Destiny's Game* Chapter 45: Holding still for you

I blinked hard, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Everything felt hazy — the kind of deep, heavy sleep where you forget the world exists for a while.

"I slept...?" I muttered, still half-dazed.

"Most of the day," Alexander answered.

His voice ca from sowhere to my right.

Calm.

Even.

Too awake for how disoriented I felt.

I turned slowly.

He was standing there with a glass of water in hand, sleeves pushed up again, hair slightly ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it too many tis.

He must’ve been sitting nearby the whole ti.

"Water," he repeated, stepping closer. "You want so?"

I stared at the glass for a mont before eting his eyes.

"Yeah... thanks."

He didn’t hand it to right away.

Instead, he crouched in front of the couch — eye level, steady — and placed the glass in my hands, guiding it just enough to make sure I actually held it properly.

"You were out cold," he said. "Didn’t even move."

"That bad?" I asked, taking a sip.

He shrugged. "You needed it."

I swallowed, the water strangely soothing.

"Why are you looking at like that?" I muttered.

He tilted his head slightly, studying .

"You look better," he said simply.

"That’s... vague."

He gave a faint snort. "You were breathing like soone trying not to drown this morning. Now you look like you ca back to shore."

My fingers tightened around the glass.

"Don’t analyze ."

"I’m not analyzing you," he said quietly. "I’m noticing you."

The distinction made my breath hitch.

I set the glass down on the side table and leaned back, trying to reset my heartbeat.

"What ti is it?" I asked.

"After two."

I blinked. "In the afternoon?"

He nodded.

"You should’ve woken ," I argued weakly.

He raised a brow. "And ruin the first peaceful sleep you’ve had in days?"

I couldn’t find a coback.

He stood, stretching his back slightly — long, slow, the way soldiers did when their muscles were tired but functional.

"You hungry?" he asked.

I nodded before I even thought about it.

"Good," he said, already turning toward the kitchen. "I’ll make sothing. You’re still half-asleep — you’ll burn my house down."

"Rude," I muttered.

He didn’t look back, but I saw the smile tug at his mouth as he walked away.

"You napping like a kitten on my couch isn’t exactly intimidating, Charles."

My face flushed instantly.

"I was not—!"

He waved a hand dismissively without turning.

"Drink your water."

And even though I wanted to be annoyed...

...I found myself smiling.

Warm.

Soft.

Dangerously at ease.

Too at ease.

And as I watched him move around his kitchen — tall, calm, steady — I realized sothing unsettling:

It was getting harder and harder to pretend I didn’t want this.

"Hmmm... maybe we should go out for ice cream," I said, mid-yawn.

Before I even finished the sentence, Alexander reached over and covered my mouth with his palm.

"Are you still a child?" he asked flatly.

His hand was warm. Too warm.

I glared up at him, eyes half-lidded from sleep, trying to speak through his fingers.

He removed his hand only when he was satisfied I’d stopped talking nonsense.

"No," I said, swatting his arm lightly, "but I’ve been indoors all day."

"You were unconscious all day," he corrected. "There’s a difference."

"I still want ice cream."

"You want sugar," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Your brain isn’t fully awake yet."

"So what? You’ll deny a recovering man his joy?"

He sighed — the long, suffering kind he only used around — and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You’re impossible."

"And yet you’re still here," I pointed out.

His eyes flicked to , and for a second he looked like he regretted letting that much truth into the room.

"...Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."

The air stretched, warm and a little too full.

I cleared my throat and kicked the edge of the blanket.

"So? Ice cream?"

He looked over slowly — my ssy hair, my sleepy eyes, his clothes hanging too comfortably on — and clicked his tongue.

"You can barely keep your eyes open," he said.

"I can! Look—"

I opened my eyes wide to prove it.

He stared.

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Slowly.

"...You just blinked like an old man," he said.

"Shut up."

He shook his head, lips twitching.

But then he walked away, grabbed his keys from the small bowl by the door, and tossed them into the air before catching them smoothly.

"Fine."

I sat up straighter. "Fine?"

"We’ll get your ice cream," he said, grabbing his jacket, "before you start sulking."

