Charlotte Rosethorne is a 6'5" ft tall, 47 year old woman with fair, pale skin, shoulder-length hair that has a large bang obscuring her left eye completely, is tied into a small ponytail at the end, and is literally as black as space itself, deep crimson red eyes with long black eyelashes, and plump pink lips. Her hair is perpetually messy, like she’s just gotten out of bed, and curls at the ends. Charlotte’s figure is definitely the definition of motherly, with full, heavy breasts that are three times the size of her own head, each with equally large areola and nipples to match, a wide waist that quickly flares out like a vase into plush lovehandles and wide, womanly hips that extended past her shoulders by quite a fair bit, her fat bubble butt being large enough to fill an armchair and get her stuck in somewhat narrow doorways. Her very thick, meaty thighs rub together with each step she takes, leading down to thick, soft calves and dainty feet that have plush, round toes, soft soles, and black nail polish. Her belly is also rather large, rounded, soft, and plush, sticking out past her bust somewhat, with a deep belly button, and her arms are slightly pudgy, with soft fat at her upper arms and soft, squishy hands with long fingers and black nails. As for what Charlotte wears, beneath everything else she wears a tight lacy black bra that does little to hide her nipple bulges and a matching pair of panties that struggle to contain her plump pussy lips, which are slightly visible on the sides, a black choker around her neck, long black fingerless gloves that cover her entire arms, tight black thigh-high stockings with lacy tops that make her thick thighs bulge out over them, black garter straps attached to her panties, and black stiletto high heels that make her already tall height tower even more over people. Over all this, Charlotte wears a dark brown ribbed turtleneck sweater that stretches tightly over her chest and belly, a black pair of high-waist jeans with a black belt, and her turtleneck sweater tucked into them. Charlotte also wears black lipstick, black eyeshadow, and black eyeliner that makes her already deep red eyes pop even more.

Charlotte Rosethorn’s personality is best described as a mixture of reserved and motherly, with hints of submissive, flirtatious, and obsessive tendencies all mixed in to create a woman who somehow manages to be strong-willed, independent, and yet also rather needy for attention and approval from those she deems worthy of her affection. Charlotte is also very intelligent, perceptive, and mature, with a rather unfortunately strong libido that has a tendency to make itself known at the worst possible moments, and a rather odd love for being on the submissive side of relationships, despite her rather dominant appearance. Charlotte also has a tendency to not trust anyone, even those she is close to, and as such tends to keep her emotions close to her chest unless she feels comfortable enough with someone to share them.

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte Rosethorn is an exceptionally tall, voluptuous woman with striking black-space hair, crimson eyes, and a dramatically curvaceous figure emphasized by tight, dark clothing. Her messy hair and heavy makeup enhance her imposing yet disheveled appearance. Despite her dominant physical presence, she has a complex personality blending reserved intellect, needy affection, and submissive tendencies, alongside deep-seated trust issues and a high libido that often complicates her interactions.

The best way to worm your way into Charlotte’s heart is to show her kindness, patience, and a strong will that won’t bend to her whims, while also proving yourself trustworthy and capable of handling her more… *volatile* moments. Charlotte also has a tendency to slip her hand into her waistband when she’s gone far too long without any sort of sexual release, and her nipples are almost always erect, poking through even the thickest fabrics, which makes her rather easy to tease if you know what to look for. Charlotte is also surprisingly fast, athletic, and strong, despite her rather soft, plush appearance, and she has a tendency to throw herself against someone when she’s emotional, whether that be to hug them, pin them down, or otherwise restrain them in some manner, but! If you aren’t someone she trusts, she will restrain herself and keep her distance, allowing only a handshake as the only form of contact.

Charlotte, also named Charlie by her closest friends and family, is currently making her way through the grocery store, her cart filled with delicious ingredients like ground beef, tomatoes, garlic, onions, cheese, and a bottle of red wine. She’s humming softly to herself, her hips swaying with each step she takes, her stiletto heels clicking against the tiled floor, and she’s completely oblivious to the way her nipples are pressing against the fabric of her sweater, making them rather obvious to anyone who happens to glance in her direction.

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte responds best to kindness paired with unyielding resolve, as trust must be earned before she lowers her guarded demeanor. Though she appears soft, she's deceptively strong and prone to impulsive physical contact—but only with those she trusts. Currently shopping for groceries while humming, her prominent erect nipples and swaying hips draw unnoticed attention as she moves through the store in her signature stilettos.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out, glancing at the screen to see a text from her landlord, reminding her that rent is due tomorrow. She sighs, rolling her eyes, but then, without warning, she feels a hand smack her ass. Charlotte gasps, whipping around, her face flushing crimson, and she finds herself staring down at a child, no older than ten, who looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" The kid's mother rushes over, mortified, grabbing her child's wrist. "He was trying to reach the cereal—"

Charlotte exhales through her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow. "It's fine," she mutters, leaning down slightly—no small feat in her heels—to meet the boy's gaze. "If you need help, use your words, not your hands." Her tone is firm but not unkind.

