CHAPTER 47: HOW’S YOUR GIRL FRIEND

"Do you still sing?" I asked.

Charles shifted the bag in his arms, hugging it like it could shield him from the question.

"No," he said quickly.

I frowned. "Why?"

He let out a sigh — the kind that was half dramatic, half real exhaustion.

"Because," he muttered, eyes drifting to the floor tiles, "my mother always expects more from me."

I stayed quiet, letting him speak.

"She never said it directly," he continued, "but she wants me to be something else. Something serious. Something that sounds important when she tells her friends."

His fingers tightened around the shopping bag handles.

"She liked it at first. When I was younger. But somewhere along the line, it became... childish to her."

He let out a humorless laugh. "So I stopped. It’s easier to be what she wants than disappoint her."

He looked up at me then — soft, unsure, but honest.

And suddenly I understood why he clung to the things he liked so fiercely.

Why he hid the gentler parts of himself.

Why he flinched at being seen too clearly.

He wasn’t afraid of the world.

He was afraid of being told he wasn’t enough.

"Your voice is beautiful," I said quietly. "And you’ve always wanted to be an idol."

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he hugged the shopping bag closer, chin brushing the edge of it as he exhaled slowly.

"They wanted me to be in a science-related field," he murmured. "Or a lawyer. Something important. And if they got their way, a politician."

He rolled his eyes slightly. "A politician, Alex. Can you imagine me smiling at cameras while shaking hands with people I don’t like?"

I smiled faintly. "You’d be charming enough."

"Exactly," he said flatly. "That’s the problem."

He shifted his weight, the sunlight catching on his glasses.

Then his voice dropped.

"I’m studying political sciences. It’s... an online course."

"That doesn’t sound exciting," I said gently.

"It’s not."

He sighed again — deeper this time, like the truth was dragging itself out of him.

"But it makes them happy. And it’s easier than fighting them every day."

I watched him for a moment.

Charles, who laughed so easily.

Who cried silently when he thought no one was looking.

Who dreamed louder than he ever allowed himself to speak.

Doing something he hated because it kept the peace.

"Charles," I said quietly, "is this what you want?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

He just stared at the shop window beside us — at our faint reflection standing too close, him half-hidden behind the bag, me looking at him instead of the glass.

Finally he whispered:

"...No."

His voice trembled — just barely.

"But I don’t know how to choose myself without feeling guilty."

"You know I’m adopted," he said, fingers tightening around the shopping bag.

"I owe them this much."

There it was.

The real reason.

Not his mother’s expectations.

Not the political science course.

Not even the pressure.

It was guilt.

Quiet, heavy, lifelong guilt.

I turned to him fully. "Charles."

He didn’t look up.

"I mean it," he said softly. "They took me in. Fed me. Raised me. I wasn’t even supposed to stay permanently, but they kept me anyway. And I’m grateful— I am. So if they want me to be something important, then I should at least try."

His voice cracked, just a little.

"I should pay them back."

My chest tightened.

"Charles," I said again, firmer this time, "you don’t owe them your life."

He flinched — like the words hit a bruise.

"I do," he whispered. "If I wasn’t there, maybe they could’ve focused on something else Maybe things wouldn’t have been so stressful. Maybe—"

I cut him off, gently but sharply.

"Stop."

He blinked at me.

"You don’t repay love," I said. "That’s not a debt. They chose you. They kept you. That wasn’t a business transaction."

He swallowed hard.

I stepped a little closer — enough that he couldn’t look away easily.

"And even if you weren’t born to them... you’re still allowed to want things. To dream. To choose a life that makes you breathe instead of suffocate."

He stared up at me, eyes shiny, defenses thin.

"But what if they’re disappointed?" he whispered.

"Then they’ll adjust," I said simply. "Or they’ll learn. Or maybe they’ll be upset for a while. But that’s their problem to work through, not a burden for you to carry."

He said nothing.

Just stood there, small in my clothes, hugging the bag like it was armor.

I lowered my voice.

"You don’t need to pay them back by losing yourself, Charles."

He inhaled shakily.

And for the first time today, he looked like someone who’d been holding a weight too heavy for too long...

and finally realized he could set it down.

"I’ll try," he said quietly.

"But..." he added, stepping toward the parking lot, "I’m starting to like it."

He didn’t see the small smile that tried to form on my face.

He really didn’t.

He just walked ahead, hugging the shopping bag like a shield as the afternoon sun lined his silhouette with gold.

Then—

"Charles."

A voice cut through the air.

Charles froze.

His grip on the bag tightened so fast the paper crinkled.

He turned stiffly, like he already knew trouble was coming.

Standing a few steps away was a man in a fitted black suit, expression sharp, posture too professional to be anything friendly.

"Michael," Charles breathed, eyes widening just slightly.

Then he leaned toward me and whispered:

"Louis’ assistant."

His scent spiked — nervous, irritated, and something that smelled almost like dread.

I immediately stepped half in front of him.

Not aggressively.

Just enough to shield him if I needed to.

But enough for Michael to notice.

Michael’s eyes flicked from Charles to me — assessing, calculating, judging in less than a second.

"Charles," he repeated, voice smooth but tight around the edges. "I’ve been looking for you."

Charles forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"That sounds familiar," he said with a dry laugh. "Does Louis know you’re here?"

Michael didn’t answer.

Which meant yes.

