PAINFULLY OBVIOUS? CHARLIE BECKER
Summary: You weren't interested in athletes in the slightest. Charlie was interested in you. He just has to figure out how to make you realize he doesn't have bad intentions.
Warnings: reader is a science girlie, older reader, black cat x golden retriever if you squint (you don't need to squint that hard), reader is a man hater and is very justified for it, pretty much fluff with an angst-adjacent undertone, idk I had fun writing this though
Requested: Yes! “Hiii! request for Charlie please. Honestly anything but maybe reader dodging Charlie bc he’s a football player but he proves he’s actually good.”
A/N: The bookstore that I reference is a real bookstore and the specific book mentioned is a real book I bought from said bookstore. It's a very cute store and everyone is so nice. If anyone is interested I can give you the name of it!
Biology was your favorite subject. You loved the intricacies of the human body, and learning how simple chemicals worked together to allow every part of you to function.
Genetic biology was no exception. It was an area of biology where you excelled. Even though the class you were in this semester was an intro class, you were still excited for it.
When you walked in on the first day, only a few people were already there. You sat toward the back, not liking being front and center, but close enough that you didn't have to fear distractions from the students who didn't care. In a big lecture hall like the one this class was held in, there were bound to be those types of students.
And then he walked in. You didn't know who he was, but the athletic backpack told you enough. He sat a couple seats down from you, and you tried to not let any negative feelings show on your face.
You hated male athletes. Most of them didn't care about their studies, and that sometimes disrupted other students and their studies. It wasn't a decision you made, just an automatic switch in your brain giving him that label of disdain. And that didn't include how they were egotistical and rude and conceited and never wanting more than just a fling.
The first few weeks were okay. It was stressful trying to get assimilated to everything, but once you found your groove, you were well on your way.
That was until one Monday morning.
You were working on the homework for next week, wanting to get a head start so you could focus on studying for another exam you had, when there was someone looming over you, their shadow cast across the white sheet of paper.
You looked up. It was him. It took everything in you to not show your dislike.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry to bother you. I missed last Friday’s class, and I was just wondering if you had the notes?”
He seemed nice, he wasn't nervous at all, but he wasn't trying to sweet talk you like you figured he would.
You search around on your iPad, having given in when you realized how much easier it was to take notes and be thorough.
“How do you want me to send them to you?”
He moves back to his seat, grabbing a sheet of paper from a folder, and scribbling his number on it.
“Here's my number, you can just text them to me. If you wouldn't mind.”
You look at the slightly messy handwriting. His number. His name, too. Charlie
“Yeah, I'll send them to you.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” he says, giving you a smile.
You thought it’d end there.
And it did, for a while anyway.
Then a week before one of the exams, a text from Charlie comes through.
Charlie: Hey. I’m really confused on last Wednesday’s lecture. Can you help me?
Your brows furrow. You send a clarifying text.
A minute passes before another text makes your phone buzz.
Your heartbeat races, and you're not sure how good of an idea that is.
His call comes through almost immediately. Like he was waiting for you to say yes.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but you see his eyes move around the screen.
“Hi. What are you struggling with?”
“Where do I start? The substages of prophase, the crossing over and trying to figure out genotypes. It's all so confusing. How is this an intro level class?”
The whole thing makes you laugh, how serious he is in his rant about the lecture.
“You think this is funny?” he asks, but he's got a smile on his face that's trying to hold back laughter.
“You're good at this stuff, help me please!”
You spend the next hour explaining everything, which includes drawing diagrams, using analogies, and then just trying your hardest to break everything down like you're explaining it to a five year old.
He catches on after a while, seeming to retain what you've helped him with.
“We should call it a night. I’m tired and I've got an 8 am tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your help. Seriously,” he says, a soft smile on his face that's immediately interrupted by a yawn.
“No problem. Have a good night Charlie.”
You hate admitting to yourself how nice it was to talk to him. He seemed a little smarter than you gave him credit for, but you're still not too sure he isn't just like every other athlete.
You opt to go about your business as usual. Even as the exam comes and goes and the scores get posted, you don’t think about it too much.
