Lying side by side, the bed still rumpled around them, Oliver felt the lingering warmth that filled the grand royal chamber in Windsor.

The scent of lavender and candle wax mingled with the sweat on Ian's skin, creating a contrast between the calm atmosphere and the intensity of the moments before. The memory of Ian's touch was more like a phantom sensation than a clear recollection — as if his body was still a map of where Ian's hands had passed, firm and demanding, commanding every inch with a precision that made time bend around them.

He could still taste the salt of Ian's skin on his lips, feel the heat of that body, worn by exertion, the steady rhythm of their bodies meeting, and those amber eyes holding him captive with their intensity. Oliver's breathing was still heavy, out of sync, the sound of muffled moans echoing in his mind like something that couldn't be left behind. He couldn't tell where the warmth of their physical contact ended and the inner flame, that spark Ian ignited every time he touched him, began.

When he turned his head, his eyes followed the line of Ian's body, sculpted by the faint light slipping through the curtains. There was no urgency now, just an inescapable presence, as if the earlier intensity had dissolved into the air, transforming into something calmer, but no less powerful. Ian looked at him with that slow, lazy smile that seemed to vibrate something inside Oliver, making him certain that this connection, so improbable, had changed him in ways he never imagined. Without realizing it, he smiled too, while his fingers moved of their own accord, sliding through Ian's damp curls, feeling the soft texture, the moisture still clinging there. And there was a softness in that touch that spoke more than any words.

"On our first night together," Oliver began, his voice low and languid, like the gentle touch of a breeze at the end of the day, "you mentioned that it took you some time to reach this kind of comfort." His eyes followed his fingers, almost distracted, as he finished, "I've been thinking about that."

Ian, without taking his eyes off Oliver, adjusted slightly, resting his arm behind his head. His muscles, once tense, now relaxed. He nodded, unhurried, listening to each word Oliver spoke, almost as if he had been waiting for them, but without the pressure of an immediate response. Ian took a deep breath, and there was something different in the sound, a depth that made Oliver pay attention.

"What I meant is that nothing was easy. I never had doors opened without effort. Every space I've claimed was at the cost of a lot of sweat." The words were direct, without embellishment, but they carried an honesty that cut through the room like an invisible current.

Oliver tried to bring some lightness to the conversation. "I've always wondered where my grandmother found you," he said, letting a smile sneak onto his lips. Ian smiled back, but it was the kind of smile that made Oliver's mind struggle to get used to the absence of a sharp retort.

"Don't get me wrong, we weren't miserable," Ian clarified. "My family was always wonderful, we just had a very simple life. Until college, I shared a room with Ivy."

Oliver laughed, more at the surprise of the image than anything else, but there was something in his eyes that showed his empathy was real. "I imagine it must have been..."

"Torture." Ian's reply was quick, to the point, without hesitation, but the expression on his face had more layers than the word itself could suggest. "The highest imaginable form of torture."

Without thinking much, Oliver shifted on Ian's body. It wasn't something planned, and the intimacy of the contact was as unexpected as the way Ian's body reacted to the touch. The laugh that escaped Ian was brief, interrupted by a slight sigh as Oliver pressed harder than he intended, and Oliver's stomach fluttered.

"And Ivy? Was she as unsufferable as her brother?" Oliver asked, his voice laced with mild teasing as his fingers traced invisible lines across Ian's chest, feeling the calm beat beneath the bare skin. Ian rolled his eyes, exaggerated, but there was a spark of humor, or perhaps something more enigmatic. It wasn't the kind of look that's easy to forget, especially when the distance between them was so small it barely seemed to exist.

"We were always close," he murmured, and as he spoke, his hand found Oliver's face, brushing a strand of hair away from his temple with surprising tenderness. "But, you know... adolescence."

Oliver took a deep breath, the tension inside him shifting. "Adolescence... I know how that is," he whispered, recalling his own crowded house, where every space was contested. "Did you guys have any code?" Oliver continued, raising an eyebrow. "Like socks on the doorknob?"

