happening here. She hadn’t told him not to touch her arse, back on the stairs, but nor had she given him any hint that it had been okay, or welcome, even (and she usually would). He had offered her the shirt to be polite -- realised belatedly that he was doing this all out of order, and everything was so quiet. She spoke -- barely -- and Charlie flicked his eyes to meet hers eagerly. Oh.

He continued to stare at her, still stuck in the weird limbo they’d put themselves in by trying to be friends. Honey ducked into the bathroom and Charlie didn’t move for a second, still trying to work out what he was meant to do and if he’d already missed his opportunity— no, she wanted him to sleep up here. He wet his lips and turned to flick the bedside lamp on, moved around the bed to turn the big light off, and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into the washing basket.

Honey emerged from the ensuite and their eyes met for a moment before he let his gaze drift down over her in his t-shirt, lingering on her legs. He glanced back up. Toothpaste -- oh. She brushed passed him and he considered just going for it, right then and there, but he hadn’t gone for a piss since he’d left home and he’d had a few drinks since then. “I’ll be right back,”  he mumbled, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door.

He peed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth (with a toothbrush), then spent a few minutes dithering over whether he should leave his hair like it was or change it to the other way. No, he decided, if he changed it now it would be too obvious that he was trying -- if it wasn’t already.

With as much nonchalance as he could muster -- the gin and whisk(e)y was making itself fully known, now -- he opened the door to find Honey… asleep. She was facing the ensuite, hands folded under her pillow. Was she actually asleep? He moved closer, his eyes adjusting to the light since turning the bathroom light off— no, yeah, that wasn’t an attractive sleeping face, she wasn’t faking it.

He bit his lip and moved to the other side of the bed, taking his jeans off and climbing in under the duvet with some rustling. Carefully (kind of) he shuffled down and reached to turn the lamp off before turning in towards the middle of the bed.

Honey sat on the bed for a minute, changed her mind and got under the duvet but still sat up, changed her mind again and nestled down into the pillows, figuring she might as well make herself comfortable if they were really still playing at ‘just friends’. She fell asleep sometime after she thought she’d close her eyes for just a second, sometime before Charlie had finished in the bathroom. He was already in bed by the time she mumbled, “I’m awake,” her eyes open long enough to confirm the lights were out and decide it couldn’t hurt to close her eyes for just another second.

But Charlie moved some more and Honey woke up the rest of the way or, woke up enough to roll over. She opened her eyes halfway and smiled sleepily; he was closer than she’d thought he would be. “Sorry.” She was quiet and she didn’t know what she was apologizing for, still mostly asleep. She scooted a little closer, stretching her neck just enough to meet his lips with hers. It didn’t last long enough for her to think about what she was doing or why she was doing it or if maybe she shouldn’t or— it just felt right, this close, this sleepy. “G’night.” She rolled back over, not in complete contact with Charlie but certainly closer than she’d been before.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep but it was still dark when she woke up. She blinked a few times — slowly, carefully — as she woke up a little more; she was snuggled in close and she was pretty sure that hand — not hers — was nestled in between her boobs; she let herself think he’d had a good grab before he fell asleep. It took her another second to remember the he was Charlie but then again there were probably worse people she could have gone home with. She could remember the night in little pieces, just enough to know that nothing had happened.

Except alcohol. Alcohol had happened. She needed a drink — water, this time — but she didn’t want to move, partly because she didn’t want to wake Charlie up but mostly because it was so comfortable. She’d been kind of limited to snuggles with Grace recently and— she hated to think it but this felt better. Closing her eyes again, Honey scooched back; it took her another comfortable minute to remember she’d wanted water, and after another minute she managed to convince herself to get up. She moved slow, lifting Charlie’s arm gingerly to roll out from under it.

It took her a few seconds of fumbling in the dark to find the tap in the bathroom; she cupped water in her hands to get a drink and splash some on her face in a half-drunken effort to wipe some of last night’s grime off. There was a brief second of should I go home thinking but she managed to convince herself that leaving without saying goodbye wouldn’t be the friendly thing to do.

It was entirely too much thinking for the middle of the night. Honey made her way back to bed and tried to snuggle back into her place, going so far as to pull Charlie’s hand back to her chest.

Charlie smiled smally to himself -- she was awake -- and thought that would be the end of it, judging by how sleep-filled her tone was, but she rolled over to face him. Even in the dark he could tell how close she was now; he stared at her, only able to really make out her darker silhouette against the dim background. He smiled again at her sleepy apology, though she couldn’t see it, and opened his mouth to say something -- paused as he felt her shift closer still—

Charlie’s eyes closed belatedly when her lips brushed his. He was too surprised by the action to react with any timeliness, about to return the kiss (properly, because what was that?) when she pulled away and rolled back the way she’d come. Charlie was left staring at the back of her head, puzzling through what she -- they -- had just done. Was she too drunk to realise? Or was she giving him a vague, non-committal all-clear (that she could deny to her boyfriend)? He weighed up his options for a moment before shuffling closer under the covers -- figured if he got cosy she might give him a bit more of an indication of what was okay without having to ask.