"I don’t sulk."

"You sulk," he corrected calmly. "Loudly."

I huffed, standing up. "I’ll rember this slander."

"You won’t," he said, opening the door. "You’re too busy thinking about ice cream."

I marched past him with as much dignity as soone still shaking off sleep could manage.

He followed, locking the door behind us.

And just as we stepped outside, he murmured:

"And don’t get used to this. I’m not making a habit of spoiling you."

But the quiet smile he tried — and failed — to hide said the exact opposite.

"Don’t forget your glasses," Alex said, holding them out between two fingers.

I frowned at him. "I’m just a tad bit short-sighted. I’m not blind."

"Tad bit?" he repeated, raising a brow. "Charles, you walked into my closet door this morning."

"It was dark," I argued.

"It was white. And wide open."

I snatched the glasses from his hand, cheeks warming.

"I rely have a prescription of –3.00. That’s not bad."

"It is when you pretend it doesn’t exist."

I shoved the glasses onto my face, mumbling, "You sound like my mother."

He leaned closer, pushing the fra properly onto the bridge of my nose with one finger.

"And you sound like soone who wants to fall into a gutter on the way to get ice cream."

I swatted his hand away.

"Stop babying ."

He didn’t even flinch — he just looked deadpan.

"I’m not babying you. I’m making sure you don’t die before I get to finish the dessert I made."

My jaw dropped. "You made dessert?!"

He smirked — that quiet, smug little curve of his lips he only used when he knew he had cornered.

"You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you."

"You didn’t even save any?"

"I did," he said, stepping past toward the door. "I ca in second place."

"What does that an?"

He opened the door.

"It ans you inhaled the first one before you fell asleep on my couch."

My face heated. "I... I did not."

"You did," he confird.

I groaned into my palms. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he said calmly, locking the door behind us.

We walked down the short hallway, his steps steady, mine slightly chaotic — especially with the newfound clarity of my glasses.

"Besides," he added, glancing at , "I like you better when you can actually see ."

I stumbled.

Just once.

And of course he noticed.

He sighed and caught my elbow lightly, steadying .

"...I’m fine," I muttered.

"Mm," he humd, not letting go until I was steady. "That’s what you always say before proving right."

I glared at him.

He opened the front door and nodded for to go ahead.

"Co on," he said. "Ice cream before your vision betrays you again."

I walked out, whispering under my breath,

"It won’t betray . You will."

He heard it.

Of course he did.

And he laughed — low, warm, and frustratingly fond — as he followed behind .

---

Alexander’s POV

Being honest with myself... I didn’t just like Charles.

I adored him.

Not in the way people toss that word around.

Not in the shallow, impulsive way I used to feel things when we were younger.

No—this was quieter.

Heavier.

Sothing that settled into over years, not days.

I never wanted to see him sad.

Never wanted to see him confused or shrinking into himself because of soone who didn’t know how precious he was.

And sowhere between deploynts, late-night drills, and long stretches of silence where I had no one to talk to but myself... I realized it.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was the letters he never sent but wrote anyway.

The stupid little things I rembered about him no matter how many miles away I was.

The way every oga I t felt wrong because they weren’t him—weren’t loud enough, soft enough, stubborn enough, Charles enough.

The military changed .

Made responsible.

More patient.

More controlled.

But it also stripped down to the truth.

I wanted to be his pillar.

Not because he needed saving—Charles was strong, stronger than he ever believed—but because I wanted to be the one he leaned on when he chose to.

I wanted to be solid for him.

A place he ca back to, not by accident or desperation, but by instinct.

I looked at him now—fidgeting with his glasses, pretending he wasn’t embarrassed about tripping a minute ago, pretending he didn’t feel safer here than anywhere else—and the feeling settled in my chest again, warm and unbearably steady.

He had no idea.

And maybe that was for the best.

Because as much as I wanted to reach out...

as much as I wanted to pull him into my orbit and keep him there...

Charles wasn’t mine.

Not yet.

And I wasn’t going to rush him.

I’d wait—quietly, stubbornly, endlessly—until he stopped running from everything that hurt him...

...and maybe, eventually, stopped running from .