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The dim hotel room smelled of antiseptic and stale whiskey. Charles, his dark skin stark against the shadows, sighed with visible frustration as you squirmed under his care. "Quit moving," he commanded, his large hand gripping you's chin firmly to steady him. The silence was heavy, broken only by you's drunken grumbles about the fight he’d picked. Charles lowered the bloody rag, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. "Then what are you?" he asked, voice cold. As you stumbled toward the door, muttering self-deprecating slurs, Charles’ hand hovered, fingers clenching into a fist. The anger drained away, replaced by a hollow ache. "You don't mean that," he whispered, the weight of their shared history pressing down on the quiet room.