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Charles stood in front of the huge mirror in his dressing room, critically examining his reflection. Lately, he had felt like a can of soda that someone had been shaking mercilessly before opening it. Everything annoyed him.
His face had adorned the covers of glossy magazines for five years in a row. Vogue, GQ, Harper's Bazaar. Charles was the face of leading fashion brands. Producers adored him for his plasticity—the omega could move in such a way that the camera fell in love with him from the very first frame. Every step, every curve of his neck, every languid glance from under his lashes—these were all instruments of seduction honed over years of practice.
He was angry. Angry at Max. His alpha, his husband, his strong, smelling-of-power-and-sweat Dutchman had been existing only in "trainer" mode for six months now. Max had opened his private pilates studio two years ago, and now huge queues of celebrities and ordinary people lined up for him. Charles was proud of him. Very proud. But, damn it, why did this genius forget that there was an omega waiting for him at home who desperately needed his touch?
When Max was just opening his studio, "The Red Line Studio," in a prestigious area of the city, there was a catastrophic lack of money for a PR campaign. Max was a brilliant trainer, but completely helpless when it came to promotion. Charles then did what he did best—he came. Every day after his exhausting shoots, when his knees were trembling with fatigue, he drove not home, but to Max's studio. He sat in the hall with his laptop and worked. He ran the studio's Instagram, posting beautiful photos with the right hashtags, and he himself commented on them from his personal account to create buzz. He did it quietly. Without asking for gratitude. Simply because he saw Max running out of steam, trying to be a trainer, an accountant, and a manager all at once.
The paparazzi, who were always hunting for Charles, began to notice him at the entrance to the new studio. They saw him leaving the doors with the "The Red Line Studio" logo. The next day, articles appeared in the newspapers: "Runway Star Charles Leclerc Chooses The Red Line Studio," "The Secret Corner of the Perfect Figure: Where the Main Omega of French Fashion Goes." Clients poured in. Not because they knew who Max Verstappen was, but because they wanted to be where Charles was.
Max would hug him then and whisper: "You are my luck. Without you, nothing would have worked out."
Charles smiled, hiding his face in the alpha's chest, and felt needed. Not a model. Not the face of brands, just his omega, his support, his quiet strength. But now Charles stood at the entrance to that same studio, looked at the overcrowded hall, at the queue of celebrity clients, at the logo that every passerby recognized, and thought bitterly: "I was your luck. And now I'm just a shadow on your schedule."
Charles tried to talk. Twice. Max nodded, muttered, and nothing changed. The omega was angry at his stupid schedule, his eternal busyness, and his "honey, I'll be late tonight." Charles knew that being a trainer was a responsibility, but why didn't his own alpha notice that the omega was literally falling apart? Charles wanted attention. He wanted Max to look at him the same way he did in the first year of their relationship, when he couldn't keep his hands off him.
Max came home at nine in the evening, smelling of other people's pheromones, tiredly kissed Charles on the temple, and passed out into sleep. There had been no sex for a month. Not even ordinary, deep hugs, when the alpha squeezes you so tightly that your bones crack. Charles decided to act radically. If the alpha didn't see him at home, he would see him in the studio.
Charles opened the website of "The Red Line Studio." A beautiful minimalist page, black-and-white photos, and everywhere—the perfect lines of bodies on reformers. He found the booking section and, without thinking twice, typed the first thing that came to mind into the "Name" field: "Louis Lambert." The omega paid for the session with the joint card. The request was sent, and within a minute a notification arrived: "Your training session is confirmed. We are waiting for you at Red Line Studio!" Charles smirked.
"Max won't even notice the charge," Charles thought. "He doesn't notice anything lately."
"The Red Line Studio" smelled of sandalwood and expensive wood. It was bright, stylish, and very expensive. Charles walked in exactly at noon. He was wearing his best black high-neck longsleeve. The fabric was so thin and elastic that it hugged every millimeter of his torso, emphasizing the relief of his abs and broad shoulders. On his legs, he wore gray baggy pants, so voluminous that they hid his hips and made his silhouette deceptively relaxed. Charles knew he looked like a living dream. And he wanted Max to choke on this dream.
He went to the reception desk, where a young girl, an omega administrator, was sitting, with a perfect hairstyle and an even more perfect smile.
"Good afternoon, I have a training session booked. Under the name Louis Lambert."
The girl checked her tablet and nodded politely.
