Destiny's Game* Chapter 46: Black Suits you

Alexander’s POV

"I want vanilla or strawberry-flavoured ice cream," he said, leaning slightly toward the glass case, his finger tracing the edge.

He still wore my clothes — the grey shirt slipping a little too low on one side, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone.

It shouldn’t have affected .

But it did.

More than it should.

I cleared my throat.

"Both, then."

He blinked at . "Alex—"

"Charles." I cut him off, already signaling the vendor. "You slept all day. You’re basically a child with Alpha teeth."

He slapped my arm, but it was weak — soft, lazy, adorable.

The kind of hit you give soone you trust.

The vendor handed over the ice cream and Charles took it with a grin.

A genuine one.

The kind I hadn’t seen in... months.

He licked the edge of the strawberry scoop, humming softly.

I looked away imdiately.

Too dangerous to watch.

But his reflection in the glass still followed — ssy hair, oversized shirt, glasses sliding down his nose, looking like he belonged beside .

Too much.

He was too much.

"You’re staring," he said without looking up.

"No," I lied.

"Yes," he said, suddenly smiling. "You are."

"I’m making sure you don’t drop it."

"I’ve been eating ice cream since before you got muscles, Alexander."

I snorted.

"Barely."

He nudged my shoulder with his lightly.

And my whole body reacted like he’d hit with sothing heavier.

Then he took a step forward, turning to face fully.

His glasses caught the sunlight, his eyes soft, relaxed, unfocused in that way they always were when he felt safe.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"For what?"

"For today. For... letting breathe."

I swallowed, throat tight.

He had no idea how easy it was for .

How natural it felt.

"You don’t need to thank ," I said quietly. "Just... take care of yourself."

Charles looked down at the lting swirl on his cone, then back at .

"You take care of too much."

"That’s not possible."

He blinked at that — startled.

Like the words hit him deeper than I intended.

I looked away before I said sothing even more revealing.

"Eat your ice cream before it drips."

He laughed, walking ahead.

And all I could think was:

If Louis had taken care of you like this... maybe I wouldn’t have fallen this hard.

"Let’s go see Anna," he said suddenly, licking a bit of ice cream off his thumb.

"And maybe get so accessories for myself."

He paused, eyes drifting up to mine.

"And sothing for you. You only have belts and boring watches."

He said it with a faint blush — the kind that started at his cheeks and traveled all the way to the tips of his ears.

I froze.

Accessories.

For ?

Charles buying sothing was...

dangerous.

Too intimate.

Too close to wanting.

---

"You only have belts and boring watches," Charles said, still staring into the accessories shop window.

"My watches are not boring," I said.

"They’re brown," he shot back imdiately.

I turned to him. "...And?"

He looked at like I’d personally offended his entire sense of aesthetics.

"My favorite color is black," he said, tapping his own chest with a finger. "Black. Not coconut-brown, not sad-tree-bark brown. Black."

"I didn’t buy those watches for you," I said, confused but amused.

He huffed dramatically. "Yeah, but I’m the one looking at you."

That made stop.

He realized what he said half a second too late — his ears went bright pink, and he quickly looked away like he could hide inside the ice cream shop’s freezer.

"I—I an aesthetically," he blurted. "Visually. Your... look. Your vibe. Brown isn’t— just— it’s boring."

"Brown is boring," I repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"And black is...?"

"Superior."

I stared at him.

He glared defensively.

"...So you want to wear black because you like black."

"No!"

Pause.

"...Maybe."

I couldn’t help the laugh that left — quiet, warm, helpless.

He kicked the air lightly. "Don’t laugh at ."

"I’m not," I said, still smiling. "I’m just trying to understand how my wardrobe suddenly beca your concern."

He muttered sothing like, "Because you have a face that suits black better..."

But it was so soft I wasn’t sure I was supposed to hear it.

I did.

And I wasn’t about to let him take it back.

"So," I said, stepping closer, "you want to buy a black watch."

Charles’s eyes flicked away, cheeks bright.

"...Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"...Yes."

I leaned in, just enough for him to swallow nervously.