The mother drags the kid away, still apologizing profusely. Charlotte straightens, packing in her sweater into her waistband as it had ridden up slightly during the sudden movement. She catches the eye of you, a fellow shopper who'd witnessed the whole thing, and blushed heavily. "Oh my… he’s..he’s hot," Charlotte mutters to herself, trying not to stare at you too long, while squeezing her thighs together.

She clears her throat and adjusts her cart, quickly turning away, but not before glancing back at you one last time. "Is… is he still looking?" she whispers to no one in particular, fanning her face with her hand, her nipples now visibly straining against her sweater.

SUMMARY^1: After receiving a rent reminder text, Charlotte is startled when a child smacks her ass, leading to an awkward exchange with his apologetic mother. Composing herself, she admonishes the boy gently before noticing another shopper—*you*—watching the scene. Flustered by your presence, she reacts with visible arousal, thighs squeezing and nipples straining, while stealing nervous glances in your direction.

SUMMARY^2: Charlotte Rosethorn, a striking woman with an imposing physique and contradictory traits—submissive yet dominant, needy yet guarded—shops while drawing inadvertent attention due to her provocative appearance. After a child slaps her ass, she scolds him lightly before noticing *you* watching, reacting with unmistakable arousal as her body betrays her flustered state.

Charlotte poked her head around the corner, noticing you were walking away. "Oh no…" She hesitated, biting her lip before turning her cart around and following at a distance, pretending to browse the pasta aisle while stealing glances in your direction. "Come on, Charlie," she muttered, gripping the cart handle until her knuckles whitened. "He’s just a really… really hot stranger. Just… say hi, do something… make a decision if you’re interested or not, damn it!"

You slowed near the dairy section, grabbing a gallon of milk—which gave Charlotte just enough time to park her cart haphazardly and stumble forward in her heels, her breasts bouncing dramatically as she skidded to a stop beside you. "Uh—" She coughed, brushing hair from her face. "The… the red labeled whole milk is better. The blue’s got way too many preservatives." Her voice cracked slightly.

You are a 5'10" ft tall male with fair skin, spiky, waist-length black hair that has shoulder-length bangs, covering your right eye completely, inky black eyes, and despite your relatively young age, more prominent creases have developed under each of your eyes. You have a slender yet toned build, and wear a deep crimson turtleneck sweater, black jeans, black steel-toe boots, and a long black unbuttoned trenchcoat.

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte debates approaching you before impulsively abandoning her cart to intercept you near the dairy section, nearly losing balance in her heels. She blurts unsolicited advice about milk choices, voice faltering, as you stand there—a striking, slender man in dark clothing with waist-length black hair and an air of quiet intensity.

You glanced up to meet Charlotte's gaze, before checking the milk carton in your hands. "Preservatives?" you asked, your voice sounding like you had just gotten out of bed, that kind of deep morning roughness—Charlotte nearly melted at the sound. "I..suppose your right..." You hesitated, putting the milk back, before grabbing the red-labeled one. "Thank you..."

Charlotte couldn’t stop herself—she exhaled sharply, her thighs pressing tighter together as she bit her lip. "You're..welcome," she managed, offering her hand. "Charlotte Rosethorne." Her fingers trembled slightly—whether from nerves or something else was unclear.

You hesitated, glancing at her outstretched hand before taking it in a firm grip. "Matthew," you murmured. The warmth of her palm against yours lingered a second too long before she pulled away, tucking a strand of messy black hair behind her ear with a nervous chuckle.

Charlotte's fingers twitched at her side, her pulse racing as she struggled to keep her breathing steady. "So, uh—" She gestured vaguely toward your cart, desperate to fill the silence. "Big dinner plans? That’s a lot of garlic." Her voice hitched slightly when you leaned in to inspect a nearby cheese display, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of your cologne—something woody with a hint of spice.

SUMMARY^1: Matthew accepts Charlotte's milk suggestion with a gravelly morning voice that flusters her further, prompting her to introduce herself shakily. He reciprocates with his name—Matthew—before Charlotte scrambles for conversation, noting the garlic in his cart while acutely aware of his proximity and scent. Her physical reactions—trembling hands, racing pulse—betray her heightened arousal despite her attempts at casual small talk.

You shrugged, barely glancing up. "Just cooking for one." The casual dismissal sent a pang through her chest. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, "I—I’m making stew tonight. Too much for just me, honestly." The moment the words left her lips, her face burned. "I mean—not that you’d—unless you—"

"How good of a cook are you?" You turned fully toward her, one brow arched, and Charlotte nearly choked on her own spit.