"Yes, Mr. Lambert, your booking is confirmed. But you're a little early; we have a session going on right now. There are about twenty minutes left until your session."
Charles smiled politely, but inside he was seething. Twenty minutes to wait in the hall? When he had been waiting for Max for a whole month at home?
"Can I go into the studio?" he asked with slight persistence in his voice. "I'd like to look at the equipment, get acquainted with the space."
The girl hesitated.
"Sorry, the trainer is currently doing an individual session. The studio's rules do not allow outsiders to be present during a session. This is Mr. Verstappen's confidentiality policy."
Charles suppressed a sigh of disappointment. Of course, Max had always been a fanatic about privacy. But Charles knew this studio like the back of his hand. He remembered where the emergency entrance through the service corridor was—the one he and Max had used when the studio was just opening and they were assembling furniture late into the night.
"I understand," he said softly, stepping back from the counter. "Then I'll wait in the hall."
He pretended to be heading toward the sofa, but when he was sure the administrator had returned to her business, he silently slipped into the side corridor. In a minute, he was standing by the glass wall behind which was the individual training room. And he froze. Inside it was spacious, bathed in soft light. A young omega was lying on the reformer—slender, flexible, with dark hair spread out over the mat. His legs were spread wide apart, and Max was kneeling next to him and carefully, with surgical precision, pressing his palms on his thighs, helping him stretch deeper.
Charles felt something tighten in his chest. He watched as Max's strong fingers confidently glided over someone else's skin. How his palms—the same ones that once begged Charles, squeezing his own thighs, pulling him closer in the darkness of the bedroom—were now resting on another omega's legs. How Max was saying something quietly, leaning in slightly, and the client smiled back, trustingly closing his eyes. Something broke in Charles's chest, and then tightened into a tight, cold string. He felt his fingers digging into his own palm, his nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.
"I waited for you for a month," flashed through his mind. "I sat at home alone while you did stretches with other omegas. You touched them the way you haven't touched me in the last six months."
Everything inside Charles was boiling. Jealousy crept through his veins like a sticky, poisonous cold, mixing with the resentment that had been building up for weeks. He felt forgotten. Unneeded. An old thing that had been put away in a closet and stopped being noticed. And somewhere deep beneath this anger, a fear stirred—a small, nasty, cowardly omega's fear that his alpha had found someone better. More flexible. More submissive. Easier.
Charles clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth ached. He was not the type to run away. He was not going to stand behind the glass and suffer in silence. He was not going to give Max a chance to explain himself or lie to his face. He was going to walk in. He was going to remind his alpha who he was. The omega pushed the door open and, without waiting to be noticed, said loudly, putting all the steel he could muster into his voice.
"Mr. Verstappen? I'm your next client. Or do you have a problem with your schedule?"
Max spun around sharply. His face stretched in surprise, and his hands froze on the omega's thigh for a second before he pulled them away.
"Charles?" he breathed out. "Honey... what are you doing here?"
Charles crossed his arms over his chest and smiled—cloyingly sweet, unnaturally, so that anyone who knew his real smile would have gotten goosebumps.
"I'm booked for a training session," he said evenly. "As you can see, I've arrived. And I'm not going to wait."
He turned his gaze to the omega on the reformer. The omega was staring at Charles with wide eyes, his expression a mix of recognition and delight. He clearly recognized the famous model. His lips parted, and a slight blush appeared on his cheeks.
"Oh my God," the omega breathed out, forgetting about the stretch. "You're Charles Leclerc? I... I'm just a huge fan of yours. I have all the issues with you, I..."
He trailed off in embarrassment, realizing he'd said too much in front of his trainer. Charles smiled softly, with the warm, sincere smile he gave his fans at meetings. Without tension, without a mask. Real.
"Thank you, honey," he said softly, and his voice warmed. "It's nice to know that at least here I'm noticed."
The omega giggled shyly, clearly not expecting his idol to be so friendly. Charles held his gaze for just a second—warm, encouraging. Then he slowly turned it to Max, and the smile disappeared. Charles's eyes turned cold as ice. They held the steel he usually hid behind the camera. He looked at his husband point-blank, without looking away, and in that look there was everything: fatigue, resentment, jealousy, and a firm determination not to back down.
"So, Mr. Verstappen?" he said evenly, without a drop of warmth. "I hope you have time for me. Now. Or do you object?"
