The silence that followed was deafening, as Ian remained motionless, almost paralyzed by the weight of what he'd just heard. His eyes, usually so controlled, were now a turbulent sea, as if the words he needed to say had drowned in them.

"You... you..." Ian's voice broke, fragile, the words tangled in his throat. He was vulnerable, more than Oliver had ever seen him, and that only made everything harder. "Did you meet someone?" Oliver watched, impatient, but unable to shake the discomfort growing inside him.

"You're smarter than that, Ian," he shot back, not with anger, but with a weariness that felt almost dangerous, like someone who already knew the end of the story before it even began. Ian didn't respond, but his feet started moving erratically across the room, his body tense, as though on the verge of collapsing.

"You've got to be kidding me." The sentence came out torn, half to the air, half to himself, as he ran his hands through his hair, as if that could keep him grounded. But there was no ground anymore, not now. The floor had dissolved beneath him, and shock was all that remained.

Oliver took a deep breath, feeling the blood boil in his veins, but he held back. "Ian, I'm not kidding."

Ian stopped walking, as if Oliver's words had pulled him back to reality. His face turned, pale and disbelieving.

"Oliver... I... you..." Once again, his voice faltered, breaking. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, desperately trying to find an alternative to whatever this meant. "This isn't... you can't."

Oliver could feel the tension in every line of Ian's body. It was heartbreaking. He watched every hesitant movement, every involuntary reaction, as if witnessing someone shattering in real time. "Say something I don't already know." He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to clear the confusion from his thoughts.

When he looked up again, Ian was standing in front of him, quieter, but the intensity hadn't faded. If anything, it had only grown, a force just waiting to explode.

"Oliver, do you have any idea what this means for us?" His tone was sharp, but there was a thick sadness beneath it, like someone who had just realized there was a freefall ahead. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly, as if trying to hold himself together for just a few more seconds. "I'm here to assist you in choosing a bride, not to make you fall in love with me."

"Well, that's one hell of a twist, then," Oliver muttered, a humorless smile tugging at his lips, bitter and lifeless. He shook his head, laughing at something that wasn't funny, an irony too absurd to ignore. Ian turned away, exhaling a long sigh. The sound seemed louder in the tense silence surrounding them. He stood there, with his back to Oliver, for so long that the quiet became unbearable again. When he finally turned around, his expression had changed. The shock and resistance had been replaced by something far heavier — a contained but deadly despair that took Oliver's breath away.

He stepped closer to Oliver, his voice softening into a whisper: "I'm sorry." He moved near enough for Oliver to touch him. "For my clumsiness. I honestly didn't expect to hear that from you."

Oliver blinked, absorbing the words. "Is it that horrible?" he asked, a touch of vulnerability creeping into his voice, surprising him.

"It's not horrible, just... unexpected." Ian hesitated, his hands tracing small circles on Oliver's knees, the touch light, almost casual, yet it seemed to ignite something deep inside both of them. "It's us. I'm just your advisor. This was supposed to be easy, practical... but suddenly, none of it is."

Oliver let out a sigh, as if it lifted the weight from his shoulders. "I don't know how we got here, either," he confessed, leaning in slightly until their foreheads touched, as though the simple gesture held the answer he needed. "The sex was always amazing, but now... there's something else. Something pulling me toward you in a way I can't ignore."

He closed his eyes, trying to shield himself from the growing vulnerability, but Ian's presence felt too warm, too magnetic.

"You're terrible at keeping your distance," Ian murmured, his voice sounding like a shared secret. His palm slid up to Oliver's cheek, the touch so subtle it felt weightless, yet impossible to ignore. When Oliver opened his eyes, he found a quiet determination in Ian's face, an unexpected certainty amid the confusion.

"You're far too sensitive, Ollie," Ian observed, and the ghost of a smile spread into a full, though quiet one, genuine and real. "I expected a lot of things from you, but I never thought you'd be so..."

He left the sentence hanging, and Oliver, with a self-deprecating laugh, finished it: "So stupid?"

Ian chuckled softly, a warm breath brushing Oliver's face, too close, too intimate. Then, leaning in further, their lips barely apart, he whispered with a lightness that belied the gravity of the moment: "No. Sweet."

And whatever words might have come next were lost when Ian's lips met Oliver's, in a kiss that, though deep, was full of calm, a connection that seemed less about urgency and more about the natural ease between them.

That night was unlike any other. Ian's fingers traced Oliver's skin with a near-devotional precision, as if studying a secret map, afraid to miss a single detail. There was no rush, just a slow-burning intensity that set them both alight from the inside out. Every place Ian touched seemed to awaken a new spark of life in Oliver, as if he were rediscovering his own body.