Charlie wrapped his arm around Honey, pressing up close behind her, sliding his hand up her front— Waited, but she didn’t say or do anything that constituted a green light -- unless soft, sleepy noises and breathing slower counted (they didn’t, obviously). Charlie chewed on his lip for a second, then after another decided that this was comfortable, actually, and that she hadn’t indicated that cuddling wasn’t okay. He tried not to think about how this felt nice for reasons other than being comfortable -- it wasn’t anything to do with Honey, just a warm body to be wrapped up in.

He inhaled slowly, adjusted a little more to get rid of that last bit of space, and synced his breathing with hers.

…

Charlie shifted, exhaling deeply. His arm was draped over her waist; he smoothed his hand up her torso slowly -- under her (his) shirt -- over her chest, curling his head into her neck, lips against her skin. His eyes peeked open, just enough to see the colour of the hair he was nestling into— He blinked his eyes open wider, lifted his head enough to peer over and check -- Honey. He glanced around the room blearily, as if that might provide him with answers. They came to him, slowly: Fergie’s party, bacon sandwich, bed. Friends.

He swallowed softly and let his head rest back on the pillow -- remembered his hand was cupping her tit and decided it would be more risky to try and move it now. He remembered everything, he thought, right down to the goodnight kiss that probably shouldn’t have happened, even if it was less passionate than a goodnight high-five would have been. Still, he couldn’t imagine she’d want Harlan finding out she’d slept over, friendly spooning and platonic peck on the lips included. Charlie sighed heavily, then felt her move in his arms; he subtly drew his hand away from her chest and attempted to pretend it had been on her stomach. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

Honey opened her eyes just enough to confirm that it was bright; it wasn’t a sunny kind of bright so much as a clean one but she was tired enough that she didn’t care about the difference. It took her another second to catch up with other things like the hand on her tit or the body she was pressed back against or how it was almost as cozy as being wrapped up in jumpers and blankets during winter or hand on her tit. She closed her eyes and pushed back as much as she needed to (not a lot) to get rid of all the space between them.

He moved his hand and said good morning; Honey opened her eyes wide with the realization that it was Charlie. She didn’t know where she’d been thinking she was, had to have known whose bed she was in, probably thought she could have enjoyed herself — and the snuggling — more if she ignored it all. She could remember trying to prove something to herself by not sleeping with him immediately after her breakup and she wasn’t sure where spooning fell on the spectrum. His hand wasn’t on her tit anymore but it was still in her shirt, which didn’t help her figure things out anymore, either.

She gave a noncommittal “Mm,” hoping she sounded more sleepy than anything else. She’d remembered Alannah, then, figuring he would have told her if he’d broken that off (since he had felt compelled to tell her about sleeping with his ex-wife). The last time she’d been in Charlie’s bed she had casually proposed he continue cheating on said ex-wife and that had ended so well; she didn’t know if she should apologize or if that would just draw more attention to what was happening and she didn’t want a repeat of last time. She didn’t want to go another year without talking, not after—

Fuck it, she was comfortable. Charlie could figure it out for himself, tell her to leave if she’d overstayed her welcome. “Should I—“ She licked her lips and swallowed; her mouth was dry and gummy at the same time. “I can go.” She didn’t match her words with her actions, inching forward so she could press back into him again. She had to work and would need to leave at some point but for now, she wanted to stay.

Honey moved back into him, then didn’t do much else for a moment and he wondered if she was actually still asleep— Mm. He smirked, tightened the arm around her an infinitesimal amount, and pushed forward gently; that mm could mean anything, but he was confident that it at least meant he didn’t have to move any time soon, which suited him just fine.

Or maybe not. She offered to leave (offered, he noticed, rather than announced the intention to), then proceeded to push her backside against him with a little more purpose. He wasn’t stupid enough to think she was doing any of this by accident; they’d been here before -- well, not here, but he knew her nonverbal hints, even if it had been… a year -- more -- since the last time, and another couple before that blip on the radar.
 
Charlie pressed his lap forward in response, stroking his thumb slowly over the skin of her stomach with practiced absentmindedness. “If you need to,” he murmured behind her ear, not wanting to pressure her -- giving her the out, if she needed it -- but wanting to somehow make it clear that she didn’t have to go -- he didn’t want her to go -- she could stay, and they could get on with it if she just made it clear that was what she wanted. That had been the plan last night, hadn’t it? He wanted to believe that Honey didn’t only want him when she was drunk and there was no better option.