He said it in a way that made Max flinch. The contrast between how Charles had just spoken to the fan and how he spoke to him was striking. As if two different people were standing before him. A warm, charming omega for everyone—and a cold, demanding husband for just one person. Max swallowed. He understood everything without words.
The alpha finally pulled himself together, took a breath, ran a hand over his face, and turned to the client.
"Sorry," he said softly. "We'll have to finish today. You did a great job. Book your next session through the administrator."
The omega nodded, sat up on the reformer, and began gathering his things: a towel, a water bottle, a phone. But suddenly he paused and shyly looked up at Charles with a timid gaze full of hope.
"Charles..." he began hesitantly, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. "Can I... um... ask for your autograph? I've admired you for so long, it would be a dream come true."
Charles looked at him, and his face softened again. He smiled that same warm smile.
"Of course, honey, give it here." Charles reached out for the notebook.
The omega eagerly handed over the notebook and pen, and Charles noticed how his fingers were trembling. He carefully took the notebook, opened a clean page, and with a quick, practiced motion, signed his autograph—an elegant signature with a long flourish that he had learned over years of shoots. Next to it, he wrote: "Enjoy your training. C. L." He returned the notebook and added.
"It's great that you're working out. You have an excellent trainer." He threw a brief glance at Max, and in that glance flashed the same steel.
The omega pressed the notebook to his chest, beaming with happiness.
"Thank you so much! You're my idol! I... I'll cherish this forever!"
He slipped out the door, turning back at the last moment to wave at Charles. The door closed. Max and Charles were alone. Silence hung in the air. Charles slowly turned to his husband, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had never been there. Ice again filled his eyes. Max looked at him, feeling the ground slip from under his feet.
"Charles, let's just talk." Max gently took him by the elbow, turning him around.
"Let go." Charles shook off his hand, but not rudely, with icy politeness. His green eyes flashed. "I came for a training session. So we're going to train. Do you have a workout plan? Or do you offer coffee and heart-to-heart conversations to all your clients instead of exercises?"
The omega turned to Max, and his gaze burned with challenge. Max exhaled. Arguing was useless; he knew that look.
"Fine," he said hoarsely. "Then let's begin. Stand on the mat, feet shoulder-width apart. I'll check your posture."
Charles obediently stood up, straightening his back. His posture was perfect—the model had been taught for years to maintain a regal bearing. But Max saw how tense his shoulders were, how tight his shoulder blades were. Every muscle in Charles's body was taut like a string, ready to snap at the slightest touch. The omega closed his eyes. But his breathing was too fast, too nervous. He felt Max's hands—carefully, almost timidly—touch his ankles, adjusting the position of his legs. And at that touch, Charles's breath caught. How he had missed these hands. How angry he was that he had to pay to feel them.
"You're trembling," Max said softly.
"It's from the cold," Charles lied, not opening his eyes. "Just do your job, trainer."
"Your pants," Max blurted out. He frowned, looking at the gray bag of fabric. "They are absolutely not suitable for Pilates. Charles, I'm serious. You can't control the position of your legs in them. I can't see your knees, can't see how your hips are working. You could injure yourself or just do everything wrong."
Charles slowly, very theatrically, turned to face him. His lips curled into a venomous smirk.
"Oh, really?" Charles's voice became low and dangerous. He stepped forward, closing the distance to the alpha. "But I'm paying you money, Max. A lot of money. And I want to do the exercises in these exact pants. The client is always right. Isn't that what they teach you in your Pilates courses?"
Max sighed, his throat dry. He looked at his omega—so beautiful, so cold, and so infinitely desirable—and realized he was losing this round.
"Fine, Charles," Max's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Whatever you say. Then let's work."
The next hour was a test for Max. He gave commands, and Charles executed them with deadly grace. He did every movement as if he were posing for the cover of *Vogue*. The longsleeve stretched over his chest with each exhale, outlining his hard nipples. The baggy pants rustled when he spread his legs, and Max was going crazy from not being able to see the contours of his hips. But the worst thing was in Charles's eyes. He looked at Max with challenge, with the same stern, impenetrable mask he wore on expensive shoots.
"Adjust your pelvis," Max ordered, stepping closer.
Charles was in a plank position with one leg raised. Max knelt beside him to demonstrate how to rotate the hip, but Charles froze and looked down at him.
"Do you want to touch me?" Charles asked flatly, without emotion.
