CHAPTER 37: WARM AS COCOA.

Charles’ POV

"Anywho, Alexander’s back from the military for a break," she said suddenly, her voice lifting with excitement.

"No way! How long’s he staying?" I asked, sitting up straighter.

"A month or two," she replied.

Alexander.

That name dragged a few memories out of the shadows — the kind that came with cigarette smoke, laughter too loud for the night, and Louis’s constant disapproval.

He’d been one of those friends Louis never approved of. Not because of his tattoos — Louis had them too, though he kept his hidden like secrets under his shirts. No, it was something else. Something unspoken that always made the air between them feel charged.

Louis never said why he didn’t like Alexander, but I’d seen the way his jaw tightened whenever Alex walked into the room. The kind of reaction that comes from old history — or old jealousy.

I leaned back on my bed, smirking faintly. "Haven’t seen him in years. He still looks like he could kill a man with just a stare?"

Anna laughed. "Worse. He’s bigger now. And louder. You’ll see."

"See?"

"Yeah. He’s coming to town tomorrow — said he wants to catch up. You in?"

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to stay focused — on the spirit medium, on the plan — but another part of me missed the chaos Alexander always carried with him. He had a way of pulling people out of their heads and into trouble.

"Yeah," I said finally, a small grin tugging at my lips. "Count me in."

I turned around, sensing a presence.

My smile dropped. My face hardened. My teeth clenched.

Louis.

Of course it was him.

He stood by the doorway, wearing that brown sweater that somehow made him look too human for someone who’d ruined me. His dirty-blonde hair — dirty in color, not in cleanliness — sat perfectly, like every strand was trained to obey. Just like him. Always put-together. Always calm. Always pretending nothing ever broke him.

For a second, neither of us said anything. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, the kind that made every breath sound too loud.

"What are you doing here?" I asked finally, voice colder than I meant it to be.

"Anna hold on, I’ll call you back." I said, cutting the call.

"How long have you been here?" I asked with a frown on my face.

"Standing there like a creep." I stated, I hated the fact he was taller than me.

Louis didn’t move at first. His eyes flicked over the room like he was memorizing every inch of it before they finally landed on me.

"Long enough," he said simply.

That voice — calm, low, steady — still had the same effect it always did. It pressed against my chest like a hand, heavy and familiar.

I folded my arms, trying to look unfazed. "You could’ve knocked."

"I did," he said. "You just didn’t answer." I scoffed, I sat on the bed taking off my socks.

I left the socks on the floor, and walked towards my wardrobe taking off my shirt.

"Are you just going to disregard me." He asked.

"I know you’re just going to talk about Alistair, I don’t have any answers for you so fuck off." I said.

He didn’t move. Typical Louis. Always standing there like the world would bend first.

"Charles," he said, voice softer this time — too soft, the kind that crawled under your skin whether you wanted it to or not.

"I said fuck off," I repeated, pulling out a new shirt and tossing it carelessly onto the bed.

"You can hate me all you want," he replied, "but you know damn well I’m not here to talk about Alistair."

That made me pause — just a flicker, small enough he almost didn’t catch it.

I turned slowly, eyes narrowed. "Then what are you here for?"

"You look tired and thinner." he said quietly,my fingers traced my neck knowing he was right.

"Don’t," I warned.

But he kept talking anyway. "I’m not your enemy, Charles."

I scoffed, looking away. "Could’ve fooled me."

---

Louis’ POV

Walking out on Alistair was necessary. I didn’t want to react more than I did.

I wondered if this was Fate’s way of mocking me — throwing me back into the same storm I’d spent years trying to escape.

I told myself I was only here for answers. That I didn’t care how he looked at me now. But the truth pressed in, heavy and inconvenient: I did care.

He was on the phone, laughing. The kind of laugh that used to start in his chest and work its way into mine before either of us could stop it.

I shouldn’t have listened. But I did.

Then I heard the name.

Alexander.

Of course.