Ian grimaced, exaggeratedly, his nose wrinkling with an expression that seemed to project the smell of something unpleasant.

"Don't put those images in my head!" he groaned, but the sweetness in his exasperation was what caught Oliver by surprise.

He realized he liked that relaxed side of Ian far too much, that closeness beyond the casual sex.

And then, something in his mind triggered a warning light.

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Oliver stared at himself in the mirror, his forehead creased with discomfort, as if his own reflection didn't belong in that place. The suit, impeccable and perfectly tailored, seemed to suffocate him. Every strand of blond hair, meticulously arranged, and the shoes, shining to the point of hurting his eyes, only accentuated the anxiety growing in his chest. It wasn't just the ridiculous bow tie knot tightening around his throat; there was a restlessness that went beyond the formal attire and the oppressive grandeur of Buckingham Palace.

Everything around him was excessive — every detail an affront to his senses, as if he were in a choreography where every gesture and smile was rehearsed, and the words came poisoned with sharp courtesies. He got lost in this thought, almost wishing to be swallowed by that theater of appearances, when the soft knock on the door interrupted his reverie.

"It's open," he answered, not bothering to disguise his gloom.

The reflection in the mirror captured more than his own tense expression — it captured Ian, standing in the doorway, hesitating for a second. When Oliver's eyes met his, the impact was visceral. Ian wasn't just handsome; he was unbelievably stunning, with a suit that unfairly outlined his athletic frame. His curls were casually pulled back, highlighting his sharp features, like a living work of art that made Oliver hold his breath without even realizing it.

"Are you ready?" Ian asked with carefree ease, closing the door behind him as he moved to the center of the room — and to the epicenter of Oliver's world. Oliver felt his body respond as if it were about to explode, a wave of electric energy coursing under his skin, ignited by Ian's magnetic presence. He turned, unable to resist, feeling a hot and unbearable current pulsing through his veins, exploding into wild sensations.

"You look..." Oliver tried, but the words escaped his lips, the air now choking him in a different way. His eyes followed every piece of exposed skin at Ian's collar, the strong shoulders outlined by the fine fabric of the suit, a sight so hypnotic it almost hurt. Ian, noticing the intensity in Oliver's gaze, raised an eyebrow, but the side smile softened his features, as if he were in total control of the situation — as always.

"The queen sent me to check on you," Ian announced, but Oliver wasn't listening anymore. His body, like metal drawn to a magnet, moved forward. Ian's hands landed firmly on his hips, as if trying to hold him back, but the touch, though subtle, only made him burn more. "She's waiting."

"I couldn't care less," Oliver whispered, and in that moment, he debated with himself whether he should devour Ian's skin with kisses or simply tear off that tuxedo. Instead, his fingers slid over Ian's lapels, absorbing the heat radiating from his body, even through the cool, refined linen.

"Oliver..." Ian murmured, his tone hovering between a warning and a plea.

Oliver couldn't help but look at the smooth curve of Ian's neck, where the skin stretched over the perfect line of his jaw. He felt the urge to lose himself there, to forget the outside world, to ignore the lavish gala awaiting them beyond the walls of that room. But Ian's hands held him at a distance, firm, solid, like an invisible wall preventing him from giving in completely to the impulse.

"You really need to work on your timing."

"I really didn't expect you here... like this." Oliver's words came out laden with a veiled confession — an admission that Ian, with that damned casual smile and lethal charm, had the unique ability to disarm him with a simple look.

Ian laughed warmly, displaying perfect teeth in high definition before Oliver's eyes. When Ian took a step back, the distance between them seemed to pulse with raw, unresolved energy.

"Hey... what do you think you're doing?" The indignation in Oliver's words was as fragile as the self-control he was trying to maintain. He could feel the tension in his own skin, as if desire was struggling to break free, to take what it wanted, but Ian... Ian, always in control, kept the safe distance, untouched, like a calculated tease.