"I want to show you the right way," Max answered patiently, although his palms were already burning with the desire to grip the omega's waist. "As a trainer, I need to see and feel the position of your bones."
"Feel my bones?" Charles snorted. "You've forgotten how they feel, Max. Do you even remember the last time you touched me not as a trainer, but as a husband?"
Max froze. A pang of guilt hit his chest.
"Honey, I..."
"Do your job," Charles cut him off, looking away. His voice faltered for a fraction of a second, and Max heard it. "Train me, but don't you dare close the distance."
Max obeyed. He pulled back, continuing to direct with his voice. He saw how tense Charles was, how his hands trembled from holding the pose, but the omega didn't give in, stubbornly chewing through every exercise. After an hour, the timer clicked, and the alpha exhaled.
"That's it. The workout is over. You did more than I expected. Good job."
He reached out to help Charles up from the mat, but Charles deftly sprang up on his own. His face was flushed, sweat glistened on his temples, but his eyes still burned with a steely gleam. Charles walked to the counter, wiping himself with a towel. He took his phone out of his sports bag and showed Max the screen.
"Darling, you're wrong." There was a confirmation of payment for three hours glowing on the phone. "I bought out all your working time for the rest of the day. You have no more clients."
Max was stunned. He looked from the phone to Charles and back, trying to process what he had heard.
"Three hours? Charles, I can't just..."
"You can," Charles interrupted him. He put the phone back in his bag and stepped toward Max. "To be blunt, you're my property for the next three hours."
He came so close that Max could smell his sweat mixed with cologne. In the omega's gaze, there was no more ice—there was fire.
"Do you want to know what I've been doing for the last month?" Charles asked quietly, almost in a whisper. "I waited. I waited for you to notice that I exist. Waited for you to want me the same way you used to. But you didn't notice. You saw only clients, a schedule. You saw anything but me."
Max opened his mouth to answer, but Charles put a finger to his lips.
"Not now," he breathed. "Now I want you to remember."
He slowly, without taking his eyes off Max's, began to lift his tight longsleeve. Charles's fingers moved unhurriedly, teasingly, and every centimeter of exposed skin was like a confession. First his stomach appeared—flat, with the outlines of his abs, damp with sweat—then his chest, until the fabric was completely gone from the omega's body. Max watched, unable to look away.
"Do you remember this body?" the omega asked, pulling the longsleeve over his head and tossing it somewhere without looking. "Do you remember what it looks like when I'm on my knees in front of you? When I beg you for more? When I surrender under your hands?"
He took Max by the wrists, spreading his arms and pressing them to his own body, forcing Max to touch his waist.
"Touch me," he said, and in his voice there suddenly appeared such longing, such desperate pleading that Max's heart clenched. Charles looked at him the way a person looks when they are tired of being strong. Like an omega who just wants his alpha to finally see him. "For real. As a husband."
Max froze for a second, but his fingers were already gripping the hot skin on their own. It was unconscious—like a hand reaching for water in the desert.
"Charles..." he breathed out, his voice cracking. "I'm so guilty..."
"Shh," Charles didn't let him finish. He pulled Max by the neck and kissed him quickly, greedily. His lips were dry, almost demanding, and in that kiss was all his exhaustion with words. He pulled back as abruptly as he had leaned in, and looked at Max. "Enough words."
He slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of Max. Without looking away, without closing his eyes. He wanted Max to see every movement. He wanted the alpha to remember this moment as clearly as the omega remembered all the nights spent alone. Charles's fingers slid to the waistband of Max's sports pants. He pulled them down slowly, deliberately unhurriedly, with the same sensual rhythm with which he had taken off his longsleeve. The fabric slid down, releasing the tense member, and Charles heard Max's breathing hitch. He didn't wait. He leaned forward and ran his tongue over the tip. Slowly, teasingly, feeling the alpha flinch at each touch.
"God, Charles..." Max breathed out, and his hand landed on the back of Charles's head, his fingers tangling in the omega's hair.
Charles paused for a second, closing his eyes. From this touch, from how Max's fingers tightened in his hair, a shiver ran through his body. Finally. Finally, he was touching him for real.
The omega decided to tease his husband a little more. He wrapped his hand around the shaft, slowly, without rushing, squeezing his fingers at the base. He began to move up and down, lazily, teasingly, watching Max's expression change. How he bit his lip, how his pupils dilated, how his breathing broke. He ran his thumb over the tip, spreading the bead of precum, and Max let out a low, ragged groan.
