Leaning against Windsor's oak side door, Oliver let the discomfort of the previous day dissipate into the crisp morning air, savoring these brief moments that belonged solely to him before the routine would crush him again. The silence was like an old friend — rare and precious.

Then, a familiar voice pulled him from his brief refuge.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon, Your Royal Highness." Ivy appeared from the other side of the courtyard, paper bags in hand, her white uniform as pristine as ever. Even the delicate cherry blossom embroidery on her sleeves looked freshly done, as if time moved differently for her.

Oliver's smile came from a deep place, maybe because she was one of the few people with whom he didn't have to pretend.

"Neither did I," he replied, opening his arms for a hug.

Ivy smiled, the bags lightly brushing Oliver's back as she hugged him in return. When they pulled away, her eyes — always so sharp — studied him for a moment, as if they could pierce through the veneer he wore so well for others. There was no hiding the dark circles or the tired expression that clung to him.

"The Queen specifically requested these special condiments," Ivy explained, shaking the bags. "She wants tonight's banquet to be perfect. To celebrate your return."

Oliver nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. Perfect for everyone, except him.

Ivy noticed the shadow that crossed his face. With a silent gesture of understanding, she touched his forearm, her hand firm and reassuring.

"How are you, Ollie?" The question was like a small opening, a chance to let some of the anguish he'd been holding in slip out. But when he answered, the words came with unexpected lightness, laced with dark humor.

"It would be dishonest to say I'm fine."

Ivy walked alongside him in silence, listening. And Oliver, surprisingly, confided — not with a flood of complaints, but with slow, careful reflections, as if unraveling his own feelings as he spoke.

The pressure of the arranged marriage, the suffocating obligations of royalty, the gradual loss of what he considered essential: autonomy. He talked about Ian, Ivy's twin brother, a staunch defender of the Crown and a growing source of his irritation.

Ivy listened with that endless patience, as if each word from him was part of a puzzle she effortlessly understood.

"By the way, you never mentioned having a brother," he commented casually, casting her a sideways glance. "Let alone one so... difficult."

Ivy laughed, amused by Oliver's remark.

"Well, Ian isn't always the easiest to handle, I admit. He takes everything very seriously." She paused, perhaps choosing her words carefully. "But he has a good heart, Ollie. Maybe you just need to get to know him better."

Oliver rolled his eyes, skepticism clear.

"Hard to see that side when he spends all his time treating me like a child, with all those rules and protocols."

Ivy smiled slightly, a look of affection mixed with teasing.

"Maybe he's just trying to keep you in line, Prince."

Oliver shot her a mock-reproachful look, to which she only laughed harder.

"Speaking of him..." Her gaze fixed ahead.

At that moment, Ivy's eyes caught on something in the distance. Oliver followed her line of sight and spotted Ian jogging across the gardens, accompanied by one of the castle's security officers.

Oliver paused for a second, his eyes capturing Ian's figure: the agile movement of his legs, the sweat glistening on his bronzed skin — something about him seemed different, a lightness that contrasted with the armor of seriousness Oliver knew so well. For a moment, something tightened in Oliver's chest. Reluctantly, he felt his gaze linger on Ian's body, on the muscles taut beneath the tight shirt, on the controlled rhythm of his breathing.

It wasn't just the physical beauty; there was a looseness in Ian's smile, something that never appeared in his presence.

Oliver looked away, confused. What the hell was going on?

"Who's that?" He asked, trying to sound indifferent, though the strange tension in his chest betrayed him.

"Brian," she replied with a shrug. "One of Ian's best friends."

Oliver watched Ian as he moved further away, the heat in his chest pulsing in a way he couldn't control. It wasn't just jealousy, though that feeling simmered underneath everything. It wasn't just how Ian seemed lighter, more relaxed with Brian. It wasn't only the casual closeness they shared, something Oliver had never experienced with Ian.

It was deeper, more confusing — something that stirred within him in unexpected ways.

Maybe what really bothered him was the coldness Ian had reserved for him lately. There was a growing discomfort in the way Ian spoke to him so little, always meticulously neutral. As if he was deliberately erasing something that once had spark. As if he were burying any trace of whatever had once existed between them.

And then came the other side, the one Oliver was reluctant to face: why did it affect him so much? Why did seeing Ian smile at Brian, laugh at something Oliver wasn't in on, bother him so deeply? He tried to rationalize, to find a logical answer — after all, Ian was an advisor, someone who was supposed to maintain a professional distance. But the reality was that Oliver wanted more. He wanted to see that smile directed at him, wanted to be the reason for Ian's lightness, not the object of his indifference.

The more he thought about it, the more Oliver felt the weight of that unspoken desire. He wanted Ian in a way he didn't know how to handle. But at the same time, he couldn't accept that vulnerability.

