CHAPTER 39: TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED.

Charles’ POV

I sat on his couch.The room was quiet — not awkward, not uncomfortable.

Just... Alexander’s kind of quiet.

I’d forgotten how silent he could be when he wasn’t high or buzzed on something stupid with the old crew.

People always assumed danger came with noise — shouting, fighting, breaking things.

But Alexander?

His danger lived in the calm.

In how still he could become.

How his presence could fill a room without him saying a single word.

That kind of quiet was worse.

More controlled.

More deliberate.

More real.

He moved around the kitchen with that same quiet efficiency, and before long he was sipping a cup of coffee, leaning slightly against the counter. The mug looked small in his hand. Everything always did.

I watched him over the top of my phone, pretending to scroll even though the screen wasn’t even on.

He didn’t say anything.

He just drank his coffee, eyes flicking to me now and then.

Not judging.

Not prying.

Just... watching.

Like he was trying to read something he’d forgotten how to pronounce.

The silence stretched, warm, steady — not suffocating, but close.

He looked calmer than I remembered.

More grounded.

Less haunted.

But the edge was still there.

That roughness under the surface — the kind people used to mistake for loudness, when really it was the opposite.

He didn’t need to shout.

His presence made enough noise without words.

I rubbed my palms on my jeans, suddenly very aware of every small sound I made.

Finally, he spoke — low, deep, steady.

"You’re thinking too loudly," he said.

I froze for half a second, then let out a breathy, annoyed scoff.

"Shut up," I muttered.

His lips twitched — barely — in a mocking teasing kind of way .

And somehow... that made my chest tighten a little.

---

The room felt smaller.

Not suffocating.

Just... close.

Close in the way Alexander always made places feel — like his presence filled the corners, steadied the air, quieted everything else.

Charles watched him, elbows resting lightly on his knees, the coffee cup cradled in those broad hands. There was no loudness to him tonight. No wild laugh, no reckless grin.

Just stillness.

Dangerous, thoughtful stillness.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Charles asked quietly, breaking the tension he suddenly couldn’t stand.

Alexander’s chest rose.

Then fell.

And his voice, when it came, was low and honest enough to make something twist deep in Charles’ stomach.

"Because I haven’t seen you in years," Alexander said, "and I want to make sure you’re real."

The words landed too cleanly.

Charles’ fingers tightened against the couch fabric.

Alexander rarely spoke like that — not raw, not direct, not without hiding it behind sarcasm or a smirk.

But tonight, nothing was hidden.

Alexander set the mug down on the glass table with a soft tap.

He stepped away from the kitchen counter, slow, deliberate, as if closing the distance required permission.

Charles didn’t move.

Alexander stayed standing at first, his shadow brushing the edge of the couch.

"I thought about you," he said, voice dropping even lower. "More than I’m probably allowed to admit."

Charles let out a short breath — not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief.

"You don’t even know what I’m like anymore," he muttered.

Alexander’s eyes didn’t budge.

"I know enough."

Another step.

Not touching, not crowding — just closer.

"You showed up at 2 a.m.," he said softly. "Not drunk. Not angry. Not running from a fight."

His gaze swept over Charles — from the glasses he rarely wore, to the fitted black jeans, to the tired lines under his eyes.

"You came here because you needed something," Alexander added. "And you trusted me to be the one who’d give it."

Charles swallowed, throat tight.

"That’s not—"

Alexander shook his head once.

"You don’t have to explain."

A pause.

"But at least tell me if someone hurt you."

His voice stayed calm.

Controlled.

Protective in a way that never felt overbearing — just present.

"Who was it, Charles?" Alexander asked quietly.

"Who sent you here tonight?"

---

Charles’ POV

"I’m not hurt," I said finally, staring at some point over Alexander’s shoulder instead of directly at him. "Just... confused."

The words felt too small for everything choking my chest, but they were the truth. Or close enough to it.

Alexander didn’t sit right away.

He stayed standing there in front of me, arms folded loosely, watching me like he was reading every inhale, every twitch of my fingers, every lie I hadn’t even said yet.

"Confused about what?" he asked.

He said it gently.

That was the problem.

Alexander being gentle meant he was worried.

I rubbed my thumb along the seam of my jeans, trying to think, trying to sort through the chaos in my head — Louis’ hands on my hair, Louis’ scent still clinging to me, the way he’d looked at me before he walked out.

"I don’t know," I muttered. "Everything feels... wrong. Off."

"Off how?"

I almost laughed.

How was I supposed to explain something I barely understood myself?

"Like I’m being pushed and pulled at the same time," I said. "Like everything I do is a mistake, and everything I don’t do is a mistake too. Like I should leave. Or stay. Or burn the whole damn house down just to feel something normal again."

Alexander didn’t react.

He didn’t flinch, he didn’t interrupt — just listened.

That made it worse.

I exhaled shakily.

The room felt too warm. Or maybe I just felt too exposed.

Alexander stepped closer then — slow, careful — and finally sat beside me on the couch. Not touching. But close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.

"You’re not making sense," he said quietly.

"But you don’t have to. Not to me."

The way he said it — calm, grounded, certain — made my throat tighten.

I looked at him.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t hiding behind jokes or swagger or the tough guy act he’d perfected.

He was right here.

Solid.

Unmoving.

"Confusion doesn’t mean you’re wrong," he added. "It just means something’s pulling you in a direction you’re trying to resist."

I froze.

He didn’t know what I was thinking.

But he was dangerously close to understanding anyway.

"And whoever is causing this confusion," Alexander said, eyes steady on mine, "must matter a lot."

My heartbeat stumbled.

Because he was right.

And that was exactly the problem.

---

Alexander’s POV

If I said I wasn’t happy seeing Charles after years of separation, I’d be lying.

But if I said I wasn’t worried...

I’d be lying about that too.

Charles showing up at 2:00 a.m. wasn’t a casual visit.

Not from him.

Not at that hour.

Not with his eyes looking like he’d run here on instinct alone.

I leaned back slightly, studying him carefully — not enough to make him uncomfortable, but enough to see what he was trying to hide.

Years ago, before I left for the military, Charles had been a mess.

Severely depressed.

Dragged down by Louis in ways he never said aloud.

We were both eighteen — old enough to pretend we understood life, young enough to be destroyed by it.

I’d watched Charles unravel piece by piece while Louis held the thread.

And now, sitting in front of me, he looked like someone had pulled that thread again.

Same tension in his shoulders.

Same distant look in his eyes.

Same restless energy in his hands — tapping, fidgeting, pulling at invisible strings.

Only difference was...

he’d grown into his strength.

And Louis?

Louis had grown into the exact kind of man who could still hurt him.

I swallowed slowly, letting the memories settle.

Charles didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He just stared down at his hands, at the floor, anywhere but at me.

Whatever brought him here tonight...

it was big.

Bigger than he was willing to admit.

And the part of me that used to want to punch Louis on sight?

Yeah.

That part was waking up again.

But I pushed that aside.

Charles didn’t need anger on his behalf.

He needed clarity.

Stability.

Someone who wouldn’t twist his words or pull at his emotions until he broke.

I breathed out, steady and quiet.

You came here for a reason, Charles.

And I’m not letting you leave until you stop pretending you’re fine.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, voice low and controlled.

"Tell me what happened."

Not demanding.

Not gentle.

Just... real.

The way he always needed.