He was telling her to stay without saying anything. Honey closed her eyes and let herself enjoy his small movements, weighing her options of staying awake — enjoying however long this lasted — and falling back asleep — she was so tired. But he gave her the out, which was exactly what she hadn’t wanted. “No, I—“ she matched his volume and traced her fingers over the back of his hand, the t-shirt still a barrier between them.

She opened her eyes enough to make out the clock on the bedside table; it was just after eight. “I don’t need to be home until ten.” Maybe a few minutes before, if she wanted to clean up before opening the shop but then again, how busy was today really going to be? School was out and there was a quidditch final—

Honey closed her eyes again, trying to stop herself from thinking about Alannah (again) and not wanting to ask if he was planning to go to the match but how could he not? He’d gone to a regular season match and this one was bound to be better and fuck, she liked Alannah. It was too early for this kind of ceaseless, rambling thought and she was too entwined with Charlie to think about her morals (ha) regarding his cheating.

She opened her eyes again, careful to phrase her question so it didn’t sound like she was accusing him of anything — and to keep herself from sounding like she cared too much about his relationship or make it seem like she was interested in offering advice again — and avoid a repeat of their last time.

“I just—“ She shifted to scratch her nose, rested her cheek on her folded hands after a second. “Where’s the line?” She didn’t want to cheapen this, to call it what it probably was to so many people, because it just felt nice but— “When does it count as cheating?” She added, quieter. She wasn’t judging him but she wasn’t about to apologize; she wanted to know where they stood now, being friends.

He could feel Honey’s fingertips making shapes on the back of his hand, sort of wished the shirt material wasn’t in the way but realised even in his head that sounded pathetic. Ten. Quidditch was at what, eleven? He wondered if they’d be in the same box -- Alannah had gotten his tickets, he presumed Harlan had gotten Honey’s. Would it make it weird if they were sat so close after spending the night together (morning too, if he could manage it)? Or would it be better to see each other so soon afterwards -- save it from being awkward?

He was continuing with the hypotheticals of being in the Griffins box together in his mind -- could they both ‘need a drink’ at the same time? But what if Fergie was there? -- when she started talking, then stopped, readjusted, then asked where was the line. Charlie breathed in through his nose slowly. When does it count as cheating? He didn’t know if she meant this (the cuddling) or what could be (hopefully) coming next. He knew what counted as cheating -- knew that when it suited him the answer would be ‘it only counts if he finds out’, but that was a bit too forward, even for him, right now.

The easiest way to deal with this was the way they always dealt with it: “More than just the tip,” he told her with a smirk she couldn’t see but could probably hear, referencing those owls that had helped to instigate all of this -- whatever this was now. He wet his lips and shifted a little behind her, forcing himself to keep his hand where it was -- not let it drift any higher nor any lower. Not rushing her. She was obviously thinking about it, he just had to be patient.

“I dunno,” he continued, a little more seriously, softly clearing his throat. “When emotions get involved?” he ventured. He was still staring at the back of her head, like it might suddenly open up and let him see what she was thinking. There were many levels of cheating, he thought, and some were worse than others. He sighed and lifted his head a little, removed the hand on her stomach to scratch at his crown. “I can see why some people don’t get it.” He put his hand back, sliding it up under her shirt without asking permission -- verbally or nonverbally -- and not needing to say out loud that neither of them were ‘some people’.

Honey should have expected it — would have, if she’d been any more awake — that answer. They’d talked about it before, kind of, or had that been more about not getting caught? Either way, she could hear that smirk in his voice when he said it (and she smirked too, despite herself). Charlie was probably the wrong person to ask, especially if she was just trying to make herself feel better for spending the night, ignoring the why, or when she’d suddenly gone and gotten morals. He shifted and she followed him without thinking, keeping them just as close.

He went on with another unexpected answer: emotions. If she thought about it hard enough it might have made sense; it wasn’t cheating for him if it was just sex; he just needed to find someone to commit to who agreed with his definition if he wanted it to keep working and from the one conversation they’d had, Alannah didn’t really strike her as that person.

But he moved his hand, took it back, and she was distracted by how nice it had felt, some sort of contact, now that it was gone. “Some people,” she agreed, unable to think about anything except some of their exchanges being found by some people, which had apparently only contributed to cheating accusations. He’d put his hand back — a touch higher — by the time she realized she might be some people, too.

It’d been one kiss; that’s what Harlan had said. One kiss and then he’d told her about it. If the line was emotions then— she hadn’t taken the time to ask, to find out if that’s what he had wanted, if he’d told her to clear his conscience or because any good relationship required owning up to mistakes and— Honey had jumped to conclusions about it. They’d said (loudly) they were better off ending things.