Ian's lips trailed down Oliver's neck, his soft bites sending shivers through him. He kissed a path across Oliver's chest and down his abdomen, lingering long enough to leave him on the edge of desperation. When Ian's mouth finally descended on him, Oliver felt the air rush out of his lungs. The touch was deliberate, almost torturous in its slowness. Oliver arched against the sheets, his body responding before his mind could catch up, as if being pulled by a force beyond his control. He gripped the fabric, like a man holding on for dear life against a powerful current.

Without thinking, Oliver brought his hand to Ian's jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard under his fingers, as though trying to anchor himself to reality. His fingers climbed up into Ian's thick curls, seeking something to keep him grounded while the pleasure threatened to tear him apart. But Ian didn't pull back, didn't waver for a second. He was there, solid and relentless, taking Oliver to that point where the body begins to disobey the mind, where all control is lost.

Ian didn't stop, even when Oliver's climax caught him by surprise, nor when their mouths found each other again in a messy kiss, filled with desire and relief. But it was in the moment when Ian slowly filled him, each movement a reminder that they were exactly where they were meant to be, that Oliver felt the world dissolve around him.

Each thrust was deliberate, deep, hitting a place so intimate that it made Oliver question his own ability to feel. He tried to stay quiet, but the pleasure was overwhelming, a wave crashing over him. Ian, relentless, held him steady, forcing him to keep his eyes open, to watch him as he brought him to the brink once more.

The impact of the pleasure reverberated through his body like a burst of light, and when Oliver finally gave in, trembling under the weight of sensation, he closed his eyes. In the darkness, forbidden thoughts intertwined, secrets he'd never dare speak tingled on his lips, aching to be freed. But in that moment, the only truth that mattered was the one passing between them — and for now, that was enough.

◃───────────▹

The next morning, Oliver woke up alone.

He lay there, still, the weight on his chest expanding slowly, like a shadow overtaking a room. It wasn't guilt or shame that gnawed at him, but something more corrosive—a kind of emptiness that throbbed in Ian's absence.

He turned onto his side, his face sinking into the pillow. He could still smell the aftershave Ian had worn the night before, and what had once brought comfort now only intensified the tightness in his throat. He tried to push the thoughts away, but the image of Ian — the way he looked at him, the fingers tracing every curve of his body as if trying to memorize it — kept invading his mind.

Oliver felt ridiculous, like he was the only one who had crossed the invisible line between them. But at the same time, he couldn't ignore how Ian touched him, entirely focused on giving him pleasure.

Every kiss, every movement had such clear, specific intent that it felt almost sacred.

Two light knocks on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He grunted in response, not bothering to move. Yet a playful laugh reached his ears, drawing an involuntary smile from him.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Ian's voice was rough, the kind that comes from just waking up, but the playful tone around the syllables warmed Oliver from within, and the discomfort in his chest vanished as if by magic. His footsteps approached, and Oliver felt the mattress sink under Ian's weight. Oliver didn't resist Ian's touch. When Ian leaned over him, he enveloped him with a cozy warmth. "I've come to take you for a walk." Oliver felt heavy, anchored to the bed as if being pulled into it.

Every muscle begged for more sleep, but Ian's presence over him made any resistance seem useless. There was no distance, no barrier.

"I'm too tired," Oliver mumbled, burying his face in the curve of Ian's neck like a child wanting to hide from the world. Ian's skin was warm and smelled of soap, reinforcing the desire to stay there forever. "Do you know what time it is?"

Ian laughed, the soft sound vibrating against Oliver's ear.

"I do," he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep, but there was no urgency in his words.

Oliver opened one eye, watching Ian with a mixed expression of admiration and disbelief. He hadn't even brushed his teeth yet, his hair was a mess, but Ian was there, smiling like this was all a little adventure only the two of them could understand.

"It's my day off," Ian continued, his eyes gleaming with the thought of something simple and special. "I thought we could go for a walk. What do you say?"

Oliver sighed heavily, not wanting to leave the comfortable bubble they were in. "I have that unmissable meeting, and..." He tried to come up with an excuse, but Ian leaned in, biting his skin lightly in a playful and intimate way that made Oliver smile.

"You forgot I have access to your weekly calendar," Ian teased, pulling back just enough to look directly into Oliver's eyes.

The mischievous glint in Ian's eyes was disarming, yet irresistible. He was an enigma Oliver could never fully unravel, and maybe it was that unpredictability that kept him so captivated.

"How are you even awake at this hour?" Oliver complained with mock annoyance, letting Ian steal a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth before jumping out of bed with the energy of someone who hadn't slept at all.