Every interaction, every word between them felt like a minefield — which, ironically, only made him want Ian more. The jealousy wasn't just about Brian's presence, but about what that friendship revealed: Oliver's inability to break through Ian's facade. And maybe... maybe because deep down, Oliver was also battling his own feelings, unable to open up.

Ian approached the window, breathless, and Oliver could see every drop of sweat slowly running down his jawline, diving into his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt. He looked away, almost abruptly, but the heat of Ian's presence had already engulfed him completely. He felt his blood pulsing fast through his veins, and a warm discomfort took hold of him. It was as if his body was reacting without permission, betraying his attempts to keep his composure.

With an exaggerated bow, Brian greeted Oliver. But Oliver's eyes barely registered his presence. "Let's skip the formalities," Oliver said, trying to keep his tone light. "Bows make me feel old."

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but old habits are hard to break," Brian smiled, but Ian remained serious, his eyes fixed on Oliver for a second too long. With a casual wave of his hand, Oliver dismissed his concerns.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of properly meeting you. You are?" He asked, though he already knew his identity.

"I'm Brian Knox, currently in charge of Her Majesty's internal security. I'm at your full disposal."

"And you two are... friends?" Oliver threw the question with practiced calm, like bait, waiting for the right moment to reel it in.

"Yes, since college." Brian's voice sounded in the background, but Oliver barely registered his words. His eyes were locked on Ian, watching every small movement, every hesitation.

"We studied law together, but took different paths. Ian entered public life, while I chose the adrenaline of security."

A low sound escaped Ian's lips — something between a stifled laugh and an impatient sigh. The smile that emerged was brief, ironic, and for a moment, it shattered the serious facade he maintained.

"Adrenaline?" He repeated, with sharp sarcasm. "The only adrenaline you feel is when a form is filled out wrong." His eyes slowly scanned Oliver's body, a look carrying more than disdain, and then rose back up, challenging him. "The real challenge is dealing with stubborn and... demanding nobles."

The provocation hit Oliver like a spark that spread through his body. The desire to respond in kind burned within him, but he controlled the impulse. Instead, a slow smile crept across his lips, almost predatory.

"Demanding, is that how you describe me?" Oliver shot back, his voice low and alluring. "Such a shame you have to bear that burden, then."

Ian's eyes narrowed in response to Oliver's subtle challenge. For a few moments, they remained like that, measuring each other in a dangerous game of silent provocations and electrifying glances.

Brian, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, intervened with a nervous laugh. "Modesty was never Ian's strong suit, was it?" He commented, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulders. Ian pulled away with a cold look, resuming his rigid posture, but not before his eyes flickered for a fraction of a second longer, still with that contained fire that refused to go out.

"Brian just wanted to properly greet the Prince, didn't he?" Ian's voice was firm, but something in the way he glanced at Oliver before speaking felt like a warning.

Brian nodded briefly, and as he left, Oliver's emotions irrationally bubbled under Ivy's watchful gaze. He stared at Ian, searching for cracks in his impenetrable facade, any sign that there was something more. But Ian's eyes revealed nothing.

"That must've been the first time I saw you smile," Oliver remarked, his voice rougher than intended.

Ian, as impenetrable as ever, averted his gaze for a second, betraying a small discomfort, but quickly regained control. "I don't know what you're talking about, Your Highness."

Ian's formality only made Oliver's blood boil, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. "What's your problem with me lately?"

Ian stiffened, like a bowstring about to be released. "No problem," his voice low, controlled, but there was a note of danger behind the calm. "I'm just here to fulfill my professional duties."

Oliver took a step forward, invading Ian's space, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from him.

"Duties?" he whispered, a thread of provocation in every syllable. "Because it feels like you've been avoiding me like the plague, and now you're here, all chummy with a security guard."

Ian's eyes narrowed, two dark slits burning into Oliver, but his tone remained steady. "Brian is my friend." There was an underlying hardness suggesting that meant more than he was letting on. Oliver recognized the slight raise of Ian's eyebrow — it was a silent provocation, a challenge that always left him uncomfortable, but now it was like a rope he wanted to stretch to its limit. "My relationship with you," Ian continued, each word falling like a sentence, "is strictly professional. I'm here to guide you in your upcoming marriage. Nothing more."

Oliver couldn't resist. "This isn't just about work, Ian," he said, eyes locked onto Ian's, a mixture of determination and vulnerability he didn't want to show. "It's my life on the line. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Ian remained unshaken, but Oliver noticed an almost imperceptible shift — a stiffness that hardened his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow.

"I don't have the power to ease your torments, Your Highness," Ian said, each word measured and controlled. "You're the one who made everything unbearable by questioning every decision. Maybe it's time you accepted your fate... like an adult."

