CHAPTER 44: A PLACE TO REST.

Charles’ POV

I sighed dramatically and carried the plates to the sink.

Alexander followed behind me, rolling up his sleeves in that slow, deliberate way soldiers do when they’re preparing for something tedious but necessary.

"You made the mess," he said, handing me another plate. "You help clean."

"I did not make the mess. You cooked. I merely—"

"—devoured everything on the table like a starving wolf," he finished.

I shot him a glare.

He raised a brow, unimpressed.

"Don’t look at me like that. You ate enough for two alphas."

I felt heat creep up my neck.

"I was hungry."

"You’re always hungry."

"That’s because you stress me," I muttered under my breath.

His hand froze mid-dry.

Then, slowly, he leaned his hip against the counter, arms folded, eyes focused on me in that annoyingly attentive way he had.

"...I stress you?"

The words weren’t accusing.

They were soft.

Careful.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer or was terrified he already knew it.

I gulped.

"Not— not in a bad way," I said, scrubbing the plate like it had insulted me. "Just... you know. You’re... you."

"That explains nothing."

"It explains everything," I argued.

He snorted.

But I could feel his gaze lingering on the back of my neck.

Working in silence wasn’t helping, so I tried to change the subject.

"When did you learn to cook like that anyway? I thought you military types ate bricks."

He flicked water at me.

"I learned because someone needed to keep the younger soldiers alive. Most of them would burn rice if you left them alone for two minutes."

"So you were the responsible one."

His lips twitched — just a little.

"Unfortunately."

I passed him another plate, and for a second, our fingers brushed.

Nothing dramatic.

Just skin against skin.

But the moment stretched.

Too long.

Too obvious.

He didn’t pull away first.

I did.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

"Charles," he said quietly.

I swallowed, ignoring the way my pulse jumped.

"Hm?"

"You can stay here as long as you need."

The words were simple.

But the weight behind them wasn’t.

My grip on the plate tightened.

"You’re acting like I’m hiding," I tried to joke.

He didn’t smile.

"You are hiding."

The truth stung because it fit too well.

I put the plate down, trying to breathe normally.

"Stop reading me like that," I muttered. "It’s annoying."

"I’m not reading you," he said softly. "I’m looking at you."

He said it like a confession.

Like something slipped out that wasn’t meant to.

I turned around slowly.

Alexander stood there with that calm, steady expression — the one he always used when he was pretending he hadn’t revealed something important.

But his ears were a little red.

His jaw was tense.

His shoulders weren’t as relaxed as he wanted them to be.

He wasn’t calm.

He was trying to be.

"Alex..." I said carefully.

He exhaled and looked away.

"Don’t," he murmured. "Don’t say my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want something from me."

My throat went dry.

Because I didn’t even know what I wanted.

Silence stretched — thick, warm, dangerous.

Then he cleared his throat abruptly and nudged my arm with a plate.

"Rinse."

I blinked. "What?"

"The plate, Charles. Rinse it before I decide you’re too slow and take over."

Relief, embarrassment, and something warmer tangled in my chest.

I rinsed the plate, passing it to him with a tiny smile I couldn’t stop.

He took it.

And his fingers brushed mine again — deliberately this time.

Not accidental.

Not subtle.

Not safe.

This time, he was the one who didn’t pull away.

"I like it better when you’re not running," he said quietly, not looking at me.

My breath caught.

Before I could answer, he added—

"And I like you in my clothes."

The plate slipped from my hands into the sink with a loud splash.

Alexander didn’t even flinch.

"Finish washing," he said calmly.

"I’ll get you dessert."

He walked away.

And for the first time in days...

I wasn’t sure whether my heart was racing from fear—

or something dangerously close to wanting him back.

---

Alexander rinsed the bowls at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, water running steady. I stayed beside him, leaning against the counter, finishing the last bite of dessert.

When I set the empty bowl beside him, he took it without looking at me — not avoiding, just comfortably focused — and washed it too.

No tension.

No staring.

Just quiet presence.

I wiped my fingers with a small towel he tossed my way.

"Alex," I said softly.

He hummed without turning. "Mm?"

"Thanks."

He set the clean bowl on the rack.

Only then did he glance at me.

"For what?" he asked.

I gestured around us — the kitchen, the warm lighting, the feeling of not being chased or questioned.

"For this," I said. "For letting me... breathe."

Alexander didn’t smile.

But something eased across his face — barely there, but real.

"You don’t have to thank me for that," he said. His voice was low, calm. "You can always be here. That’s not a debt."

I swallowed, looking at the tiled floor.

He dried his hands, took a small step back, giving me space but not distance.

"You don’t have to talk," he added quietly. "Just rest, if you need to."

He nodded toward the open archway leading to the living room.

"There’s a blanket on the couch," he said. "If you want to lie down, go ahead. I’ll finish up here."

He didn’t push.

He didn’t invade.

He just... stayed steady.

Safe.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself lean into a moment without running from it.

The kitchen lights hummed softly behind me as I walked into the living room, the faint scent of pine and Alex’s cologne still lingering on my skin from the shirt.

His couch was big — unnecessarily big — firm but comfortable, with a dark grey blanket folded neatly over the backrest.

Of course it was folded.

Of course it was neat.

Alexander was the type who would iron the air if it wrinkled wrong.

I grabbed the blanket and let myself fall onto the couch, sinking into the cushions.

Exhaustion hit instantly — the heavy kind that sinks into muscle and bone, the kind you don’t notice until you stop moving.

I tucked the blanket over my legs and exhaled.

For a moment, I just stared at the ceiling.

Quiet.

Soft.

Safe in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.

I must’ve drifted—

not fully asleep, but not awake either—

because the next thing I registered was the soft click of the kitchen light turning off.

Alexander’s footsteps were quiet, disciplined, almost soundless on the floor.

He moved like someone trained to exist without disturbing anyone.

He approached the couch but didn’t sit.

Didn’t speak.

I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, because some part of me wondered what he would do when he thought I wasn’t looking.

He stopped beside me.

Close enough that I felt the faint shift of air when he crouched down.

For a long moment, he didn’t touch me.

He just looked.

I could feel it — the weight of his gaze, warm, assessing, gentle in a way Alexander never let himself be when I was awake.

Then he reached out, hesitated—

—and brushed a thumb lightly over a strand of hair that had fallen across my forehead.

Just once.

Barely there.

Like he was afraid I’d wake up and catch him caring.

He adjusted the blanket higher over my shoulders, tucking it in carefully.

Too carefully.

"Idiot," he murmured under his breath — but it was soft, fond, almost fragile.

He stood slowly, like he didn’t want the moment to break.

I opened my eyes just a sliver.

He was walking away.

Not leaving the room — just moving to the armchair across from the couch, lowering himself into it with a quiet sigh. He leaned back, watching over me like it was instinct.

His arms crossed loosely.

His eyes softened.

And even though he thought I was asleep, he stayed awake.

Guarding me.

Because that’s who Alexander was.

Someone who would sit in the dark, in silence, protecting things he wanted but would never ask for.

I swallowed hard, closing my eyes again.

I hadn’t meant to end up here.

But right now...

I didn’t want to be anywhere else.