"We have an event to attend, Your Highness," Ian reminded him, with that voice laced with subtle provocation, the slight curve of his lips enough to leave Oliver caught between frustration and fascination. He walked toward the door, and the light from the hallway cast a hypnotic softness over his profile, accentuating the shadows along the perfect face that Oliver could barely look at without losing his breath. "You're the star of the night, and you're late."

The word star lingered in the air, but for Oliver, there was only one presence shining in that moment, and it wasn't him. The pomp of the Leaders' Summit gala, with its over-the-top grandeur and incessant flashes, seemed like a minor inconvenience compared to the desire stirring inside him. He tried to roll his eyes in a failed attempt at disdain, but the truth was that Ian had stolen his composure long ago.

And now, every second he stood there, frozen in place, was a losing battle against the visceral instinct that insolent advisor stirred within him.

And Ian knew. He always knew.

◃───────────▹

Each step down the corridor was torture, as if every fiber of Oliver's body fought against the urge to push Ian against the wall and capture his lips in ravenous kisses. But when they finally reached the imposing doors of the gala hall, the mask of the impeccable prince was back on Oliver's face, polished like marble.

"I hate this," he whispered to Ian, a near-subversive confession, a murmur of rebellion that quickly dissipated, smothered by the glow of the spotlights awaiting them.

As the camera flashes began to fire in rapid succession, Oliver activated his meticulously trained smile, straightening his posture like armor, hiding the visceral turmoil burning inside. Ian, on the other hand, radiated a natural nobility, moving among the guests with the innate grace of someone who belonged to that world all along.

The Buckingham Palace gala hall was a spectacle in itself. Majestic chandeliers hung like crystal stars from the ornate ceiling, bathing the room in a soft, golden light. Walls covered with vibrant tapestries told centuries-old stories of the monarchy, while the guests, dressed in formal attire, moved with choreographed elegance among tables brimming with flowers and gleaming dinnerware.

In the background, Queen Charlotte waited on her symbolic throne, surrounded by dignitaries and European royalty. Oliver recognized each of those faces and their rehearsed greetings, the result of a lifetime of preparation. What he couldn't avoid, however, was the discomfort rising in his throat like bile.

Still, his smile flowed with acquired perfection, and he exchanged pleasantries with the Queen and her guests with a practiced lightness. A distinguished-looking man stood beside her — meticulously combed gray hair, an impeccable dark suit, eyes sharp as a blade. Lord Bernadotte, King of Sweden. The words that followed were like poison disguised as courtesy, the promise of a matrimonial alliance echoing between the lines.

"Her Majesty mentioned discussions of a possible union between our houses," said King Bernadotte with a calculated smile, introducing the idea of a dinner with his daughter, Princess Sofia.

Oliver's mind whirled, but his exterior remained composed, just a polite nod of the head and a cold response. "It would be an honor, Your Majesty," he said, while Ian, at his side, maintained formal posture, offering his due reverence.

With tension squeezing his chest like a vice, Oliver accompanied the Queen to the podium, each step weighed down by the expectations he loathed. The entire hall turned its attention to them, a sea of expectant eyes, blinding flashes capturing their every movement. As he looked out over the crowd, his gaze was instantly drawn to Ian, who stood out among the guests like a gravitational force. The subtle, provocative smile on Ian's lips didn't go unnoticed by Oliver, and he had to fight to maintain his composure as his grandmother began her speech.

"Good evening, everyone. It is with great joy that I welcome the distinguished guests of this evening. The Royal Family is honored by the presence of so many global leaders at this gathering. The aim is to strengthen diplomatic and friendly ties between our nations," she began, her blue eyes sweeping the room attentively. "We live in challenging times. The threats are global: pandemics, terrorism, economic crises. The weakest suffer worldwide. Therefore, it is vital that nations unite for peace and sustainable development. The future belongs to those who build bridges, not walls. We must cultivate dialogue and international cooperation. The doors of the United Kingdom remain open to our global friends and partners." With a brief glance in Oliver's direction and a broad smile, she concluded, "May this reception mark the beginning of a new era, where harmony and mutual understanding prevail among all the nations represented here. Enjoy your evening."