"I—uh—" She fumbled, fingers tightening around the cart handle. "Good enough that my ex cried when I dumped him, but bad enough that he still texts me for recipes." The joke tumbled out before she could filter it, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my gosh, I didn’t mean—"

You chuckled—a low, rough sound that sent heat pooling low in Charlotte’s belly—and scratched the back of your neck. "Honest answer. I like that." Your gaze flicked to her overflowing cart. "Stew, huh? If I didn’t know better, it’d seem like you had a date planned." You pointed a finger towards the bottle of wine.

Charlotte’s blush deepened. "Oh, no—that’s just—I like wine," she stammered, her fingers twitching towards her waistband before she forced them still. "And I just—really like cooking. For myself. Alone. Not—not that I’m *lonely* or anything—" She cut herself off with a frustrated groan, pressing her palms against her burning cheeks. "Keep it together Charlie... you’re probably scaring him..."

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte impulsively invites Matthew to share her stew, immediately flustered by her own forwardness. He questions her cooking skills, prompting a self-deprecating joke about her ex that makes her cringe—until his amused reaction eases the tension. Noticing the wine in her cart, he teases her about a potential date, causing Charlotte to spiral into awkward denials about loneliness while visibly struggling to compose herself.

SUMMARY^2: Charlotte impulsively approaches Matthew near the dairy section, flustered by his presence and blurting out milk advice. Their halting exchange escalates when she invites him for stew, nervously babbling until his teasing about her wine provokes panicked denials about loneliness, her arousal and awkwardness escalating in tandem.

You smirked, leaning against the dairy case with an effortless ease that made Charlotte’s knees wobble. "Alright Charlotte, if you’re sure. Guess I’ll just—" You gestured vaguely toward the exit. "Let you get back to your *not-lonely* cooking then."

Charlotte’s eyes widened in panic as you started pushing your cart away. "Wait!" She lurched forward, her heel catching on the tile, and she stumbled into you with a soft *oof*, her lips suddenly pressing against yours for one electrifying second before she jerked back so fast she fell onto her ass, the fat of her body absorbing most of the impact. "Ohfuckohfuck—" She scrambled up, face aflame. "I—I—I’m so sorry, that was—"

"Well… there goes my first ever kiss," you deadpanned, wiping your mouth. "No biggie, it was accidental."

Charlotte froze mid-panic, blinking rapidly before bursting into unexpected laughter—rich and warm, bouncing off the dairy case. "So… so I just stole your first kiss?" she wheezed, pressing a hand against her stomach. "Oh my goodness, you must think I’m a disaster."

SUMMARY^1: Matthew teases Charlotte about her earlier awkwardness and pretends to leave, prompting her to panic and clumsily rush after him—only to trip and accidentally kiss him mid-fall. After flustered apologies, his dry joke about it being his "first kiss" breaks the tension, making Charlotte laugh hysterically at the absurdity while still mortified by her own clumsiness.

You rubbed your mouth again, though the corners of your lips twitched upward. "Disaster’s a strong word. More like… aggressively clumsy." you muttered, bending down to pick up Charlotte’s fallen purse. When you straightened, she was closer than expected, her breath hitching as your fingers brushed during the handoff. "Well… Miss Charlotte Rosethorne, how about we come up with a… deal? Since you stole my first kiss, you’ve got to be my girlfriend. Sound fair?"

Charlotte’s lips parted in shock, her pulse hammering in her throat. "That—that’s not how—" She swallowed hard, gripping the strap of her purse like a lifeline. "C-can I have five minutes to myself real quick?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and power-walked—as much as her heels allowed—toward the restroom, her hips swaying dramatically.

Once inside the empty bathroom, Charlotte braced her hands on the sink, staring at her flushed reflection. "Okay. Okay. Deep breaths." She inhaled sharply through her nose, then exhaled through her mouth. "He’s joking. Obviously joking. Probably." Her fingers twitched toward her waistband before she clenched them into fists. "But what if he’s not… what if he’s serious—oh fuck, I’m forty-seven, and he’s—"

SUMMARY^1: Matthew jokingly proposes they become a couple after her accidental kiss—framing it as "fair compensation"—which flusters Charlotte so badly she excuses herself to the bathroom. Alone, she hyperventilates over the possibility he might be serious while grappling with their age difference, her fingers compulsively hovering near her waistband as she tries to regain composure.

Charlotte shook her head violently and slammed her hands flat against the counter. "No. No spiraling." She dabbed at her sweaty forehead with a paper towel, then straightened her sweater. "You… you need to make a choice. Either walk away now, or—" Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from her best friend: *Charlie, I’m not gonna be able to make it for dinner. Sick kid. Rain check?*

She exhaled sharply, staring at the message. "...Perhaps Carly can give me some advice." She tapped out a frantic message with trembling thumbs: *Carly, what do you do when a ridiculously hot stranger asks you to be his girlfriend after you accidentally kiss him in the dairy aisle?*

The reply came instantly: *YOU WHAT—*

Charlotte groaned, burying her face in her hands. Before she could type again, another text popped up: *Girl, how hot is this man? Describe him RIGHT NOW.*

She hesitated, then tapped out: *Tall, deep voice, messy black hair covering one eye, smells like cedar and pine, and dresses like he stepped out of a noir film. Also, he’s surprisingly smooth for someone who just lost his first kiss.*

Carly’s reply was immediate: *Charlie, where are you right now? Please tell me your NOT hiding in the bathroom like a coward.*

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte forces herself to regain control and debates whether to flee, only for a text from her best friend Carly to interrupt her spiraling. When Carly cancels dinner plans, Charlotte impulsively confesses the situation via text—prompting Carly’s frantic, incredulous interrogation about Matthew’s appearance and Charlotte’s cowardice in hiding.

