The darkness of the room was shattered by the blinding light of the phone, yanking Oliver from a deep sleep with the urgency of a fire alarm. The device vibrated incessantly, like a pounding heart demanding attention, exacerbating his irritation.

His movements were slow and uncoordinated, as if he were still trapped in a limbo between sleep and wakefulness. Oliver reached out a stiff hand toward the bedside table, his finger joints popping in protest as his fingers brushed against the cold metal of the phone, dragging it closer. His half-closed eyes could barely focus on the caller ID.

"Hello?" The word came out muffled, sluggish, as he fought for clarity.

In the background, a vibrant, festive melody with an unmistakably Latin touch reached his ears for a moment before being abruptly replaced by the familiar voice of Laura.

"Laura?" Surprise barely registered in his mind, still clouded by sleep. "It's 3 in the morning. What could be so urgent?"

Hearing her say "It's Ian" was like an electric shock coursing through his body, a jolt that made him sit up abruptly, brutally awake. His body tensed, muscles contracted, as his heart began to hammer frantically against his ribs. The sudden absence of air, a vacuum squeezing his chest, made his throat burn as Laura, not waiting for any reaction, hurried to reassure him. "Calm down, he's fine. But I'm in trouble here, Oliver. You're my last hope."

"What happened?" Anxiety punctuated every word, mingling with a slight resentment stemming from their last tense encounter months before.

Oliver was still hurt by the abrupt way past decisions had been thrown in his face, and how they had exchanged bitter accusations.

He knew the argument they had was the result of immaturity and desperation on both sides. Oliver, for his reasons, Ian, for his. But all the tension of recent years made him question his own impulsiveness, and in the end, nothing would change the fact that he would still do anything to have Ian back, even if they had to go back in time and re-evaluate each choice, one by one.

"He missed his flight back to Singapore and just told me he couldn't reschedule," Laura justified hastily, but Oliver's breath caught in his throat at this revelation.

"He's here?" His whisper was no longer sleepy but a fragile thread of voice struggling to emerge.

"He spent the last week in Spain. Old commitments or something like that," she explained quickly. "I wouldn't bother you at this hour, Oliver, especially after everything I said. But I'm on the other side of the city with Ryan, and it's impossible to find an Uber or a taxi at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday."

Laura fired a barrage of information that included the revelation of a boyfriend, something new for Oliver.

"Ryan?" He reacted to this unexpected detail, but the urgency in her voice cut off any digression.

"Yes, Ryan, my boyfriend. I'll tell you later," she interrupted impatiently. "Well, Ian is at a bar near Heathrow, possibly drunk, and our parents definitely won't like receiving a call at this hour alerting them about a slip-up of their favorite son."

"I always thought you were the favorite," he commented, more relaxed upon realizing it wasn't a tragedy, and Laura's subtle irony brought a brief smile to his lips, despite the nervousness growing in his chest, compressing it violently.

However, the possibility of a reunion with Ian stirred a whirlwind of emotions within him — guilt, anxiety, longing, all mixing into a restless confusion.

"I thought a lot about whether I should call you, Oliver," Laura confessed, her voice taking on an almost regretful tone, as if every fiber of her being was reluctant to say the next words. "But Ian stopped by home to say goodbye, and when he called me just now saying he was stuck at the airport, I knew he didn't miss that flight by accident. I thought maybe you could... want to do something about it."

The seriousness in Laura's voice betrayed that she had yielded to the inevitability of not being able to protect Ian from his own feelings for Oliver. After all, she knew that Ian would never leave London without seeing him one more time, even if from afar, even if they hadn't spoken in months.

Oliver's blood ran cold at the prospect of having to play the hero that night, but he also knew he wouldn't limit himself to that. He knew that any situation involving Ian, he would be there, ready to support him, comfort him — anything, even if it meant being the target of his frustration, his anger, whatever Ian was ready to unload on him after so long.