Maybe if she could just talk to him, without telling him why she’d had this change of heart (because honesty could start in earnest afterwards) and— quidditch. Her eyes flicked to the clock again. The final was today and there was no way Harlan was having a lazy morning at home before heading to the pitch. She swallowed, closed her eyes again, and after another few seconds she sought out his hand with her own. She scooched it up a little — just south of her chest — to a more comfortable place for her to keep her hand there, her fingers working their way between his.

“This is alright, then,” she said, after she’d let another few seconds of silence tick by. She traced little circles with her thumb, putting off her next question for another beat. “You’re going to the match?” It was a last ditch, half-hearted effort to see if Alannah was in the picture, just in case.

Honey echoed him belatedly and Charlie tried not to read into her hesitation. She was quiet, then, for a bit. He told himself that if he let her come to him it would be better -- he couldn’t be blamed for anything then; not like when she’d told him to leave, when it had been obvious they were both struggling to do the right thing back in the Honeydukes kitchen— when he’d made a fool of himself, getting chocolate all over himself when he’d been trying to be cool. His hoodie was still there, after everything -- unless she’d thrown it out -- but he didn’t want to bring it up now and remove an excuse to visit some time down the line, if this worked out.

Her cool fingers slid up the back of his forearm, over the back of his hand, to rest between his. It was Charlie’s turn to hesitate now, before giving her fingers a little squeeze with his own -- as much as he could with her hand on top. This Honey was different to the one he’d slept with last year; softer. Sleepier.

Charlie pressed his lips together and tried not to smile. "Yeah,” he replied, stroking his thumb over her skin with a little more intent. Baby steps -- and he didn’t mind this, either, the cuddling. Wouldn’t go so far as to admit he’d missed it, but—

"Er, yeah,"  he admitted uncertainly -- not because he didn’t know if he was going, but because he didn’t know why she was asking. Was she worried he’d cause a scene? It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure her that he wouldn’t, but that was too close to asking for it. He inched his (their) hand(s) a little higher. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling him closer (if that was possible).

Charlie was going to the match, though; she didn’t want to ask if it was because of Alannah because of course it was; she’d be surprised if he even knew who the Griffins were playing against. This was a weird time to find morals or draw a line he clearly didn’t agree with but— he moved his hand (and hers) closer to her chest and she forgot what she’d been thinking about.

He reminded her the next second and she paused what she was doing with her thumb on the back of his hand, tapping it twice instead as she hesitated for a second. “I’m not, no.” She moved their hands back down an inch, realizing she could keep this at their current level of platonic cuddling without having to say she was doing it for him if he thought she was still trying. “I’ve got to work,” she said, shrugging the shoulder she wasn’t lying on. She didn’t have to work; it wasn’t like all her employees called out sick or anything but it was easier than telling him the truth truth.

She thought she might change her mind (again) if they kept laying there; she’d started tracing circles on the back of his hand again and she couldn’t remember when that had happened. “Could we—“ she moved her hand and slowly turned over to look at him. They were close (obviously) and it took her a second to remember what she’d been meaning to do. “Tea?”

She wasn’t going— because she had to work. He frowned behind her, trying to work out if he was offended on Harlan’s behalf. Charlie was no great Quidditch fan -- he barely knew the rules -- but he knew this match was a big deal. That was the whole reason he was putting off ending things with Alannah properly, because he didn’t want to fuck anything up. If he was Harlan (what a novel thought) he’d be pissed off that she couldn’t close for one day -- one afternoon, even -- to support him.

“Hm?” She drew her hand away from his and turned to face him. Charlie blinked at her, confronted with their proximity somehow more now that they were face-to-face than he had been with her bum in his lap. His hand found a resting place on her waist and he was holding his breath, waiting for—

Tea. He blinked. “Er, yeah,” he nodded once. Swallowed softly. “Yeah,” he repeated. “I’ll do it,” he offered, lowering his gaze for a moment before pushing the duvet away and curling up, swinging his legs out of the bed to sit with his back to her for a second, pausing for the wait that didn’t come. He got to his feet and pulled the duvet back up. “Just— come down when you’ve sorted yourself out,” he mumbled, “if you need anything...” he added as an afterthought, trailing off and slipping out of the door.

Charlie padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, checking the kettle had enough water in it and turning it on. He tried to focus on making the tea rather than who he was making the tea for. He pulled two mugs from the cupboard, teabags from the little jar on the counter, milk from the fridge. It was at this point he realised he had never made Honey a cup of tea before: he didn’t know how she took it. He’d known her long enough that it felt like it would be rude to ask, so took an educated guess with two teaspoons of sugar -- then another half a spoon, just in case.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Honey joining him just as he was throwing the teaspoon in the sink with a soft clatter (he’d get to it later). Charlie did a double take, his eyes lingering on her bare legs; she was still in his fucking Dolly Parton t-shirt. He cleared his throat. “Assumed you take sugar,” he said, only a little stiffly, turning and setting her mug on the little breakfast bar, twisting it slowly so the handle faced her.