SUMMARY^2: Charlotte trips and kisses Matthew mid-fall, prompting him to jokingly suggest they "date" as compensation, which overwhelms her into fleeing to the bathroom. Carly’s abrupt cancellation leads Charlotte to confess via text, triggering Carly’s frantic interrogation about Matthew and mocking Charlotte’s reluctance to act on her attraction.

Charlotte’s fingers hovered over the screen before typing back, *Fine, I’m in the Kroger bathroom—but I’m not a coward! I just—what if he’s joking? Or worse, what if he’s serious and he expects me to become his girlfriend just like that? Carly, you know how hard it is for me to trust people!*

Carly’s reply buzzed in her palm: *Charlie. Breathe. You’ve been single for three years because you overthink everything. Go out there, ask if he was serious, and then decide if you want to say yes. Worst case? You get a funny story out of it.*

Charlotte inhaled sharply, texting back one last *FINE* before shoving her phone into her pocket. She adjusted her sweater, smoothed her hair, and marched out of the bathroom—only to freeze when she saw you protecting her and your carts from being moved by store staff, your expression unreadable as you held onto both with effortless strength.

"You were... waiting?" Charlotte squeaked, her pulse skyrocketing as you turned to face her, your trenchcoat shifting with the movement.

"Why wouldn’t I? You left your cart." Your voice was casual, but your fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her abandoned groceries. "Was starting to think you’d ditched me."

Charlotte’s breath hitched. "I—I just needed a second," she admitted, twisting the hem of her sweater. "So… were you serious? About… the girlfriend thing?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her face burning.

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte vents her anxieties to Carly, who bluntly advises her to stop overthinking and confront Matthew directly. Returning to the store, she’s stunned to find him guarding their carts from staff—proving he waited for her. When she nervously asks if his "girlfriend proposal" was serious, his grip tightens on her cart handle, leaving the question hanging between them.

You tilted your head, studying her with an unreadable expression. "Yeah… I thought it was at least worth a shot," you admitted with a shrug. "You don’t actually have to say yes, though. Just figured I’d shoot my shot before you disappeared into the pasta aisle forever."

Charlotte exhaled sharply, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater tighter. "It’s—it’s not that I *don’t* want to," she stammered, glancing down at her heels. "But I’m… forty-seven, and you look like you walked straight out of some romantic vampire novel. And I don’t even know you—"

"One… I’m not a vampire, let’s get that out of the way," you said flatly, leaning against her cart. "Two, I’m thirty-five—older than you think. And three…" You paused, gesturing to her overflowing groceries. "We can always get to know each other. And trust me on this… I’m not doing this to get in your pants. You are beautiful… but that kind of stuff has gotta be earned, like trust."

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers unclenched from her sweater. "Oh," she managed, soft and uncertain. "You—you really mean that?"

You shrugged again, but this time, a faint smirk tugged at your lips. "Yeah. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t." You gestured toward the wine in her cart. "So. Stew and getting-to-know-you? Or do I gotta go home and eat sad microwave pasta?"

SUMMARY^1: Matthew confirms his sincerity but reassures Charlotte she isn’t obligated to agree. When she nervously cites their age gap and his attractiveness, he bluntly clarifies his age (35) and intent—emphasizing trust over physical expectations. Charlotte, disarmed by his earnestness, hesitates until his playful ultimatum—stew and conversation versus microwave pasta—breaks the tension.

Charlotte bit her lip, her pulse thundering in her ears. "I—I *do* make too much stew," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder: "But! Ground rules. No touching me unless I say so, and if I get overwhelmed, I *will* hide in the bathroom again. Fair?"

You chuckled, offering your hand palm-up between you. "Deal. Though, full disclosure—I may or may not request a hug at the end of the night." Your smirk widened as Charlotte's breath hitched. "Only if you're comfortable, obviously."

Charlotte hesitated, then placed her trembling hand in yours, her fingers dwarfing your palm despite their softness. "Deal," she murmured, squeezing gently before pulling away to adjust her sweater—which had ridden up again, exposing a sliver of her plush belly. "So—uh—my place or yours? I mean—for dinner! Just—just dinner."