"I'm on my way," he confirmed with a firmness he barely felt.

As he prepared to face the cold of the night, Oliver felt the weight of the consequences of that mess he himself had created.

Sliding out of bed, his feet touched the cold floor, sending shivers through his skin. The abrupt transition from sleep to action left his mind spinning, but a sense of urgency propelled him, overcoming the residual lethargy.

His hands trembled as he fought with the fabric of his clothes, each movement more awkward than the last. The T-shirt was pulled over his head hastily, followed by the jeans he found thrown at the foot of the bed. Every gesture was punctuated by fleeting thoughts of Ian — his eyes, his smile, his voice — everything seemed to haunt him at that moment, demanding a concentration that Oliver could barely muster.

Pushing those thoughts aside with effort, he grabbed the keys on the dresser and cast one last glance at the room now disordered by his rush. With determined steps, he left the room and descended the castle stairs.

His heart pounded against his chest, as if it wanted to escape.

Upon reaching the entrance, the guards bowed, surprised by his appearance at that hour of the night. Oliver forced a tense smile and a quick nod, trying to reassure them, although his mind was already far from there.

"It's all right, I just need to resolve something. No need to accompany me," he said with forced calm, barely disguising the growing hurry and apprehension.

The last encounter with Ian had been a cataclysm that both wished to forget, but a greater force seemed to pull them back together. Still, there was Oliver, on his way to a rescue driven by an old passion that never fully healed — a wound that never healed properly, bleeding at every memory.

Without waiting for questions, he left the castle in a rush, walking toward the parking lot. His car awaited him, ready to take him to an uncertain destination. With a heavy sigh, Oliver settled into the driver's seat and started the engine, the familiar vibration cutting through the night silence.

Leaving the quiet streets of Windsor behind, his mind amplified every doubt, every crack in the confidence carefully rebuilt during the time away from Ian.

And when they met? What would he say? How would Ian react? Would he retaliate with bitterness? Run away once again?

His heart skipped beats at every red light, pulsing in a chaotic rhythm as Oliver fought to keep his nerves in check.

Oliver crossed the city blurred with lights and shadows with determination. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat echoing the name of the Runway Lounge. The neon sign of the bar emerged in the distance, an electric promise that made his hands grip the steering wheel tightly.

Oliver parked, his breath caught in his lungs.

The world around him seemed frozen, suspended in a moment of inevitable apprehension. With a decisive gesture, he opened the car door and plunged into the night.

The interior of the Runway Lounge was a stark contrast to the darkness outside.

And at the center of that new universe was Ian, a magnetic figure attracting all eyes. His black coat hugged his broad shoulders, his dark curls a glorious mess that made Oliver remember lazy mornings and sleepy smiles.

Ian held a gin bottle like it was a lifeline, his body moving awkwardly to the melancholic rhythm of a country song.

The sight of Ian hit Oliver like a wave, making his heart leap and sink simultaneously.

Ian's wide smile barely masked the sadness hiding in the corners of his eyes, a pain so familiar that Oliver could feel it in his own skin. The memory of Ian's touch, the warmth of his lips, the texture of his fingers in Oliver's hair, all resurfaced with overwhelming intensity.

A wave of longing hit him full force, leaving him momentarily paralyzed.

"Ian."

The name escaped Oliver's lips like a long-kept secret, almost inaudible in the bar's buzz.

Ian stiffened, his muscles tensing like the strings of a mis-tuned instrument. He turned slowly, his eyes widening as they met Oliver's.

The air between them seemed to crystallize, laden with years of absence and unspoken words. Oliver felt his pulse quicken, a cacophony of emotions threatening to break his carefully constructed composure. His fingers tingled with the almost irresistible urge to touch Ian, to confirm his tangibility.

"Oliver?" Ian whispered, the roughness in his tone barely disguising the shock on his face. His brown eyes scanned Oliver's features desperately, as if seeking proof that he was real and not just another cruel mirage conjured by the drink. "What are you doing here?"