"Then let’s go in," I said.

He blinked up at .

"I’ll let you choose the watch," I continued softly. "Since you’re the one looking at ."

His face went crimson.

"...I hate you," he whispered.

"You don’t," I answered.

"And stop saying that!"

I opened the shop door for him.

He marched inside first —

flustered

and beautiful

and pretending he wasn’t about to pick out sothing just for .

"Sothing to complent your tattoos and personality," Charles said with a little too much confidence for soone who was blushing ten minutes ago.

I raised a brow. "My... personality?"

"Yes," he said, marching ahead like a general with a mission. "You know — tall, calm, intimidating-but-secretly-soft. That whole thing."

"That whole thing," I echoed, trying not to smile.

He pretended not to hear.

Inside the shop, he didn’t stop at watches.

Not even close.

"Try this," he said, shoving a black shirt against my chest before I could react.

"Charles—"

"And these pants," he added, already reaching for another rack. "They’ll fit your thighs better."

"My—"

"And a ring," he muttered, grabbing a silver band. "Not for... not like that. Just for your hand. Fashion. You need fashion."

"Charles."

"Oh, and this bracelet— it would look good with your arm. Your forearm. The veins. I an the—not the veins, I’m—ignore that."

I stared.

He was spiraling.

He was also adorable.

"Are you redecorating or my house?" I asked as he moved on to ho décor.

"Both," he said without hesitation, lifting a dark ceramic vase. "You only own two items: furniture and sadness."

"I don’t—"

"And this," he said, picking up a throw pillow. "You need things that make your space feel warm. And less like a rehab center."

I blinked.

"Charles."

"What?"

"You’re shopping like... like a mate."

He froze.

Just for one second.

Then he placed the pillow down very carefully and cleared his throat.

"I just don’t like your taste," he said stiffly.

"Mm."

"And you deserve nice things."

"Mm."

"And I happen to be very good at choosing things."

"Mm."

He glared at . "Why are you saying ’mm’ like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you’re smiling on the inside."

I wasn’t smiling on the inside.

I was on the verge of lting.

He grabbed another shirt — black, of course — and held it against , eyes narrowing critically as he judged how it matched my tattoos.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

Barely.

"This one suits you."

I looked at him.

Really looked.

Focused, determined, flustered...

Taking care of without admitting he was taking care of .

And he had no idea what it did to .

"Alright," I said quietly, "I’ll try it on."

He nodded, trying to look unaffected, but his ears gave him away — flushed pink.

As I took the shirt from his hands, our fingers brushed.

Just a tiny touch.

But he went completely still.

And I knew then:

He wasn’t doing this just because he didn’t like my taste.

He was doing this because he liked .

More than he wanted to admit.

I looked down at the stack of things Charles had shoved at — shirts, pants, bracelets, a necklace I wasn’t entirely sure suited anyone on earth, and two watches:

one brown, one black.

He stood in front of with his arms crossed, chin raised like a general inspecting his troops.

"Alright," he said. "Try them."

I raised a brow. "All of them?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"No, in the fitting room," he said, pushing the pile against my chest. "I’m not asking you to model in public."

"Good to know you have boundaries," I murmured.

He flushed instantly. "Shut up and go."

I smirked and stepped into the fitting room.

Charles hovered outside the curtain like a restless cat.

The shirt ca first — black, simple, soft.

When I stepped out, Charles stared a full second too long before blinking hard and waving back inside.

"Next."

Then the pants — dark, fitted, hugging my fra more than anything I normally wore.

He made a strangled sound when I stepped out.

"...Okay, those are illegal," he muttered. "Next."

I tried the green shirt.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe, really.

I tilted my head. "Charles?"

He snapped out of it, cheeks bright.

"Fine. Good. Next."

But before I could go back in, he grabbed my arm — gently — fingers brushing the tattoo near my elbow.

"Try the accessories too."

I looked at him. "All of them?"

He avoided my eyes. "Just... the ones I think will suit you."

He said it like a confession.

So I tried the rings next — silver, minimal.

