CHAPTER 38: FAMILIAR FACES, HIDDEN FIRES.

The room was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate, as if holding its breath after what had just happened.

Louis stood behind Charles, the brush still in his hand. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped moving it. Charles had drifted off so easily—too easily—his head tilted slightly forward, damp hair falling over his forehead. His breathing had steadied, slow and unguarded, the kind of rhythm Louis hadn’t heard from him in years.

Louis swallowed.

The scent of warm cocoa still lingered thickly in the air, wrapping around the room like a blanket. His pheromones. His mate. Every inhale made something in Louis tighten, then loosen, then ache.

Charles shifted slightly, mumbling something under his breath. Louis leaned forward without thinking, brushing the hair from Charles’ eyes. His fingers grazed warm skin; Charles’ lashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake.

He looked peaceful.

He rarely ever looked peaceful.

Louis set the brush down, his eyes tracing the sharp line of Charles’ jaw, the small scar near his chin, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He’d grown thinner, he realized. Had he always been this tired?

Louis’ brows pulled together.

He shouldn’t be noticing these things—not like this. Not when he had Alistair. Not when every day with Alistair was supposed to be proving he had moved on.

And yet...

Charles breathed out softly, lips parting as if he were releasing a secret. The sound curled around Louis’ ribs.

He stepped back quickly.

No.

This was too much.

Louis straightened up, running a hand through his own hair. The room suddenly felt smaller, the warmth too close, too familiar. He needed air. He needed distance.

He took a step back—then paused.

Charles’ hand dangled off the armrest, palm open, fingers loose. The same hand Louis had held a thousand times before fate tore them apart. The same hand he had pulled away from when he chose a different path.

Louis’ throat tightened.

He turned toward the door, the last trace of cocoa clinging to him like a whisper he couldn’t answer.

Just as he reached the doorway, Charles stirred behind him, not awake, not conscious—just searching. For warmth. For someone. For something that Louis no longer allowed himself to be.

Louis closed the door softly behind him.

And even outside the room, the scent followed.

---

Charles’ POV

I woke to silence — thick, still, the kind that pressed against the walls like fog.

The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 2:00 a.m.

My neck ached.

Right. I’d fallen asleep sitting in that damn chair.

I pushed myself up, stretching until my back complained.

His warmth still clung to the fabric of my tee shirt — the one I’d worn before Louis pulled me into that stupid chair and started fussing over me like something fragile.

The faint scent of cocoa drifted up again.

Mine.

Always mine.

But somehow Louis made it feel heavier in the room, like he’d drawn it out of me just by being close.

I looked down and blinked slowly.

I still had a towel wrapped around my waist under the shirt.

Fantastic.

I dragged a hand down my face. The memory slipped in fully now — Louis’ hand around my wrist, his quiet insistence, the brush through my hair. His fingers were ridiculous. Gentle. Skilled. Familiar.

Too familiar.

I walked over to the mirror and paused.

My hair was neat.

Neater than I’d ever bother doing on my own at in the morning. Neater than anyone had the right to make it while I was half unconscious.

"Seriously?" I muttered.

The irritation came back, not sharp but heavy — more at myself than him. My heartbeat was still too fast. From him. From his hands. From the bond I pretended didn’t exist.

The room felt colder now, like he’d taken something with him when he left.

I sighed and tightened the towel.

"I need... something," I whispered. "Air. Water. I don’t know."

But I did know.

I missed the warmth of his hands on my hair.

The quiet way he’d looked at me.

And that scared me more than anything else.

---

It was difficult to reach his apartment — not because of distance, but because of Gloria itself.

Gloria wasn’t the kind of city that stayed awake at night.

It wasn’t loud or restless.

It was refined — polished streets, quiet neighborhoods, and old family names that owned half the buildings you walked past.

Even the air felt disciplined here.

Everything was peaceful... almost too peaceful.

A calm that felt like it had been paid for generations ago and maintained ever since.

I moved through the dimly lit streets, my footsteps echoing softly. The houses were tall, their exteriors pristine, their gardens trimmed with the kind of precision only money or tradition could buy. Even the streetlamps looked expensive — warm light, gold-tinged glass, no flickering allowed.

I checked the last message from Alexander:

Door’s open. Come straight in.

Typical.

But the neighborhood wasn’t typical for him.

His building appeared at the end of the street — not luxurious, but respectable, well-maintained, the kind of place families chose because it was quiet, safe, and had a reputation to uphold.

Better than anything he’d lived in before.

Years in the military had changed him — clearly more than I’d assumed.

I climbed the staircase, noticing how clean the place was. No graffiti. No cigarette smell. No peeling paint. Just polished floors and silence, the kind that made you feel like even footsteps should behave.

By the time I reached his floor, it hit me:

Alexander had upgraded.

The hallway was softly lit, decorated with old photographs of Gloria’s early founders — those ancient families everyone whispered about. A reminder that this city prized order, history, and spotless reputations.

Even his apartment door looked new — thick wood, brass handle, and a small engraved number plate. Nothing cheap. Nothing temporary.

I pushed it open gently.

Inside, the space was neat. Sharp. Intentional.

Everything aligned, everything folded, everything in perfect order. The kind of apartment someone maintains with routine drilled into their bones.

Military bones.

A shelf held a few books, two medals, and a picture of him in uniform, smiling in that rare, unguarded way I hadn’t seen in years.

"Charles?" his voice came from deeper inside the apartment.

And suddenly —

the past, the present, and everything I never understood about him collided in my chest.

---

Alexander stepped out from the hallway, and the first thing Charles registered was the voice — deep, steady, the kind that always felt like it vibrated through a room rather than simply filled it.

He was tall.

Tall like Louis.

Charles wasn’t short by any means — he stood at a solid 5’11 — but standing in front of men built like them always made him feel like the world had been designed with a different scale in mind.

Alexander carried that same commanding presence he’d had years ago, but now... sharper. More grounded. Like the military had carved discipline into his bones and polished everything else until only certainty remained.

He had that alpha aura, unmistakable and heavy — the kind that made most people straighten their posture without realizing it.

But when his eyes landed on Charles, everything softened.

His shoulders eased.

His stance lowered just a fraction.

The tension around his mouth melted into something almost warm.

Charles blinked, taking in the changes — really looking.

Alexander was broader now, muscle stacked across his chest and arms in a way that made his shirt cling a little too well. The tattoos that used to snake vividly down his arms had faded slightly, the ink softened from years of sun, sweat, and whatever hell the military had put him through.

His once-wild hair was gone, replaced by a clean, controlled buzz cut that suited him more than Charles expected. And the piercings — the ones that once glinted under streetlights, the ones Louis hated the most — were gone completely.

He looked...

older.

Sharper.

Settled.

But his eyes —

Those were the same.

They held that same mischievous spark, that same fondness reserved only for a few people in the world.

And right now, all of it was directed at Charles.

"Damn," Alexander said, voice dropping even deeper. "You look like you walked out of trouble and into more."

Charles tried not to smile.

Tried — and failed.