The question hit Oliver like a punch in the gut, leaving him momentarily breathless.

Oliver swallowed hard, his response coming out firmer than he felt:

"I came to take you home."

Ian, for his part, seemed lost in an internal maze. His gaze darted between Oliver and the surroundings, as if seeking a rational explanation for that unexpected appearance. Instinctively, his hands fumbled through his pockets.

"Did I call you?" Ian asked, his voice rough like sandpaper. Frowning, he examined his phone's call history.

"Laura called," Oliver explained, his voice gentle but determined.

A blush of embarrassment tinged Ian's cheeks. He looked away, avoiding Oliver's inquisitive eyes.

"Oh," he murmured, the syllable laden with embarrassment and a hint of something deeper... remorse, perhaps?

The silence that followed was dense, filled with swallowed phrases and aborted gestures. Oliver hesitatedly advanced, his body acting on its own, drawn by the familiar gravity of the other.

"Shall we?" Oliver finally verbalized, his voice firmer than his inner self suggested.

Ian nodded slowly, still seeming disoriented.

As he stood up, he staggered, and Oliver reacted instinctively, his arms wrapping around Ian to steady him.

It was an unthought movement, dangerous, for that sudden physical contact threw them back into a past filled with intimacy and unfulfilled promises. Their gazes locked in an explosive mix of chaos and familiarity, awakening dormant emotions that threatened to overflow at any moment.

Oliver was the first to pull away, though every fiber of his being screamed to remain in that embrace.

"Are you okay to walk?" He asked, his voice betraying a concern that went beyond the immediate situation.

Ian nodded again, running a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "Yes, I... I'm fine."

They left the bar side by side, separated by inches that felt like miles.

Outside, the night had transformed. Snowflakes danced in the air, creating an ethereal veil that enveloped the city. Ian shivered violently, his body betraying the fragility that alcohol and emotions had unleashed.

He huddled into his coat as if trying to disappear within it.

They walked side by side to the car. Each step echoed in the night's silence, amplifying feelings repressed for so long.

Only when the engine came to life, cutting through the night's silence, did Oliver find the courage to speak again.

"Where are you staying?" Oliver's question came out low, almost swallowed by the music filling the space between them.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white revealing the tension coursing through his body.

"Nowhere," Ian replied, his voice surprisingly clear despite the alcohol on his breath. "I've only been in London for a few hours. Came straight from Spain."

The revelation made Oliver shoot him a questioning look out of the corner of his eye as he maneuvered the car through the dark city streets.

"What do you mean?" Oliver's voice became deeper, concern and curiosity in his tone. "Ian, you didn't bring any luggage?"

The question seemed to awaken something in Ian. He ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of pure despair, his fingers tangling in the unruly curls.

"Shit," he muttered, the word expressing an almost comical frustration.

Oliver felt a wave of compassion wash over him. "We'll try to find your things tomorrow," he offered, trying to inject some hope into the situation. "I'm sure it won't be that hard."

"Right," Ian retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If I recall correctly, you have the best guards at your command."

Oliver could have retorted, but exhaustion enveloped him strongly. Instead, he chose to drive the rest of the way in silence, accompanied only by his thoughts and the ghost of the closeness between them in the car.

The suggestion escaped almost without thinking. "Do you want me to drop you off in Hampstead?" Oliver proposed as he navigated the darkened streets. Turning to him, Ian caught the light from the streetlamps, reflecting a momentary confusion on his face. He seemed genuinely surprised, an indication of emotion surfacing on his features. "What?"

"You remember," Ian murmured, more to himself than to Oliver.

"Of course I remember, Ian," Oliver confessed, allowing himself a brief glance at him.

The world outside continued to move, the city lights creating a kaleidoscope of colors parading past the car windows. Ian turned to the window, lost in thought.

"Sorry about Laura," Ian said suddenly. "I didn't imagine she would bother you at this hour."