Charlie: I got a 90. How can I repay you for your help?
You want to say no. You're going to say no. There's a tiny part of your brain, or maybe your heart, that is telling you to make plans with him.
You: It’s okay, I didn't mind, glad it paid off though
Silence. Your phone is quiet for a whole 10 minutes. You watch as the three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. Then disappear again.
Then more silence. You scowl at the disappointment you feel in your chest, but it doesn't stop the last thing on your mind before falling asleep from being the thought of Charlie.
You trudge into class the next day slowly. You didn't get much sleep, tossing and turning and never being able to get comfortable enough.
You sit down, spacing out as you stare down at the chalkboard at the front.
You come back to your senses when someone taps your shoulder. You refocus, looking to your left where the tap came from.
Charlie. You muster up your best glare.
“Well good morning sunshine,” he says. “We have that project coming up in the next couple of weeks. Do you want to partner up on it?”
You can't tell if his insistence is cute or sickening. It's quite possibly both.
“Why? She hasn't even told us about the project yet.”
“Well I wanted to get the best partner. Had to make sure no one else got to you first,” he says with a grin. You don’t like it.
“I talk to literally no one in this class.”
“Well that's good for me then.”
“So you're using me for a good grade?”
“No. I just want to make sure I have the correct information for the next exam. I’m guaranteed that with you.”
“And the professor doesn't do a good enough job?” you ask, wanting more than anything for the conversation to be over and class to start.
You don’t get another chance to say anything else because the professor starts talking.
You feel eyes on you. You know who it is. You know exactly who it is. And yet you want to look over anyway.
When your eyes lock with his, you furrow your eyebrows at him. He gives a smile and a wink. You're certain you flush, but you turn away with a roll of your eyes.
The rest of class you can't focus. You don’t know why. He shouldn't have this effect on you.
The only thing you need to remind yourself of is that he's an athlete, and all guys like that are the same.
Except the next day, when he casually walks by, he sets a cup of coffee in front of you.
You're tempted to not drink it, tempted to stare at him while you drop it in a trash can. But seeing as you woke up late and didn't get to sit and drink coffee while doing nothing, you take a sip.
It's an iced vanilla latte. Nothing fancy, but it was good. Very good. The gesture was there, and it was nice, but now you'd crossed into a terrifyingly familiar territory, stuck somewhere between friends and something more, but something less than a couple.
And you realized just how deep you were into this and you hadn't even expected it.
The next class, the professor reviews the project, applications of genetic biology in daily life, going over the details and what was expected. And then she mentions being able to partner up.
On the one hand, you wouldn't have to deal with anyone else if you did it alone. But on the other, your heart was pleading with you. Your heart never wins, being covered and overtaken by your brain for so long. But the scales seem to be tipping in favor of your heart, and it makes your chest feel tight.
You're zoning out when Charlie stops himself in front of your desk. He waves a hand in front of your face and you snap out of it.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you say, voice even, tone bordering monotonous.
“No promises,” he says, winking at you.
“If you want help stop winking at me,” you mutter, opening up your notes.
He is a good partner, you'll give him that. He’s always asking what more he can do, trying to divide the work evenly. He's always double checking his work and asking questions when he gets confused.
He's making it even harder to dislike him. You also have to admit that he is nice.
Another week of class goes by, and after the coffee, something else is casually dropped onto your desk as he passes. It's usually snacks or a drink, but he was observant and that was clear. One day it was a bag of iced animal crackers, something you'd only mentioned liking once.
So when he asked to come over one night after football practice, you're hesitant. You don’t know where you two stood, but it definitely wasn't just friends, and he definitely wasn’t scared to cross lines.
But you'd agreed since you'd have to miss the next class for a doctor’s appointment, and that day was the last day you’d get to work on it in class.
Something feels off when you open the door. He looks like he always does. He always looks good, in that annoyingly effortless way that makes you envious. But there is a weird energy as he stands and smiles at you.
“Hey,” he says, one hand wrapped around the strap of his backpack.
You let him in, going to sit in your living room where your stuff is spread out across the coffee table in a mess.