Ian pulled him by the hand, insisting with that look of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. "Come on, Ollie," Ian urged, already standing at the edge of the bed, with the patience of someone who wouldn't take no for an answer. "Please?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, but the affectionate tone in Ian's voice made his heart falter. "That's something I've never heard from you," he remarked, getting up with exaggerated slowness. "Where are you so eager to drag me off to, anyway?"

Ian gave a mysterious smile, his eyes shining as if holding a delicious secret. "You'll see when we get there," he replied, the excitement in his voice like a promise.

With a resigned sigh, Oliver made his way to the bathroom, undressing with an almost theatrical gesture, letting the t-shirt fall to the floor. Once at the threshold, he turned, throwing Ian a suggestive look that dared him to follow. 

"You coming?" He asked with a half-smile.

Ian didn't hesitate to join him. 

◃───────────▹

When they passed through the main gates, the cool morning air enveloped them, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and damp earth.

Ian walked ahead, his posture relaxed but his eyes keenly focused on the path ahead. Oliver followed without question, his worries retreating with each step, like leaves blown away by the wind.

"So, where exactly are you taking me?" Oliver asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Ian turned his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "It's a surprise."

The road descending from the castle looked like a living painting. The ancient trees, their branches forming a natural arch overhead, cast gentle shadows on the path. The leaves rustled softly in the breeze, and the sky, a deep blue, seemed vast and eternal. In the distance, the rooftops of Eton began to appear, peeking through the treetops.

"My family moved here when I was a kid," Ian began, his voice soft, almost distant. "I spent my whole childhood in this place."

Oliver glanced at him, surprised by the nostalgic tone in his voice. "Really? You never mentioned that before."

"It's not something I talk about much," Ian replied with a light shrug. "But I always liked remembering those times. Things were simpler. Easier."

As they walked through the narrow streets of Eton, Oliver found himself charmed by the red-brick houses, with their windows adorned with lace curtains and small flower gardens. The smell of fresh bread wafting from the bakeries and the sound of children playing in the distance felt like part of an old film's backdrop.

"It's quite a charming place," Oliver commented, watching an elderly woman water her flowers as she smiled at them.

"I lived right there." Ian nodded toward a small brick house ahead, a discreet smile on his face. "My father used to sell newspapers, but later he became a gardener at the castle."

Oliver followed his gaze and saw the modest house, with dark wooden doors and a sloping roof. The simplicity of the house contrasted with the grandeur of the castle, but there was something warm and welcoming about it.

"And your mother?"

"My mother took care of everything at home, of me and Ivy," Ian glanced at Oliver without stopping. "A full-time job," he joked lightly.

Oliver frowned, feeling a little uneasy. "Was your father absent?"

"Not intentionally," Ian clarified, with no trace of resentment in his tone. "He just worked a lot."

Oliver nodded, following him to the charming park at the end of the street. "You must have a lot of memories," Oliver said softly. Ian nodded.

"My earliest memory is my dad teaching me to ride a bike. I was a complete disaster, knocking everything over. Ivy... she was the opposite. So careful, like the bike was made of glass."

Oliver laughed, picturing the scene. "Let me guess... You broke the bike before she even touched it."

"Well, not in that particular instance," Ian shrugged, a mischievous and guilty expression crossing his face, "but I did end up destroying it later, yes."

Oliver still couldn't quite understand the reason for that walk down memory lane, listening to Ian recount trivial moments of his modest childhood in Eton. But it felt comfortable being there with him, hearing him talk freely about something he cherished.

"Did you like it here?" Oliver asked, almost to encourage him to keep going.

"Like I said, it was a modest life," Ian replied, looking around, "but I wouldn't change a thing."

Oliver watched that smile with a twinge of surprise. The contrast between their realities was striking. While Oliver had grown up surrounded by luxury, every detail of his life carefully planned, Ian had grown up in a place like this — simple, almost ordinary, but full of purpose. For a brief moment, Oliver felt small in his grandeur, as if he were experiencing something he could never fully understand.

"I wouldn't get it, would I?" He admitted, almost in a whisper.

Ian shook his head, chuckling softly. "Actually, I was pretty ambitious when I was younger," Ian said, his amber eyes catching the sunlight with an intensity that made Oliver's breath hitch. "I dreamed of leaving here and exploring the world. But life always has its own plans." They stopped in front of a wooden bench in the park, and Ian sat down, the weight of his memories curving his shoulders, as if each word were an old burden. "My mother wanted Ivy and me to have the opportunities she never had. My father... well, even though he was absent, he sacrificed for that. In the end, it shaped who I am today."