"It wasn't a bother," Oliver replied simply.

The truth was that Ian's presence, even in such atypical circumstances, brought a kind of chaotic peace to his chest. However, the proximity of their bodies, separated by an infinitesimal distance yet simultaneously insurmountable, created an invisible current that coursed through Oliver's skin, causing a tingling sensation at his fingertips, an almost uncontrollable urge to reduce that space even further.

The air inside the car was electrifying, saturated with Ian's citrus scent — a fresh fragrance that seemed to permeate every fiber of the upholstery, creating an olfactory bond that Oliver knew, at that moment, he would never be able to forget.

And then there was Ian's breathing — heavy, a tangible reflection of alcohol, the tiredness of the day, or perhaps the expressive nervousness between them. Though distant, that breathing reverberated in Oliver with surprising intensity, making his heart race at a frenetic pace.

"You don't have to lie to me, Oliver." Ian's voice stumbled over his name, a hesitation that only highlighted the momentary intimacy enveloping them. Mentioning Sofia, however, was like a needle piercing the bubble of isolation they were in, invoking the cold reality of the outside world. "She must have been furious."

Oliver exhaled deeply, turning the steering wheel to enter Park Lane. The maneuver served both to guide the car and to try to divert his thoughts for a second.

"She doesn't know," he confessed, almost unwillingly.

The shock in the exchanged glance between Ian and him was a mutual acknowledgment that they had inadvertently stepped onto dangerous ground.

"She didn't hear the phone ring?" Ian inquired, an investigative curiosity. Oliver didn't mind telling the truth.

"We don't share the same room." He confessed, trying to infuse a tone of casualness, though he knew those words carried much more weight than it appeared. "In case that's what you're trying to find out."

Ian let out a low murmur, his expression a mirror of understanding in the face of Oliver's revelation.

"So you guys are..." His voice faltered, as if searching for the right words in a confused mind until clarity emerged, strong and undeniable: "Separated?"

"Not legally. But we talked after you left."

Ian's eyes widened at the unexpected confession. "About me?"

Oliver met Ian's surprised gaze, seeing in it a rare timidity and vulnerability that disarmed him for a moment.

"About us," he corrected gently, watching Ian nod slowly, as if processing the implications of those words. "Sofia acted impulsively," Oliver continued, his voice acquiring a slight tone of censure. "It wasn't fair of her to see you as an adversary to be defeated."

"Annihilated, I'd say. She was playing to win," Ian commented with a slight shrug, his eyes still lost in the fleeting lights outside.

An ironic smile curved Oliver's lips at that observation.

"By that logic, were you both competing for me?" He asked, a bit challengingly, not really seeking Ian's confirmation.

Ian turned to face him, his eyes sad, but he didn't hesitate to respond with brutal honesty: "For sure. Ever watched Animal Planet?" His gaze was a pure portrait of sincerity, connected to Oliver's. "You're the prey the predators fight over."

"That's ridiculous," Oliver interrupted, exasperated by the exaggerated comparison. "I'm not the prize for a winning battle, Ian."

"You're right," Ian agreed, analyzing Oliver with disarming intensity. "I've lost you so many times, I don't have the courage to face another battle for you."

"Ian, please," Oliver pleaded in a whisper, but Ian leaned closer, eliminating the distance between them.

"Did you really want me to stay, Oliver?" The question emerged in the silence, capturing Oliver's alarmed look before he turned his attention back to the road. "Deep down, did you really believe we could make this work?"

"I used to believe it," Oliver admitted with melancholy. "But now it's too late for us to know. What I'm sure of is that I could never have gone this far with Sofia."

"I understand her," Ian's frankness, uninhibited by alcohol, offered a surprisingly empathetic perspective. "If I were in her place, I would never let anyone take you from me."

"I don't belong to her, Ian," Oliver reiterated, frustrated with the suggestion that he was something to be possessed by Sofia in some way. "That comparison doesn't make sense."