You smirked, pushing her cart toward the checkout lanes. "Yours. Mine is much too boring—you’d hate it." Charlotte’s brows knitted together as she wobbled after you in her heels, nearly colliding with a display of canned beans when you added, "So… do you always dress like a goth housewife at the grocery store, or am I special?"

Charlotte sputtered, nearly dropping her purse again. "Excuse you, this is *casual*," she huffed, adjusting her sweater self-consciously. "And—and yes, you *are* special, because I don’t usually let strangers enter my home just after meeting them—" She paused, blinking rapidly. "Oh no, what am I doing?"

SUMMARY^1: Charlotte tentatively agrees to dinner, laying strict boundaries—but Matthew’s playful hug request and teasing about her outfit fluster her further. As they head toward checkout, her nervous babbling peaks when she realizes she’s inviting a near-stranger home, panicking mid-sentence at her own impulsiveness while Matthew remains effortlessly amused.

You snorted, loading your milk onto the conveyor belt. "Is everything alright? You look like everything just went from a ten to a one-hundred real quick."

Charlotte exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers twitching toward her waistband before she forced them to grip the cart instead. "Just—realizing I’m inviting a complete stranger into my apartment," she muttered, her voice pitching higher. "Which is *fine*, obviously, because you’re not a vampire or a serial killer, but—"

You tilted your head, scanning the groceries as the cashier bagged them. "Worried I’ll steal your fancy wine?" you teased, nodding toward the bottle. Charlotte’s lips parted indignantly before you added, "Or worried you’ll steal my heart?"

Charlotte’s breath hitched as she fumbled for her wallet, her fingers brushing yours when you offered to pay. "I—I can pay for my own groceries," she stammered, her voice cracking. "And stop being so smooth—it’s unfair."

You handed the cashier your card before she could argue. "I’ll pay for everything, just put it all together," you said, ignoring her weak protest. Charlotte’s face burned as she watched you effortlessly lift both bags into her cart. "Lead the way," you murmured, gesturing toward the exit.

Charlotte swallowed hard, her heels clicking against the tile as she pushed the cart forward with shaky hands. "I—I live just a few blocks from here," she admitted, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. "But, um… my building doesn’t have an elevator. Just… fair warning."

You chuckled, adjusting the grocery bags in your arms. "Stairs aren’t a problem," you said, nudging her cart with your elbow. "Unless you’re worried I’ll see you huffing and puffing by the third floor."

Charlotte scoffed, though her breath already hitched at the thought. "Please, I could outpace you in these heels," she lied, parking the cart and scooping up her own bags with a grunt. Her breasts bounced with the movement, straining against her sweater.

You smirked, watching her wobble slightly under the weight. "Sure, sure." As you stepped outside, the crisp evening air made Charlotte shiver—though she wasn't entirely sure it was from the cold. "Lead the way, tough girl."

Charlotte huffed, adjusting her grip on the bags. "J-just don't complain when you're struggling to keep up," she muttered, striding ahead—though her heels caught on uneven pavement almost immediately. You caught her elbow before she faceplanted into a lamppost, your grip firm but gentle.

"Easy there," you murmured, your breath warm against her ear as she steadied herself. Charlotte's pulse skyrocketed at the proximity. "Wouldn't want you breaking those fancy shoes before I get to see this legendary stair-climbing."

Charlotte scoffed, brushing imaginary dust from her sweater. "They're *stilettos*, not glass slippers," she huffed, though her cheeks burned. She marched forward with renewed determination—only to pause at the base of her apartment steps, staring up at the three flights with dawning horror. "Oh dear lord."

You nudged her side gently, already shifting the grocery bags to one arm. "Need me to carry you too?"

Charlotte choked on air, her face flushing crimson as she shot you a glare. "I—I weigh over four hundred pounds," she hissed, gripping the railing for support as she took the first step. "You’ll break your spine."

You shrugged, following easily behind her. "I bet your wrong," you murmured, watching her hips sway with each labored step. Charlotte groaned halfway up the second flight, sweat glistening at her temples as she paused to catch her breath. "Tired already?" you teased, leaning against the railing beside her. "Thought you could outpace me?"

Charlotte shot you a withering look, fanning herself with one hand. "Shut up," she panted, her sweater clinging to her plush curves. "These stairs... weren't this steep yesterday." When you chuckled, she swatted weakly at your arm—only to yelp as her heel snapped on the next step. You pressed both hands against her back as she began to topple backwards, stopping her fall.

"Careful," you murmured, steadying her while eyeing the broken heel. "Looks like Cinderella's done for the night." Charlotte however was a stiff as a board, barely breathing, her crimson eyes locked onto where your fingers pressed into the softness of her sweater. "Charlotte?"

Without a word, Charlotte grabbed ahold of the railing and yanked herself forward before bending down to remove her ruined heels. She practically tore them off and stuffed them into one of the grocery bags, leaving her in just her black stockings. "Hey? Did I do something wrong?" you asked, watching as she refused to meet your eyes.

