Charles' POV
I woke up and needed a full ten seconds to remember where I was.
White ceiling.
White walls.
A faint smell of pine and whatever cologne soldiers drown themselves in.
Right.
Alexander's house.
I'd come here myself — walked here actually — because my head felt too full and Louis had a way of taking up every corner of it. Alexander's doorstep had always been the only place I could show up unannounced and still be met with, "Get in, dumbass," instead of questions.
I must've knocked, sat on his couch, and then… crashed.
I groaned as I pushed myself upright.
His guest room was simple, almost aggressively neat. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed. No personal touches. The kind of room that said: I might pack up and leave again tomorrow.
I swung my legs to the floor just as the door creaked open.
"Finally alive," Alexander said, voice low and rough from sleep — or training, or both. His broad frame filled the doorway easily, arms crossed over his chest.