Charles stiffened beside me — subtly, but I felt it.

I took a slow step forward.

"And who are you looking for him as?" I asked. "The assistant... or the messenger?"

Michael’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze sharpened.

"Louis requested to speak with you," he said to Charles, deliberately ignoring me. "Privately."

Charles’s jaw tightened.

"I’m busy."

"It’s important."

"It’s always important," Charles shot back, voice flat. "Until he gets bored again."

Michael inhaled — the smallest sign of frustration.

"Charles. He insists."

I felt Charles lean back slightly, closer to me by instinct more than choice.

He wasn’t scared.

But he was bracing.

And I hated that.

I stepped fully beside him now, our shoulders almost touching.

"And if he doesn’t want to go?" I asked.

Michael finally looked at me.

Truly looked.

"Oh," he said quietly. "So this is where you’ve been."

Charles grabbed my sleeve immediately.

"Michael," he warned.

But Michael’s eyes were already narrowed at me — measuring, comparing, recognizing the danger even if he didn’t understand it yet.

"You must be Alexander."

My name in his mouth felt wrong.

Possessive.

Accusing.

"...Interesting," he muttered.

And the worst part?

He smirked.

Charles tensed.

Hard.

"Michael," he snapped, "don’t start."

Michael raised his hands innocently.

"I’m not starting anything," he said. "But Louis wants answers."

Then his eyes settled on Charles — softening only slightly.

"And he wants them from you."

Charles swallowed.

I touched his elbow — nothing obvious, just a grounding point.

He didn’t pull away.

Michael noticed that too.

And his expression changed.

Sharper.

Colder.

More dangerous.

Louis wasn’t just looking for Charles.

Louis was worried.

Or jealous.

Or both.

And Michael had been sent to find out why.

Charles cleared his throat, suddenly too bright, too nervous, too obviously trying to redirect the entire conversation.

"So—" he said with a shaky laugh, "how’s your girlfriend, Michael?"

Michael blinked once.

Then twice.

Charles’s attempt at casual small talk hit the ground and died instantly.

"...My girlfriend?" Michael repeated slowly.

Charles nodded rapidly. "Yeah—yeah, the one you used to post about. On your status. With the... uh... braids? Or was it curls? I don’t remember—"

"You mean my sister," Michael said flatly.

Silence.

Charles froze like he’d just been shot.

"Oh," he croaked. "Oh."

He looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.

Michael’s lips twitched — not in amusement, but in the way someone looks right before they sigh for twenty minutes straight.

Alexander stepped slightly closer to Charles, almost like he was shielding him from the sheer embarrassment radiating off him.

I suppressed a smile.

Barely.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Charles."

"I’m— I’m sorry," Charles whispered, horrified. "I didn’t— I swear I thought—"

Michael sighed, long and painful.

"...It’s fine."

"It’s not fine," Charles insisted. "I basically called your sister your— That’s— I’m—"

"It’s fine," Michael repeated sharply, probably to stop the rambling before Charles melted through the asphalt.

Alexander couldn’t help it.

He snorted.

Quietly, but loud enough.

Charles smacked his arm without looking at him. "Stop."

"I didn’t say anything," Alexander murmured.

"You didn’t have to," Charles muttered, cheeks flaming.

Michael exhaled again, but this time his eyes moved between us with a slower, more calculating interest.

He had come to find Charles.

He had expected resistance.

But he hadn’t expected... this.

Charles in Alexander’s clothes.

Charles holding shopping bags that clearly weren’t for him.

Charles standing close enough to Alexander that their auras brushed.

And Alexander, arms loose but posture protective — too protective — watching Michael like he was trying to decide whether he was a threat.

Michael straightened his suit jacket.

"Regardless," he said quietly, "Louis asked to see you."

Charles looked away.

His knuckles tightened on the shopping bag.

Alexander watched him with a small frown, as if ready to intervene the second Charles said he didn’t want to go.

Michael saw all of it.

Every tiny detail.

His eyes narrowed.

"Should I tell him you’ll come," he asked carefully, "or should I tell him you’re... occupied?"

Charles swallowed.

Hard.

"...Tell him I’m busy," he said.

Michael blinked.

"You’re sure."

Charles nodded once. "Yes."

Michael’s gaze slid to Alexander again — thoughtful, unreadable.

"I’ll relay the message," he said simply.

Then he turned, hands in his pockets, walking away without another word.

Charles waited until Michael was fully out of sight before he sagged.

Just slightly.

Just enough for Alexander to catch it.

"You okay?" Alexander murmured.

Charles nodded, but it was the kind of nod that meant no, but I’m pretending.

"I’m fine," he said. "I just... I wasn’t ready to deal with all that."

Alexander hummed.

"You handled it."

Charles groaned loudly. "I called his sister his girlfriend, Alex."

"You did."

"And I panicked."

"You did."

"And then I rambled."

"You always do."

Charles covered his face with both hands.

"Kill me."

Alexander chuckled — warm, low, impossible not to melt into.

"No," he said softly, tugging Charles’s hand down.

"You’re too cute for that."

Charles froze.

Alexander froze too, realizing what he’d just said out loud.

But neither of them corrected it.

Neither of them stepped away.

And somewhere behind them, unnoticed...

Michael had stopped walking.

Just for a moment.

Watching.

And understanding far more than Charles wanted Louis to know.