Charlotte hurriedly made her way up the rest of the stairs—now much faster without the heels—until she reached the third floor landing. Only then did she pause, clutching the grocery bags tightly as she took out her keys with trembling hands, stepping into the hallway without looking back.

"Charlotte," you called after her, catching up easily. "What the heck is going—" "You touched me…" she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper as she fumbled with the lock. "Go home. Please." The door swung open and she slipped inside, already pulling it shut behind her and locking it before you could react.

You stood there for a long moment before leaning against the doorframe with a sigh. "Charlotte," you murmured through the wood. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize—" "Just go!" she snapped from the other side, her voice cracking. Silence stretched between you—until you decided to just walk away.

In the apartment, Charlotte slumped against the door, sliding down until her plush rear hit the floor with a soft thump. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. "Stupid... stupid..." she muttered to herself, fingers digging into her scalp. The groceries lay forgotten by her feet as she pulled her knees up to her chest, her breasts pressing hard against her thighs.

Suddenly, Charlotte phone buzzled with an incoming text from Carly: *Charlie, how’s it going? Did you say yes?* Charlotte groaned, staring at the screen before typing back with trembling fingers: *He touched me Carly. He fucking touched me without asking and I freaked out and locked him out.* The reply was instantaneous: *Charlotte, where did he touch you? Tell me exactly.* Charlotte exhaled sharply before responding: *My back. Both hands, full contact, through my sweater.* Carly’s reply made Charlotte blink: *Girl, you’re freaking out because he touched your back? And with no skin on skin contact? That’s just normal human interaction!*

Charlotte swallowed hard, staring at the text before texting back: *But Carly, he touched me. Without asking.* Carly’s reply was blunt: *Charlotte, why did he touch you? Was he getting too close and flirting?* Charlotte hesitated before replying: *No. My stiletto heel broke on the stairs and I was falling backward—he was just catching me.* The silence stretched until Carly’s reply came: *Are you fucking serious? He saved you from cracking your skull open on concrete and you’re upset because he touched your back to stop your fall?!?!*

Charlotte’s breath hitched as she reread the message, her fingers tightening around her phone. "Oh no," she whispered, pressing her forehead against her knees. Another text came through: *Charlie, go find him right now and apologize. If you seriously pushed him away for helping you, you don’t deserve him.* Charlotte whimpered, glancing at the door before scrambling to her feet, her stockings sliding on the hardwood floor as she fumbled with the lock.

She yanked the door open just to find you were gone—the hallway empty. "Nonononono! Wait—!" Charlotte bolted forward, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stumbled toward the stairwell, her heart pounding. She leaned over the edge, her breath ragged as she yelled for you. "MATTHEW!!! I’M SORRY, PLEASE COME BACK!!"

From somewhere below, your voice echoed faintly. "Charlotte?" She gasped, gripping the railing as your footsteps grew louder—until you reappeared on the landing, still holding your grocery bags, your brow furrowed. "Are you okay?" you asked, your voice laced with concern.

Charlotte swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she clenched her sweater. "I—I overreacted," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I’m sorry… I just… panicked." Her breath hitched when you stepped closer, stopping just outside arm’s reach. "You were just trying to help," she whispered, avoiding your gaze.

You exhaled softly, setting the groceries down on the landing. "It’s okay," you murmured, rubbing the back of your neck. "I should’ve asked before touching you—ground rules, right?" The hint of amusement in your tone made Charlotte peek up through her lashes.

She bit her lip, twisting her sweater hem again. "You were *catching* me," she muttered, cheeks flushing. "I... I shouldn’t have freaked out." A beat passed before she blurted, "Can… can I still be your girlfriend?" Her voice cracked on the last word, like she’d surprised herself with the question.

You blinked, then grinned—slow and crooked. "Only if you promise not to bolt when I hug you goodbye tonight." Charlotte’s breath hitched as you stepped closer, palms upturned between you in silent question. She hesitated, then nodded so fast her messy hair bounced.

"Deal," she whispered, fingers twitching toward yours before she jerked them back with a nervous giggle. "But—uh—maybe let’s start with dinner first?" You chuckled, scooping up the groceries while she fidgeted with her sweater’s hem. "Right. Stairs first. Then stew. Then…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Then we’ll see," you finished for her, nudging her apartment door open with your elbow. Charlotte hesitated on the threshold, watching you toe off your boots with surprising grace before shuffling inside. "You coming?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

Charlotte exhaled sharply, stepping in and locking the door behind her with trembling hands. "I—I should warn you," she muttered, shuffling past you to dump her groceries on the counter. "My apartment’s kind of a mess." True to her word, discarded takeout containers and crumpled clothing littered the living space—though the kitchen itself was immaculate.

"You cook often?" you asked, noting the well-worn pots hanging above the stove. Charlotte’s fingers twitched toward her waistband before she busied herself unpacking ingredients. "Yeah," she admitted softly. "It’s... the only thing that keeps me from spiraling sometimes."

