Chapter 5
Robert drove Carl home, but along the way, Carl told him to stop.
"Drop me off here," he said.
"You sure?" Robert asked.
"Yeah."
Carl stepped out of the car and walked the rest of the way. The streets were quiet, just like his house always was.
As soon as he pushed the door open, Grozel rushed to him.
"Where have you been?" she asked, worry all over her face.
"Out. With some friends," Carl replied, walking past her.
"We were worried. Your parents were worried," she said.
"Were they now?" he muttered, heading for the stairs.
"They were. They waited for you, but—"
"But they had an emergency," Carl cut in sharply, turning to look at her. "Bigger than their son, right?"
Grozel looked down.
"I'm used to this, Grozel. You don't have to lie to make me feel good," he said, then continued up the stairs without waiting for a response.
She stared after him. That boy carried too much.
She sighed deeply and walked away.
-----
Carl didn't know when things had shifted between them. It hadn't been a grand moment, no defining line. Just the slow, steady melting of walls he hadn't realized he'd built — and Robert, patient as ever, had simply stayed.
From then on, Robert became… constant. More than a colleague, more than a teammate. Carl started calling him by his first name when they were alone — not "Mr Ashton," nor "Mr Robert," just Robert. And Robert always noticed, always smiled, like it meant something.
Carl started coming over to his place — at first for a game, then for nothing in particular. They'd sit, talk about things that didn't matter, and sometimes, nothing at all.
He was freer with Robert than anyone else. He didn't have to explain himself, didn't have to wear that quiet, cold armor that kept everyone else out. Robert just… saw through it. Saw him.
Still, sometimes, things felt charged in a way Carl couldn't name. The way Robert's shoulder would brush his, lingering just a second too long. The way their eyes would meet, and hold — like something unsaid hung in the silence between them.
Robert's hand on his back, steadying him as they walked. Carl's hand on Robert's wrist, fingers dragging just a little before letting go.
Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. But it was there — under the surface, humming low and quiet.
And Carl wasn't sure if it scared him… or if it was the first thing that had felt real in a long, long time.
---
That afternoon, the sun dipped lazily behind the clouds, casting a soft hue through Robert's apartment windows. Carl had come straight from school—still in his navy uniform, tie loosened, collar unbuttoned, the day's exhaustion lingering on his face. He dropped his bag by the door like he always did now, comfortable, at home in this space that wasn't his.
Robert looked up from the kitchen counter where he was pouring whiskey into two short glasses. "You look tired," he said, voice low, casual. His eyes flicked down briefly—Carl caught the glance, how it lingered a second too long on the hint of skin at his throat.
"School," Carl replied, shrugging off his blazer. "Everything feels twice as loud lately."
Robert handed him a glass. "This'll help."
Carl smirked. "Drinking in uniform? I'm breaking at least five rules."
"I won't tell," Robert murmured, their fingers brushing as he passed the drink. It was warm, just like always. A silence settled between them—not awkward, but charged, crackling beneath the surface.
Carl settled on the couch. Robert followed, sitting close—closer than necessary. The air felt thick, heavy with something unsaid. Carl took a sip, then tilted his head back, letting the burn settle in his throat.
"You're not like them," he said quietly, almost to himself.
"Like who?"
"The others. The teachers. Anyone, really." Carl turned his head, their faces inches apart. "I can breathe here."
Robert's eyes searched his, calm but intense. "Well, that my charm."
Something shifted.
It was slow—like gravity pulling them together inch by inch. A glance. A breath. Then Carl leaned in, and Robert didn't move away. Their lips met, tentative at first—soft, cautious, like they were both testing the edge of a fire.
Robert pulled back slightly, eyes dark and searching. "Carl…"
Carl's voice was quiet but sure. "Don't stop."
Robert didn't. He kissed him again, deeper this time, hands cradling Carl's jaw like he might break. Carl responded in kind, climbing into his lap as their mouths collided in a mess of heat and need. Fingers tangled in hair, shirts were tugged loose—Carl's tie undone and tossed aside, his uniform shirt slowly peeled away. Robert kissed down his neck, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin and the adrenaline in his pulse.
The couch creaked under their weight, but neither cared. Carl's hands were under Robert's shirt, running across warm skin and lean muscle. Their breaths turned ragged, their touches more urgent. When Robert lifted Carl into his arms, carrying him to the bedroom, Carl clung to him like he was afraid this would vanish.
In the dim light of the room, their bodies moved in sync—clothes shedding like old layers, until nothing remained but skin and wanting.
Robert took his time, exploring every part of him like he wanted to memorize it. Carl gasped when their hips met, moaned when Robert whispered his name against his throat. It was sensual, slow, overwhelming—pleasure building with every kiss, every drag of fingertips down his spine.
Carl wasn't used to being touched like this—like he was wanted, not used. Worshipped. It was tender and raw and hungry all at once.
When it ended, they lay there tangled, the room filled with nothing but their shallow breathing and the soft thud of their hearts. Robert brushed a damp strand of hair from Carl's forehead, pressing a kiss to his temple.
Carl didn't say anything—he didn't have to.
Because in that silence, he knew something had shifted forever.