The night dragged on like an endless torture. The grand ballroom was immersed in the soft chords of a string orchestra, the musicians gliding through the classics with impeccable virtuosity. Around Oliver, dignitaries from every nation gathered in groups, exchanging superficial remarks about politics and formalities, while waiters circulated with trays of champagne and exquisite hors d'oeuvres.

The night dragged on like an endless torture. Oliver navigated through the guests, feigning interest in their predictable speeches about unions between nations and global cooperation, but he could barely process the words. His thoughts kept being drawn back to Ian.

There he was, on the other side of the ballroom, talking to a red-haired woman, stunning in a red silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. The way Ian laughed in response to her words, the ease with which he seemed to engage in that conversation, hit Oliver like an unexpected stab.

A sharp jealousy crept through Oliver's body, a slow poison spreading, burning his insides. Every intimate gesture from that woman, every shared laugh between her and Ian, felt like a direct affront to Oliver's place in Ian's life. He tried to look away, to force his attention back to the bland conversations around him, but it was impossible. The image of Ian and that woman laughing together kept infiltrating his mind, like a constant torture.

The truth struck him like a precise blow. It wasn't just physical attraction that kept him bound to Ian. It was something much deeper, a voracious need for his presence, for his loyalty, for his gaze directed only at him. It was a possessive desire, consuming Oliver from the inside out, fueled by the frustration of not being able to claim Ian as his in front of everyone.

◃───────────▹

Ian's body hit the door of the royal suite with a hollow thud that reverberated through the wood.

Oliver's urgency made him seem clumsy, out of control. Ian let out a low, almost incredulous laugh, as if he were mocking the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps the predictability of it all. Oliver approached with an intensity that didn't match the surroundings, yanking Ian's shirt off as if it were a personal obstacle. Oliver's fingers were quick, impatient, but there was nothing skillful about the movement. It was pure haste. Pure impulse.

"Hey," Ian murmured, trying to sound composed but failing miserably when Oliver's teeth found the perfect spot on his neck, where his pulse beat almost cynically. Ian's grip on Oliver's waist tightened, eliciting a gasp from him that sounded more like an involuntary confession. "Easy," Ian insisted, but the words got lost in the air before they could have any effect.

Suddenly, Ian pulled away, his gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to find his bearings. The room felt both too big for what was happening and too small for what he felt. Ian's gaze — those annoyingly observant brown eyes — followed him, and the dimpled smile that always appeared at the most inopportune moments didn't help. There was something provoking in it, as if Ian knew exactly what he was doing without even trying.

Oliver hated it.

He hated the fact that Ian's scent — clean, with a hint of cedar or some expensive cologne he wore casually — was embedded in everything. He hated how Ian was the embodiment of everything he'd never wanted to admit he needed. That body, that raspy voice, those tousled curls, the easy laugh, the always-perfect posture. Ian attracted him in ways that defied logic, and that only made the situation more unbearable.

Oliver was terrified by the intensity with which his feelings were deepening, by how fast everything was moving. What should have been purely physical had become the complete opposite.

"What's wrong?" Ian's voice, now softer, almost a whisper, brought Oliver back to the present.

"Nothing."

But, of course, that wasn't true. He felt Ian's warmth approach from behind, his arms wrapping around Oliver's waist, offering comfort that only intensified the confusion. By reflex, he intertwined his fingers with Ian's. And he hated how good that felt. It was almost unbearable. Ian, the only man who made him lose control.

"You're acting weird," Ian commented, turning Oliver to face him, his expression disarmingly calm. "Spit it out. What's going on?"

"I just told you," Oliver replied with unnecessary harshness and instantly regretted it.

Ian frowned. "Oliver, what the hell is going on with you?"

Oliver held his gaze for a second. Then two. The urge to disappear grew along with the impulse to do something, anything, to end the torture. Ian's hand on the back of his neck was the last straw. Without thinking, Oliver pulled him in for a hurried kiss. Ian responded, his hands exploring Oliver's back, sending waves of heat across his skin.

