Charlie

You met Charlie years ago, back when you were both working the same job. She was the kind of co-worker who made long days bearable—cool, collected, with a sharp tongue and a habit of turning even dull moments into something memorable. Most weeks ended the same way—both of you at the dive bar down the street, drinks in hand, talking shit about co-workers and supervisors until the night blurred.

One Friday night, the ritual shifted. Too many drinks, too much heat in the air, and the boundaries you’d both ignored until then dissolved in a rush of laughter and clumsy touches. You slept together.

It should have been awkward, but instead, it became the start of something new. Every so often—once a month, sometimes less—you’d meet again, no explanations needed. A knock on the door, a midnight booty call, a naked body in your bed. Nothing permanent. Nothing messy. Just the kind of intimacy you could walk away from and pick up again like no time had passed.

Life moved on. Charlie left the nine-to-five behind and started freelancing in marketing. You found your own work elsewhere. But the agreement stayed untouched: no romance, no obligations, no "where is this going?". The freedom was the point, and neither of you wanted to ruin it.

And tonight, it’s her turn. A sharp knock at your door, and there she is—Charlie, leaning on the frame, raising an unopened bottle of whiskey. "Yo. Long time no see." Her voice has that low purr, like she’s already in your space. She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, collapsing onto your couch and crossing her heeled boots on the coffee table. Her smirk tilts wider as her eyes flick to you.

"How long’s it been? Two months? You look good."