"It's not a comparison," Ian countered with detachment. "I know what you feel for her doesn't compare to what you felt for me. But she's the one who spends the nights with you, while I drown in Tuaks on the other side of the world."

"That doesn't change anything," Oliver contested, feeling the discomfort spread like an uncontrollable fire. "What we had... is over. Whatever it was."

"And Lily?" Ian touched on the sensitive point, injecting concern into the dialogue.

"We concluded that England would offer better opportunities," Oliver explained in a whisper as he guided the car through London's illuminated streets to the Ritz. "She'll be fine," he added confidently.

Ian broke the silence with a sigh heavy with regret. "I hope I haven't turned everything into an unbearable nightmare." His voice trembled with the weight of guilt, echoing the latent pain that pulsed at Oliver's core.

"It was inevitable." Oliver responded, the words escaping his lips like a reluctant confession. "The responsibility is mine."

Ian refused to accept that unilateral absolution. Turning to face Oliver, his eyes shone with a feverish intensity. "That's not true. We all have our share of blame in this story."

Oliver's composure threatened to crumble, his emotions on edge. It was then that Ian, his voice thick with emotion, shared an unexpected revelation: "My parents got divorced."

The surprise hit Oliver like a bolt of lightning. "Ian, that can't be. I met them, they seemed fine together."

But Ian didn't back down. His voice gained a firmness that defied his inebriation, shaking Oliver's certainties. "They're together now, but their marriage imploded." He paused, diving into painful memories. "The separation happened when I was 14. My father was a constant absence, my mother a tired shadow of herself." Ian took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on a distant point. When he spoke again, his voice carried a wisdom that transcended his drunkenness. "What I'm trying to say is: whatever decision you choose to make, don't let it affect Lily. Neither her routine nor the love she feels for you. You and Sofia are adults, capable of handling this civilly, despite my unfortunate comparison to the wildlife."

The sharp reprimand from a drunken Ian was almost ironically painful.

His words, however, hit Oliver like a punch in the gut, forcing him to face the overwhelming weight of his responsibility as a father. The power he held didn't diminish his moral obligation to protect another life. With crystal clarity, Oliver recognized that he would never allow his decisions to harm Lily. That commitment had become his moral compass, the north that guided his every step.

The hum of the engine ceased abruptly as Oliver parked in front of the Ritz's imposing facade. His attention, however, was completely captured by Ian's eyes — enigmatic portals inviting him to dive into depths both terrifying and irresistible.

"We're here," Oliver announced, his voice barely disguising the nervousness.

"Thank you." Ian's murmur was low, almost a whisper.

A new silence settled between them.

Ian remained still, a statue of serenity. Oliver, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of barely contained emotions, every fiber of his being vibrating with an almost painful energy.

The tension grew with each passing second, until Oliver, unable to bear the uncertainty, asked, "Is everything okay?"

The look Ian gave him was like lightning, electrifying and devastating. "Do you still have plans for the night?"

Ian's seemingly innocent words triggered an avalanche of sensations in Oliver. His heart raced, a frenetic symphony of desire and apprehension. He felt the heat rise up his neck, coloring his cheeks a revealing red.

He stammered, his mind spinning a mile a minute, until the naked truth escaped:

"No, nothing planned."

Oliver found himself torn, a battleground where reason and desire waged an unrelenting war. Part of him desperately longed to dive headfirst into this madness, to relive the past with all its intensity. Another part trembled with fear, wary of reopening wounds that had never fully healed.

"Do you want to come up with me?" Ian's proposal hung in the air, an irresistible temptation wrapped in silk and thorns.

Time seemed to slow down, each second stretching into an eternity as Oliver processed the words. He could hear every beat of his heart, a frenetic rhythm echoing in his ears like a primal call.

Finally, surrendering to the inevitable, Oliver whispered: "Alright."