Oliver sat next to him, his heart beating a little faster with the closeness. There was something in Ian's words that disarmed defenses Oliver didn't even know he still had, leaving them both exposed, raw, and intimate.

"And how did you end up here?"

"A lot of effort," Ian sighed, his eyes drifting into the distance. "I got a full scholarship to Oxford, but surviving there was... tough. I worked any job I could to pay for my expenses. There were days when I thought about giving up." He paused, his eyes turning back to Oliver with cutting honesty. "But then this position came up. Advising the future King of England." He laughed, but there was a shadow of hesitation in his laughter. "I'll admit, when I found out I'd be working with you, I had my doubts."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Doubts?"

Ian laughed again, more freely this time. "I thought you'd be insufferable. Spoiled, arrogant... someone who would make my life hell." His eyes sparkled with a hint of humor. "And I won't lie, at first, you didn't disappoint."

"Hey!" Oliver protested, feigning indignation but unable to hold back a smile.

"Let me finish," Ian said with a teasing smile, leaning closer. The warmth of his body radiated a silent promise of something more. "I was right... until I realized I was wrong."

The silence that followed was intense, as if the world around them had stopped for a moment. Ian raised his hand, his fingers gently tracing the curve of Oliver's cheek as if mapping sacred terrain.

"You surprised me, Oliver," he murmured, his eyes locked on Oliver's, his words heavy with a sincerity that made Oliver's heart pound. "In more ways than I imagined."

Oliver blinked, trying to decipher the subtext hidden in Ian's words. "Ian..." he began, but his voice faltered. The intensity of the moment left him vulnerable, and it both frightened and drew him in. "Why are we here? Really."

Ian took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts before answering. He looked around, as if absorbing the world around him before turning back to face Oliver with a gaze that seemed to penetrate his soul.

"I know you, Oliver. More than you think." He smiled softly. "But you don't know much about me, and I think that needs to change."

Oliver's heart skipped a beat, and he felt his throat go dry. "Does it?"

Ian nodded, his golden eyes shimmering with an intensity Oliver couldn't quite fully grasp.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about last night." He hesitated, the words heavy on his lips before continuing. "And I don't want you to fall for a version of me that only exists in your head. For something that, one day, I might not be able to live up to."

"Ian, for Christ's sake," he pleaded, his voice a trembling thread, "be clear."

Ian leaned in even closer, their faces now mere inches apart. "I know that when you were eight, you ran away from your tutors to play in the garden and ended up falling from that tall tree, getting this scar." Ian gently touched Oliver's eyebrow, his fingers brushing the scar with almost reverent care, as if handling something precious. "And I also know that your favorite ice cream isn't vanilla, like you pretend, but mint with white chocolate sauce."

Oliver tried to suppress the smile that threatened to appear but couldn't avoid the mix of embarrassment and challenge that reflected on his face. How did Ian know so much? It shouldn't have been comforting, but somehow, it was.

"I know you shiver when I touch you here," Ian continued, his voice slipping into a murmur as his fingers found the sensitive spot behind Oliver's ear. The reaction was immediate: an involuntary laugh, as if that touch had pressed a secret button.

"What's your point with this monologue, exactly?" Oliver grumbled, impatient, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed that he was more intrigued than he wanted to admit.

Ian let out a soft laugh, tilting his head as if to say, "You really don't make things easy, do you?" He took a deep breath, his gaze softening.

"I'm trying to say, Oliver, that I really know you." But when he saw the confusion forming in Oliver's eyes, he sighed and tried again. "And I think you deserve to know the real me. Not just the guy you see at work, but the Ian who grew up here, who fought to get where he is, and who wasn't always this confident guy."

Oliver bit his lip, a failed attempt to contain the agitation growing inside him. But Ian didn't let the gesture go unnoticed. With a gentle touch, he released Oliver's lip, letting his thumb slowly slide as if marking the moment in his memory or perhaps prolonging the contact just because he could.

"I want you to see me as clearly as I see you," Ian said, his voice laden with something that felt more than just words. "Before you decide how you really feel."

Ian's words echoed in Oliver's mind, reverberating like a refrain he couldn't shake off. And then, something inside him gave way, as if all the pieces finally fell into place. A truth as glaring as a flashing neon sign: he was in free fall.

No parachute. No safety net.

And for the first time, he realized how dangerous this actually was — Ian was someone who could change him forever. The only one who could align his body and heart in a way that would ruin him for anyone else.

Oliver could see, with overwhelming clarity, what was coming: the intensity, the chaos, the kind of love that doesn't fade, that leaves scars, that transforms. And, strangely, this certainty didn't make him anxious.

Because, honestly? He didn't want to go back.