Oliver felt the sting of his words like a slap. "You think I'm just going to accept this future because you say I should?" His tone was acidic, sarcasm barely hiding how lost he felt.

But then, Oliver saw it: Ian's gaze, for a brief instant, slid to his lips. Almost imperceptible.

But not to Oliver. Not when something inside him was already about to collapse.

"I didn't give orders, Your Highness," Ian said, as if wanting only Oliver to hear it. "But maybe I should. For your own good."

The subtle provocation hit Oliver in a place he didn't know existed, a fine line between discomfort and fascination. His body responded before his mind could process it: a step forward, the distance between them evaporating.

The air between the two seemed rarefied, almost unbearable, as if each word carried something venomous. Oliver tilted his head, not as part of a plan, but because something about Ian provoked that reaction. His eyes found Ian's, challenging, but there was a fraction of hesitation, as if the sarcasm had lost its edge.

"I didn't know you had that kind of authority."

Ian's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. He held his gaze steady, and for a moment, Oliver had the impression Ian was absorbing every fragment of the provocation. Until Ian spoke, his voice almost inaudible, like a secret between clenched teeth:

"Authority isn't requested, Oliver. It's imposed."

It was like a shock. The words weren't a threat but, a raw statement. A warning.

Oliver tried to smile, to maintain the control he always believed was his. But the control had already begun to slip. Ian was close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath, but not close enough to touch him.

"And what exactly do you think needs fixing in me?" Oliver challenged, but his voice lacked the firmness he wanted.

"Your lack of discipline, perhaps." Ian's response came with devastating calm, an implicit force.

It wasn't a judgment; it was a weapon.

Part of him wanted to push Ian to the limit, to make him give in to the impulse they both knew was there, simmering beneath the surface. But another part, the one he usually kept in check, wanted Ian to break that void. The silence. The distance. To kiss him right there, no more games.

But Ian didn't relent.

The space between them seemed smaller, the pressure greater, but Ian didn't move. And that was killing Oliver slowly. Every second without touch, without movement, only intensified the need, the desire.

"Discipline," Oliver repeated, and his voice betrayed something deeper, something much more vulnerable.

Ian's gaze held him steady, without any trace of hesitation. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Self-centered nobles like you often need to be put in their place," Ian continued, unhurried. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Oliver wanted to respond, wanted to say something that would throw Ian back to where that provocation had come from. But the words dissipated before they could form meaning.

And Ian just watched him.

The power was entirely in his hands, and he knew it. Not by force, but by the choice of doing nothing.

"I assure you," Ian said, finally leaning in, but not enough. "It wouldn't be difficult."

A shiver crept up Oliver's skin, seizing every muscle, his fists clenching by his sides in a futile attempt to contain himself. "You're saying you know how to handle me."

"I know exactly what you need."

Oliver visibly shuddered this time. The air seemed to vanish, and it took monumental effort to keep his eyes open. He took a deep breath, the sound of air escaping his lungs almost audible in the confined space between them.

"What do I need?"

"You need someone who knows not just when to stop you," Ian continued, his voice like a forbidden confession in Oliver's ear, "but when to let you go... until you beg to be brought back."

Fuck.

Oliver's stomach flipped, and he found himself cornered, with no control over his own reaction. His hands moved impulsively, almost reaching Ian's chest, as if his body was pleading for it. But before he could fully give in, something stopped him cold.

Ivy's presence.

Like a shock, the realization hit them both at the same time.

Ivy stood in the doorway, her expression firm, taking in everything.

No words were needed to understand that things had gone too far.

Ian stepped back as if he'd been struck. The composure he'd lost so quickly returned in a hurried gesture of smoothing his clothes. Oliver, on the other hand, felt his face burn.

"Ivy, this isn't..." Ian began to speak, but the words faltered, lacking conviction. He knew it was useless.

"Ian, you know your role here is not as a tutor," Ivy reprimanded him gently, though her gaze was hard. "And you, Ollie, should remember your position. Lessons can be taught in many ways, but certain behaviors are inappropriate."

With a casual wave, Ivy gestured toward the door.

"You'll have to work together for a long time. I suggest you learn to control yourselves before you cause any problems."

Ian and Oliver exchanged surprised and embarrassed glances, but Ian's expression was priceless — indignation and amusement, as if he wasn't used to losing an argument, especially to his sister.

The thought almost made Oliver laugh, but Ivy's seriousness left no room for mockery.

Simultaneous, contained smiles appeared as they averted their eyes from one another, fixing them on the floor at the same time.

"You're right," Ian said to Ivy, without a trace of regret. "This won't happen again. I'm sorry, Your Highness."

He bowed briefly before straightening up and walking away with rigid steps.