“What happened here?” he asks, gesturing to the scattered pieces of paper.
“I got a little stressed out.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” you say, and you notice the slightest change of emotion cross his face. But it was gone as quick as it appeared.
You two sat on your couch, going through the assignment, putting the finishing touches on the paper and making sure the visuals were appropriate.
“I can't believe you convinced me to do a project on forensics.”
“That is quite possibly one of the biggest real world applications of genetic biology. Behind disease research probably, but everyone is probably doing something like that,” you say. You're focused on your notes, organizing them so you can study them easier.
“The amount of things you know is shocking.”
“True crime documentaries come in handy.”
Silence settles. The air conditioner hums in the background. There are sirens somewhere in the distance.
And somehow, all you can focus on is how close he's sitting to you.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says quietly. The softness in his voice makes it feel like a pit drops to the bottom of your stomach.
“You're going to ask it regardless of what I say.”
“Tell me I’m reading this wrong. I feel like I’m being painfully obvious with how I feel. And you aren’t really receptive to it. And yet I feel like you like me too.”
You're quiet. The scales tip back and forth between brushing it off and telling him the truth. Brain versus heart.
“I don’t know what you're talking about.”
“Oh come on, Y/N. Yes you do. I know you're not that dense.”
You're quiet again, avoiding his gaze completely. You don’t know how to do this. You were always told that you were too loud, too opinionated, too much. No one would ever love you if you didn't change. You don’t want to be smothered by someone else so much that you lost who you were.
Because someone had done it before. And it took too long to find yourself again.
“I don’t know how to be in a relationship where I’m expected to be less than what I am. I’m always too loud, too mean, too angry, too opinionated. I don’t want to compromise parts of myself for someone else. And instead of figuring out who expects that and who doesn't, I figure it's easier to assume that's what everyone wants.”
“How mean are we talking?” he asks with a smile on his face.
“That is so not the point right now Charlie.”
You're trying to be serious, but you're smiling.
“But it got me a smile so that doesn't matter.”
You roll your eyes, but the way that he didn't seem to care about what you considered the bad things was refreshing.
“I don’t want you to be less mean, less loud, less angry, less anything. I want you to be you. I like you the way you are. You know what I see? I see someone who is driven, who is smart, who is beautiful…”
He pauses just to watch you blush. It's evil and only a little cruel, but you let it slide.
“I see someone who is exactly who they need to be.”
“I’m not completely sold. You're still an athlete. Athletes have a reputation,” your guard is still standing tall, and you see the gears turn in his head as he figures out just how to dismantle them.
“I wouldn't get you iced animal crackers if I was just trying to screw you over. Give me one date. One date to show you that I'm serious about you.”
“Oh you better show me more than that.”
The hopeful look adorning his face is cute.
Three days from now. Holy shit.
Friday came faster than you expected. And as you stood in front of your mirror, looking over your outfit, trying to decide if it was too much, too little, too casual, too fancy, your mind went rampant with an unwelcome panic.
When he knocks on your door, your panic intensifies and you're about three seconds from hyperventilating.
You wrap yourself in your robe, not really knowing what to do half dressed. You don’t want to leave him outside but also don’t want him just standing around.
You swing the door open, and you're sure you look crazy.
“Hi,” you say, and you sound unexpectedly out of breath.
“Hey. You okay?” he asks, eyebrow raised, eyes searching over your face and figure.
“All good. Still getting ready.”
You pull him inside and let him sit down, stand up, whatever he wants while you run back to your room to finish getting ready.
You look at the array of clothing all over your room, and you still can't settle on one thing.
The light tap on your bedroom door pulls you away from everything.
“Hey. It's not fancy. Jeans are fine,” you hear from the other side of the door.
You pick out a pair, pulling them on, looking at yourself in the mirror. You put on a nicer top, nothing that you'd wear to a steakhouse, but nice enough to look somewhat presentable.
You make your way back out to the living room to see Charlie staring at the pictures on your shelf.
“Ready?” you ask, and he turns around, looking you over with the biggest smile.
“And? You still look beautiful.”
Your face flushes. You know he sees.