It was as if Ian was claiming him, making him belong to him, and that sense of comfort in his arms made the panic inside Oliver grow, causing him to pull away once again, breaking the kiss.

His mind started spinning, conjuring countless explanations for the whirlwind twisting everything inside him. As much as his body burned with every possibility of Ian's touch, his heart raced too, and the sensation of having butterflies in his stomach no longer seemed like a mere literary metaphor at that point. The thing was, their dynamic left no room for emotions to evolve. That was absolutely unacceptable.

"Have you been with someone else?" The question came out before he could stop it, and the jealous tone was obvious. Horribly obvious.

"What? In my life?" Ian retorted, and his innocence almost made Oliver smile, but he couldn't relax.

"Since we..." Oliver paused, the word burning in his throat, so he suppressed it, "you know."

"I think you'd know if I had been with someone else," Ian laughed, but his words were calculated. "We're together all the time, Oliver. When would I have the time?"

"And the mysterious redhead?"

Ian paused, processing Oliver's words, before a dangerous smile began to form on his lips. "Oh," he murmured with a calm that didn't hide the malice. He stepped closer, his hands firm on Oliver's face, eyes gleaming. "You're jealous."

"What? That's ridiculous!" Oliver shot back, trying to maintain his composure, but his attempt to retreat was blocked by Ian's palms, keeping his face in place, too close to hide anything.

"Oh, really? It doesn't seem like it." Ian laughed again, a short laugh that reverberated through Oliver's chest, who felt a tightness inside that was hard to ignore. "You can say it. It's not the end of the world."

"I'm not jealous," Oliver insisted, more stubborn than convinced. His eyes, however, betrayed what he didn't want to accept, while Ian's infuriatingly confident smile continued to grow.

"Okay, let's say you're not jealous," Ian sighed dramatically, tracing Oliver's jaw with his fingertips. "So you only brought up the diplomat because you wanted to know more about her, right?"

"I don't care about her personally," he replied quickly, but his voice faltered. "I just don't want you sharing confidential information after a few glasses of whiskey."

Ian let out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing in their almost intimate proximity, while Oliver's face heated up, not just from embarrassment but from the uncomfortable feeling that Ian was gaining more and more control over him.

"Like the fact that I share a bed with the future king every night?"

Oliver held his breath. Ian knew exactly what he was doing.

"Or secrets that could destabilize entire nations," Oliver murmured with irony, his eyes meeting Ian's in a restrained challenge. In one swift movement, Oliver advanced, pressing his body against Ian's. His hands gripped the back of Ian's neck as Ian pulled him even closer.

"I don't want to share you."

"So that's it?" Ian asked, his voice soft, as if testing the waters. "A royal demand?"

"Yes," Oliver replied without hesitation. "I can't stand the idea of anyone else touching you."

Ian raised an eyebrow, the smile on his lips turning into something more thoughtful. "That sounds possessive," he observed, their breaths mingling as their noses brushed lightly. "But it's not exactly fair, is it?"

Oliver closed his eyes, intoxicated. "Why?"

"Because you're going to get married, remember? And I'll have to let you go."

The words were like a punch. Oliver sighed, his mouth moving almost involuntarily as he thought out loud: "I think our problems go beyond that."

Ian narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Oliver swallowed hard, the truth weighing in his throat. He knew he was about to cross a line from which there was no return when he confessed: "Because I think I'm falling in love."

Ian froze, his eyes wide, caught between disbelief and shock. For a moment, the air between them seemed to disappear, leaving a silence so fragile that any sound could shatter it.

Oliver's heart pounded in his chest, each beat reminding him that he shouldn't have let this happen. He shouldn't have let Ian get so deep, so close to where he was most vulnerable.

Ian, still speechless, stared at him as if searching for something, anything, to say. But all he found was silence. The silence of two men standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure if they were going to fall or take the next step.

Finally, Oliver, in a quiet, shaky whisper, said: "And I have no idea how to deal with it."