Through all of it, their relationship continued to grow—through stolen glances, through hidden touches, through quiet, forbidden kisses.
But at the same time, they were each stepping into different stages of life:
Charles into rebellion, and Louis into the cold weight of young adulthood.
Charles began to question everything.
The careful rules. The quiet restrictions. The invisible hands guiding his life.
And for the first time, he started acting like a teenager—angry, confused, and desperate to be free.
It started small. A late dinner, a glance that lingered too long, a question that shouldn't have been asked.
"Louis," Charles said quietly, pushing his plate away, "why do you always have to know everything I do?"
Louis didn't respond at first. He just watched him, the faintest crease between his brows. His voice, when it came, was smooth—cold, almost practiced.
"Because someone has to."
Charles slammed his hands on the table. "You're my brother, not my mother Louis!"