“Let's go,” he says, guiding you to the door.
He starts driving toward the outskirts of campus, and as you keep moving further away from the busier areas of Bloomington, you see trees.
“You're not going to like, stop and kill me right?” you ask, side eyeing him.
“Murder is not on my bucket list so no. I couldn't get away with it. But you could, so maybe I should be asking you that question.”
“Well who's going to pay for the date if I kill you?”
“What about after the date?”
“You better behave then,” you give him a smirk, but instead of him looking back at you with a terrified expression, all he wears is a smile.
You park between some buildings off of an alleyway. It's a small town with lots of shops lining every side of pretty much every street.
He leads you down to the sidewalk, and you take everything in.
You stop in front of the store, not sure what it is because he's standing directly in your view of the door.
“I’m telling you now that you can go crazy. And I know exactly where you'll go first.”
You look at him confused, but when he moves, the sight in front of you, the one he was hiding, is a small bookstore.
“How'd you know I loved to read?”
“I was looking at a very annotated copy of an Agatha Christie book while you were getting ready.”
You know the one. The book sitting on the very shelf that also held the picture he was looking at earlier.
You smile up at him, and he lets you guide him inside. Right at the very front is an area with true crime books, and when you lead him there first, he smiles to himself. He was right.
You pick out a couple with cases that you've heard about but never really learned about. He's holding a book, reading the back with the most uninterested face, but you grab his hand and pull him along, not seeing if he decided to get the book or not.
You find the area with all of the classics, grabbing a couple you'd wanted to read and one you'd already read but love.
There is a mystery and thriller section in the back, spotting a section of Agatha Christie books lined along a shelf.
When you've got everything you wanted, you make your way to the counter, setting your books down. You pull out your wallet, grabbing your card. You're holding it loosely, not really paying attention to Charlie.
The lady tells you the total, and before you can even get your card anywhere near the pinpad, Charlie yanks it out of your hand, paying for everything with his card before you could.
“My treat,” he smiles down at you in the sickeningly cute, smug way he's mastered.
You hear a commotion behind you, consisting of a kid that fell down and some books that got knocked over in the process. You turn to help, organizing the books before turning back to Charlie, who holds the bag in his hand.
“At least let me carry it.”
The next stop is a small coffee shop, where he refuses to let you buy your coffee too. You sit and talk for a good hour before getting up to leave.
When he pulls into your apartment parking lot, you're kind of sad. You're upset that the night is over and you're almost wanting to invite him to stay.
He walks you up to your door, but he follows you inside.
“One more thing,” he says, digging into the bag of books sitting on the island. You continue slipping your shoes off while he does so.
When you walk back in, you see the book he was looking at earlier. The one you weren't sure if he put back or not. And with a closer glance, it's a book about forensic methods used in Agatha Christie’s books.
“Thought you'd enjoy this one. Don’t know how you missed it,” he says.
Your fingers brush his when you grab it from him, eyes meeting his briefly before looking through the contents.
“Thank you Charlie. For today, for everything.”
The conversation doesn't feel like it naturally ends there. Something about the energy between you two feels off. Not necessarily in a bad way, but you can't put your finger on it.
He steps closer, hands twitching like he wants to reach for you, but doesn't want to overstep.
“Did I prove it to you?” his voice is barely above a whisper, and it makes a chill run down your spine.
Your eyes dart over his face. The way his lips are slightly curved up at the edges. The way his brown eyes are staring at you the same way yours are at him.
Like a magnet pulling you two together, he leans down a little closer.
“Yeah, you did,” you say, standing on your tiptoes, planting a delicate kiss to his cheek. “But I think I need a second date before I decide if you're worthy enough for a kiss.”
He fights back a smile, and fails horribly.
“I think I can manage that.”
“You better get to planning then.”
You two banter in your front hallway for a few more minutes before he leaves, and when you lay in bed, your heart is still fluttering.
You don’t know what the next week, next date, next anything will bring.
But you do know that you're glad you gave him a chance.
Please don't copy, translate, or repost my work as your own!
Written by: @alliwritespuck (2026)