That old familiar irritation curled up in my ribs like it never left. It wasn’t just jealousy — though I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t there. It was more the reminder of who I’d been when Alexander was still around. The kind of person Charles didn’t flinch from.

When he finally noticed me, the shift in his face hit harder than I expected. That smile — gone in a blink. I’d seen him angry before, even furious, but never so quick to build a wall between us.

He asked how long I’d been standing there. I told him the truth.

"Long enough."

And I meant it. Long enough to realize I’d come here for something I couldn’t name. Long enough to see the distance I’d carved out between us had finally solidified into something permanent.

When he turned away, dismissing me with that sharp voice, I wanted to remind him that I’d been the one who stayed quiet when he wanted a war. That I’d swallowed words that could’ve ruined us both.

But what came out instead was something useless. Something small.

Soon enough — seeing he couldn’t chase me out — he scoffed and disappeared into the bathroom.

The door shut a little too hard.

A second later, I heard the water running. He was taking a bath.

I stayed where I was.

For someone who insisted he didn’t want me here, he really didn’t mind leaving me alone in his space.

My eyes dropped to the socks he’d tossed on the floor.

Typical Charles — leaving a trail behind him everywhere he went.

With a sigh, I bent, picked them up, and tossed them into the laundry basket.

Then I nudged his shoes into place, fixed the pillow he’d knocked aside, straightened the shirt he’d thrown on the bed.

I told myself I was just waiting for him to come out.

But the truth was... I couldn’t stand his room looking like that.

When the bathroom door finally opened, steam rolled out, followed by him.

Charles walked out with his hair dripping, a towel slung low around his waist.

Water trailed down his back, his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone.

He didn’t bother drying himself.

Of course he didn’t.

He picked up the T-shirt he’d flung earlier and pulled it over his still-wet skin.

The fabric clung instantly, sticking to his shoulders, outlining the lines of his chest.

No lotion.

No care.

Just... recklessness wrapped in irritation.

I exhaled slowly, trying — and failing — to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"You’re going to get sick like that," I said.

He didn’t look at me.

He didn’t respond.

He just kept rubbing the water out of his hair with the towel like I wasn’t even there.

And somehow, that bothered me more than anything he had said before.

Without asking — because asking never worked with him — I reached out and grabbed his hand.

He jerked, startled, but I didn’t let go.

"Sit," I said, dragging him toward the chair in the corner.

The one that never matched the rest of his room —stubborn and out of place.

Just like him.

He sat with a frown, muttering something under his breath, but he didn’t pull away.

I turned, grabbed a clean towel from the drawer and the brush he always pretended he didn’t own.

He watched me in the mirror — arms crossed, shirt plastered to his skin, water dripping onto the floor.

I sighed.

"You’re impossible," I muttered, stepping behind him.

His eyes flicked up to mine in the mirror, sharp as ever.

"And you’re bossy," he shot back.

"Only because you don’t take care of yourself," I said, placing the towel against his damp hair.

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t stop me, either.

His eyelids began to droop while I brushed through his hair — slow strokes, careful ones.

Charles always pretended he hated being touched, but his body told the truth long before he ever would.

His shoulders softened.

His breathing steadied.

His head tilted ever so slightly into my hand.

And then... the scent hit me.

Warm.

Thick.

Sweet, in that heavy, drowning way only he carried.

Cocoa.

His pheromones filled the room so suddenly it almost knocked the air out of my lungs. It felt like someone had poured hot chocolate over my senses — comforting, intoxicating, dangerously familiar.

My fingers stilled.

He was my mate.

No matter how many fights, no matter how many years of distance, no matter how much he claimed to hate me — moments like this reminded me that the bond wasn’t dead. Just buried.

His lashes fluttered as he drifted off, completely unaware of what he was doing to me. Of how my heartbeat thundered against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

Every moment with him made my chest tighten, made something inside me ache — sharp and warm at the same time.

Being this close felt like wanting something I’d been told I couldn’t have anymore.

I swallowed hard, brushing the towel through his hair again just to keep my hands busy.

He smelled like home.

And that was the worst part.