"Charles, for God's sake, are you messing with me?"
Charles slowly looked up at him, not removing his hand, continuing to lazily stroke the shaft. A light, satisfied smile played on his lips. But he quickly lowered his gaze again and leaned in, licked the tip with the tip of his tongue, and then slowly, sensually took the member into his mouth. Deep, all the way to the base, feeling Max trembling over him. Charles moaned like a purring cat. And Max answered that moan with his own—broken, hoarse, full of guilt and desire.
The omega put all the week's pain, all the resentment, and all the love that hadn't gone anywhere despite the cold looks into every movement. His hands gripped Max's thighs, his fingers digging into the skin, leaving marks. A few minutes later, the alpha tried to pull back, feeling he was about to come, but the omega only pulled him closer, not letting go, taking everything to the end. When he released his husband's member from his mouth, he was breathing heavily, and he ran the back of his hand over his lips, looking at Max with tenderness.
"That was compensation," Charles purred, but a light, almost playful smirk was already breaking through in his voice. "We still have time. I think we can find something to do."
Max smiled—for the first time all day—and pulled Charles up by the hands, drawing him close. He crashed into his lips hard, greedily, with tongue, deep and demanding, as if he wanted to drink him dry. His fingers tightened on the omega's nape, tangling in the sweat-damp hair, pulling him closer, to the point of cracking. Charles responded to the kiss with the same greed—biting, letting Max's tongue into his mouth, tasting him mixed with the bitter, salty aftertaste of sperm that was still on his tongue. He deliberately let Max feel it, and Max, feeling it, growled deeper into the kiss, even more desperately, his fingers squeezing the omega's waist until bruises formed.
"I love you," he breathed into Charles's lips. "And I'm never going to be such an idiot again."
Charles pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. His breathing was ragged, his lips swollen and wet.
"Promise?" he asked, biting his lip.
"Promise."
Charles smirked and ran his thumb over Max's lower lip, wiping away the traces of their kiss.
"Then we still have two hours for you to prove it."
Charles slid his hands under Max's T-shirt, pulling it over his head. He did it slowly, savoring every centimeter of exposed skin.
"You're so beautiful," Charles whispered, and his stern tone finally melted away, giving way to hot, almost childish flirtation. "But you forgot how beautiful I look under you. How I moan. How I beg."
"I remember," Max moved closer, inhaling the scent of the curve of Charles's neck. "I remember every sound."
"I don't believe a single word you say." Charles threw his head back, exposing his throat. His scent became dizzyingly sweet. Max growled—low, guttural, from the very depths of his chest.
Charles picked up a soft mat from the floor and spread it out next to him in one motion. Then, sharply, without warning, he shoved Max in the chest. The alpha didn't expect it, lost his balance, and crashed onto his back, looking up at the omega with surprise and growing desire.
"Today, you do what I say."
He swung a leg over his husband's hips, straddling him, pressing against his erect member through the thin fabric of his pants. His palms pressed against the alpha's chest, pushing him down to the mat.
"You looked at other omegas," he said, rocking his hips slightly, making Max groan. "You touched them, you touched them with your hands. You forgot what it feels like when I'm on top. When I move the way I want."
Max growled and tried to take the initiative, lifting himself up, but Charles pressed down on his chest with his palms, firmly pushing him back to the mat.
"No," the omega hissed, leaning down to the alpha's face, almost touching his lips. He lifted himself on his knees, pulled Max's sports pants down along with his underwear, freeing his hips and his hard member. Then he quickly got rid of his own baggy pants, baring himself, and guided Max's member toward himself. Slowly, sensually, he lowered himself, taking it inside, and moaned—low, long, throwing his head back.
Max exhaled as if he had been punched in the chest. His hands gripped Charles's hips, his fingers digging in until they were white, but the omega didn't flinch. He began to move slowly, deeply, feeling Max fill him from within, feeling his breath hitch with every motion. Charles looked down into the alpha's eyes, and in that look there was everything: power, pain, love, and hunger. The alpha growled, trying to sit up and regain control, but Charles pressed harder on his chest with his palms, holding him down.
"No, you stupid alpha," he breathed out, and his voice broke into a moan when he sank especially deep. "Look at me."
Max obediently froze. He watched Charles moving above him—his hips gliding in a smooth rhythm, his chest glistening with sweat, his head thrown back, exposing his long neck. The alpha saw his eyelashes trembling, his lower lip bitten, how he was enjoying this power.