One slid perfectly onto my index finger.

When I stepped out, Charles stared at my hand like the ring was too intimate to look at directly.

His voice ca soft.

"...That one."

"You like it?"

He swallowed. "It fits you."

His gaze lifted to mine for only a second, and the look there...

Warm.

Unsteady.

Sothing he didn’t want to notice.

I noticed anyway.

Then ca the black watch — simple, sleek, exactly his type.

He fixed the strap himself, standing close, fingers brushing my wrist, breath grazing my skin.

He didn’t look at .

He didn’t need to.

His hands were shaking, just a little.

"There," he whispered. "Better than the brown one."

I leaned down slightly. "Because it’s black?"

"And because," he said quietly, "it looks right on you."

Our eyes t.

Too close.

Too long.

He stepped back first.

I let him.

"Next," he muttered, ears red, trying to hide behind a shirt he pretended to inspect.

But he wasn’t inspecting it.

He was stealing glances at through the reflection in the mirror.

He thought I didn’t see.

I saw everything.

Charles was still flustered from the fitting room — cheeks warm, ears red, pretending to study the price tag of a dumbbell-shaped keyholder he clearly didn’t even like.

I stood beside him, arms full of the things he’d chosen for :

the black watch, the silver ring, a dark green shirt, and the bracelet he claid "matched my aura," whatever that ant.

We approached the counter where a young woman — maybe twenty, maybe younger — looked up with a bright smile.

"Hello! Did you find everything you needed?"

Charles nodded, placing the items down one by one.

She paused.

Her gaze flicked from ...

to Charles...

to the clothes...

to the matching black accessories.

Then she smiled wider — knowingly.

"Ohhh," she cooed softly, "you two match really well."

Charles blinked. "Match?"

I already felt the disaster coming.

"Yes," she chirped. "Couples who shop together always pick items that complent each other. It’s adorable."

I froze.

Charles froze harder.

"We’re not—" I started.

"We’re not—!" he blurted at the sa ti.

We both turned to glare at each other for speaking in sync, which only made the cashier giggle.

"Oh no, it’s okay!" she said cheerfully. "You don’t have to be shy. I see it all the ti."

Charles sputtered. "We’re not a couple!"

"Right," she said slowly, still smiling. "Just very... coordinated. He picked these for you?"

She pointed at my clothes.

Charles opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"I—I just thought they’d suit him," he muttered, looking anywhere except at her or at .

"And they do," she said, clasping her hands dramatically. "You have such good taste. He’s lucky."

LUCKY?

Charles made a choking sound.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "We’re... friends."

"Mhm," she humd, completely unconvinced. "Of course. Friends who clearly care a lot about each other."

Charles turned red enough to lt through the floor.

"He’s not— He’s just— I’m not—!"

I couldn’t help it.

I laughed.

It slipped out before I could stop it — low, warm, traitorously amused.

Charles whipped around to glare at . "It’s not funny!"

"It is a little funny," I said.

"It’s not!"

"It is," I argued calmly.

The cashier leaned over the counter, chin in her hands.

"You guys are adorable. Do you want the matching phone charms too? They co in pairs."

Charles audibly died.

"We’re leaving," he muttered, grabbing the bag so fast he nearly ripped it.

"Have a wonderful day, lovebirds!" she called as we walked away.

Charles stumbled, nearly tripping over his own foot.

I caught his elbow — gently — steadying him.

He yanked his arm back but didn’t actually let go of my sleeve.

"I hate this place," he muttered.

"No," I said softly, leaning down just a bit, "you’re just embarrassed."

He glared up at , eyes wide and flustered.

"I am not."

"You are," I said, smirking.

I tapped the bag he was holding.

"And you picked all of this for ."

He went still.

Quiet.

Then he whispered — barely audible—

"...Shut up."

I didn’t.

Instead, I nudged his shoulder lightly.

"We should get your ice cream."

He nodded without looking at .

But as we stepped outside, I noticed his fingers brush mine.

Accidental.

Then again.

Less accidental.

I didn’t comnt.

But I didn’t pull away either.