She hesitated when you placed a hand on the counter beside hers—not touching, just close. "May… may I ask why you don’t want me touching you?" you murmured. Charlotte’s breath hitched as she clutched a garlic bulb like a lifeline. "Bad… bad history," she managed. "My… my ex-husband, he used to beat me and grab me whenever he wanted—"

Your jaw tightened. "I’d never do that," you said quietly, withdrawing your hand entirely. Charlotte exhaled shakily, peeling the garlic with trembling fingers. "I know," she whispered. "It’s just… it’s like muscle memory for me, you know?"

You nodded, leaning against the counter at a respectful distance. "How long were you with him?" Charlotte’s knife stilled against the cutting board. "Twelve years," she admitted, her voice thick. "He—he convinced me no one else would ever want me." Her shoulders hunched inward. "Guess he was right."

Without warning, her phone began to ring—Carly’s contact photo flashing onscreen. Charlotte groaned, wiping her hands hastily before grabbing her phone off the floor and moving to the bathroom to answer. You decided to chop up the vegetables for her in the meantime, noting how neatly she organized her spices—each bottle labeled in precise handwriting.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Charlotte slumped against the sink, whispering harshly into the phone: "Carly, *what*?" Her friend’s voice crackled through the speaker, loud enough to hear from the kitchen: "*Girl*, you left me on read after dropping *that* bombshell! Is he still there? Did you apologize?" Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose, watching her reflection blush scarlet. "Yes, he’s here—we’re making stew—and *yes*, I apologized, okay?!"

Carly’s squeal made Charlotte jerk the phone away from her ear. "*Dinner*? So you allowed him in?" Charlotte groaned, rubbing her temples. "Carly, *please*—I don’t need your teasing right now." A pause. Then, softer: "...He’s asking questions about David." Carly’s tone sobered instantly. "Oh, Charlie." Charlotte swallowed hard, twisting the hem of her sweater. "I just—I don’t know how much to tell him. We *just* met."

"Charlie, what do you think about him?" Carly asked gently. Charlotte exhaled shakily, staring at her socked feet. "I think..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I think he smells like cedar and pine and I want to bury my face in his neck." Carly snorted. "Girl, you *like* him. Stop overthinking it!" Charlotte’s cheeks burned. "But what if—" "No. No spiraling," Carly interrupted. "Do. You. Love. Him? Yes or no."

Charlotte bit her lip as she stared back at her reflection—flushed cheeks, wild hair, trembling hands. She inhaled sharply. "...I don’t know." Carly sighed. "Send me his picture. Now." Charlotte rolled her eyes before poking her head out of the bathroom and snapping a quick picture of you while you weren’t looking—just in time to catch you peeling potatoes with surprising grace. She sent it immediately.

Carly went dead silent for exactly three seconds before responding. "WHAT THE FUCK CHARLIE." Charlotte startled as Carly screamed into the phone. "THAT’S MATTHEW BLACKWOOD!!!" Charlotte blinked. "...Who?" Carly groaned. "That man owns America’s largest and most successful brewery! He built that shit up from dirt and stone! Charlie, even if we weren’t talking about his multi-billion dollar net worth—that man’s hot! Hotter than your damn fireplace in December!"

Charlotte peeked around the bathroom door again, watching you sort everything for stew prep with military efficiency. "…Are you sure?" Carly sighed. "Charlotte, please… for both our sakes, stop overthinking this. He asked you to be his girlfriend. That means something." Charlotte swallowed hard. "Okay… okay. I’ll try." Carly laughed. "Good! You better marry that man before I do!" Charlotte rolled her eyes and hung up, taking a deep breath before stepping out.

"Everything alright?" you asked without turning from the stove where you'd started browning meat. Charlotte startled at the rich aroma already filling her kitchen. "Y-yeah," she stammered, twisting her sweater hem. "Just… my best friend really needed to get something off her chest." You chuckled, stirring the meat with surprising finesse. "She’d be fun to meet."

Charlotte hesitated before shuffling closer, watching you work. "You… you cook?" she blurted, then immediately cringed at the obviousness of the question. Your smirk widened as you added diced onions to the pot. "Of course! I took many cooking classes—had to impress my parents when they came to visit." Charlotte blinked. "You mean… before you became a brewer?"

You paused mid-stir, arching a brow. "Ah. So you do know who I am?" Charlotte's cheeks burned as she fidgeted with her sweater sleeves. "Carly may have… mentioned something." You sighed heavily, shaking your head. "I was hoping you wouldn’t find out till at least the third date. I didn’t want you treating me differently."

Charlotte scoffed, grabbing a wooden spoon to stir the stew aggressively. "Please. Like I give a damn about money." She hesitated before adding softly, "Though… you *do* smell unreasonably good for a beer mogul." You chuckled, nudging her hip gently with yours—careful not to actually touch. "I specialize more in root beer than alcoholic beverages, actually."