"You're driving me crazy," Max rasped, and his hands slid up the omega's waist, squeezing, pulling him closer.
Charles only smiled—shortly and contentedly—then picked up the pace. Now his movements became harder, more demanding, and he allowed himself loud, broken moans that tore through the silence of the studio. Max's hands squeezed his waist, leaving marks, and Charles felt a wave building inside him. But Max endured. He waited for his moment.
And when Charles closed his eyes for a moment, losing himself in the sensations, the alpha made a sharp move—grabbed him by the hips, flipped him over, and pinned him to the mat, looming over him. Charles gasped in surprise, but didn't resist. He looked up at Max, and there were devils dancing in his eyes. The alpha entered him sharply, deeply, and Charles cried out, digging his fingers into the alpha's shoulders. This time Max was not slow. He was rough, desperate, moving as if he wanted to make up for every missed night, every touch he had forgotten to give his omega. Charles moaned, throwing his head back, biting his lip until it bled. His legs wrapped around Max's waist, pulling him closer, deeper.
"Harder," he breathed out, his voice breaking. "Please."
Max leaned down, kissing his neck, his shoulders, biting his collarbones. He was everywhere. His hands gripped his waist, his breath burned his skin, his moans mixed with Charles's voice. They moved in a single rhythm—faster, deeper, more desperately. And when Charles came, arching his back, the alpha followed him, pressing him into the mat, burying his face in his sweat-damp hair.
Now only their breathing could be heard—ragged, filling the space. Charles lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling Max's heavy body pressing down on him. And it was the best feeling he'd had in the last month.
"You're heavy," he whispered, his voice sounding tired.
Max chuckled, lifting himself just enough to look at him. His eyes were warm and guilty.
"I'll buy you new pants," Max said unexpectedly. "Normal ones. For Pilates."
"Don't you dare," Charles slapped his chest, but there were already sparks of mischief in his eyes. "I like these. Because they annoy you."
Max pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. They lay on the mat for a few more minutes, intertwined, breathing raggedly, feeling the warmth returning between them. Charles pressed his nose into Max's chest, breathing in the familiar scent—the one that had made his head spin when they first met. And now he was here again. In familiar arms.
"We need to go," Charles said softly, not moving. "You have closing in an hour, I have a shoot at six in the morning tomorrow."
Max sighed and reluctantly released him from his embrace. They silently gathered their things, pulling on their clothes, hiding smiles and embarrassed glances. Charles found his baggy pants, and Max, looking at them, just shook his head.
"I'm serious about the pants."
"I know," Charles smirked and pecked him on the cheek. "But you're unlikely to see me here anytime soon. I prefer to have sex on a soft bed, not on a hard floor. Don't you think our bedroom is much cozier?"
Half an hour later, they were sitting in Max's car. The lights of the evening city drifted past the windows, soft music played in the cabin, and Charles felt the fatigue from the training and the emotional day slowly release him. He looked out the window, allowing himself to just be. Without tension. Without resentment. As they passed a traffic light, Charles was already half-asleep when he heard the car door slam. He opened his eyes and saw that Max was not in the driver's seat.
"Max?" he sat up straighter, looking around. The alpha was already walking out of a small flower kiosk on the corner.
Charles froze, feeling the warmth rush to his cheeks. Max opened the car door, sat down in the driver's seat, and handed him a small bouquet of red roses—as bright and alive as the fire they had rekindled today.
Charles looked at the bouquet, then at Max. His face was flushed with a blush—the one he usually hid behind makeup on shoots. He had gotten out of the habit of his husband doing things like this. And now he was just sitting there with the flowers, embarrassed and happy.
"You're silly," Charles whispered, accepting the bouquet and inhaling their scent. "You know I don't like flowers."
"I know," Max smiled. "But you're still smiling."
Charles turned away to the window, hiding his smile, and pressed the bouquet to his chest like something infinitely precious. His throat suddenly felt tight, and his eyes glistened with a light sheen—not from sadness, but from how good he felt in this moment. As if everything had fallen into place.
"Heading home?" Max asked quietly.
Charles didn't turn around, but his hand covered the alpha's hand on the gearshift. Their fingers intertwined confidently, radiating warmth.
"Let's go," he answered, and his voice was soft.
The car pulled away, and the cabin was filled with that cozy silence that only exists between those who don't need words to feel each other.