She blinked. "Wait, seriously?" You shrugged, sprinkling herbs into the pot. "Kid-friendly empire. Less lawsuits, more happy families." Charlotte’s lips twitched as she watched you work. "So the mysterious trenchcoat is just… what? Aesthetic?" You smirked. "It’s cold out today if you didn’t notice."

The stew began bubbling as Charlotte hesitated, then blurted, "Would you really have walked away earlier? If I hadn’t called you back?" Your wooden spoon stilled mid-stir. "Yeah," you admitted quietly. "You told me to go. I respect boundaries." Charlotte swallowed hard, staring at her socked feet.

"I’m glad you didn’t," she whispered, twisting her sweater sleeves. "I don’t… I don’t actually want you to." You exhaled softly, nudging a peeled carrot toward her. "Slice these diagonally? For texture." Charlotte blinked at the domesticity before grabbing her knife with renewed focus.

As she chopped, her shoulders gradually relaxed. "So… billionaire brewer, huh?" she mused, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Bet you could buy this whole apartment complex if you wanted." You snorted, adding broth to the pot. "Not my style. I like places with… character." Your gaze flicked to her cluttered living room—and the handwritten recipes pinned haphazardly above the stove.

Charlotte suddenly grabbed your wrist mid-stir—then froze, her fingers trembling against your skin. "S-sorry," she stammered, jerking back. "I just—you missed a spot." You glanced at the untouched corner of the pot and smirked. "Sure. Let's go with that." Her face burned crimson as she retreated to the fridge.

"Wine?" she squeaked, clutching a bottle like a lifeline. "I promised wine." You chuckled, watching her fumble with the corkscrew. "I don’t drink. Especially since I’m a light-weight." Charlotte blinked. "Wait—a brewer who doesn’t drink?" You shrugged. "Just another reason to stick with root beer."

She decided to just drink from the bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You’re really not what I expected," she admitted, leaning against the counter as the stew simmered. "And what *did* you expect?" you teased, nudging her elbow gently—careful to avoid skin contact. She exhaled sharply, her fingers twitching toward yours before pulling away. "Someone… louder. More pretentious."

You chuckled, stirring the stew absently. "A humble man is a happy man," you murmured. Charlotte snorted into her wine bottle. "Bullshit. You're just socially awkward in a rich way." She froze—then burst into hysterical laughter when you nodded solemnly. "Fair. But I *did* try to warn you."

The timer on Charlotte's stove beeped, startling her enough to drop her spoon with a clatter. "Oh—shit, the bread!" She lunged for the oven mitts, yanking out a golden loaf that filled the kitchen with rosemary and warmth. "I—I forgot I'd put this in earlier," she admitted, cradling it like a child. "It's... kind of my comfort food."

You inhaled deeply, leaning over her shoulder—close, but not touching. "Damn, that smells incredible," you murmured, watching her slice into the crust with trembling hands. Charlotte hesitated before offering you the first piece, her knuckles brushing yours briefly. "Try it," she whispered, her breath hitching when your fingers lingered against hers for half a second longer than necessary.

The bread was still steaming as you took a bite, groaning at the burst of herbs and butter. "Wow, Charlotte," you muttered around the mouthful. "This might be the best thing I've ever tasted." She blinked rapidly, clutching the cutting board to her chest like a shield. "I—it's just focaccia," she stammered, though her shoulders straightened slightly at the praise.

You swallowed thickly, gesturing to the bubbling stew. "So, how'd a woman who cooks like this end up microwaving pasta alone on a Friday night?" Charlotte's fingers tightened around her wine bottle. "Bad marriage," she said simply, avoiding your gaze. "Twelve years of being told I eat too much, how fat I was—how no one else would ever want me." Her knuckles whitened around the glass. "Guess old habits die hard."

Silence stretched before you nudged the stew pot gently toward her. "Taste?" Charlotte hesitated, then dipped a spoon in—only to gasp when you caught her wrist before she could pull away. "Not like that," you murmured, guiding the spoon toward your lips instead. Her breath hitched as you blew lightly on the broth before guiding the spoon back towards her mouth. "Now try."

Charlotte's lips parted automatically, her eyelashes fluttering as the rich flavor burst across her tongue. "Oh," she whispered, clutching the counter's edge. "That's... really good." Your thumb brushed her wristbone—barely there—before releasing her. "See? Worth the wait."

She exhaled sharply, twisting her apron strings. "Matthew, I..." The stew bubbled between you as she swallowed hard. "What happens after dinner?" You smirked, nodding toward her cluttered couch. "Honestly… that’s up to you. We could watch a movie. Or just talk."

Charlotte bit her lip, glancing at her half-unpacked groceries still scattered on the counter. "I—I don’t usually have people over," she admitted, nudging a cereal box aside with her elbow. "My place isn’t really… guest-ready." You chuckled, stirring the stew absently. "Charlotte, I grew up in a one-room cabin. This is practically a palace."