Week after week, Oliver would choose a specific part of Ian's body to become obsessed with.

At that moment, his focus was on the space that Ian's enormous hands occupied on his skin, traversing the entire length of his back with a touch as light as it was incendiary. Oliver could feel Ian's fingertips crawling along his ribs with reverent delicacy, short nails visiting his skin from time to time when he felt the need to relieve the pressure of having his entire body on top of his.

Oliver had an absurd perception of Ian, and sometimes the intensity of that connection scared him — as if it were not something merely earthly, but transcendent, almost spiritual.

As Oliver's lips slipped along the side of Ian's neck, his thoughts wandered. Ian writhed beneath Oliver on that king-size bed in the Harrison-Jones guest room. They definitely shouldn't have been doing that there, but as Ian had stated before, Oliver had started something — and he had yet to oppose it.

With a heavy sigh, Ian arched his back, lifting his hips against Oliver's in search of contact.

Oliver had a knee between Ian's legs, and his thighs squeezed around him as he rubbed his rock-hard erection against the uncomfortable fabric of Oliver's pants. Oliver traced a trail of kisses along Ian's jawline back to his chin, and then to his lower lip, before sinking his tongue into Ian's mouth without resistance.

Ian was a hot and panting mess under Oliver, struggling to maintain control and not position Oliver exactly where he wanted and attack him the way Oliver desired, with his entire family sleeping in nearby rooms.

"Baby..." Ian ventured, breaking away from Oliver's lips, entwining his fingers in the side loops of Oliver's pants and pulling him down urgently. Oliver shivered at the way the hoarseness present in Ian's contained whisper pronounced the vowels, dying before it began. "You're making things very difficult for me right now."

Oliver chuckled softly against Ian's moist lips, genuinely pleased to be responsible for that desperate reaction.

"I like it when you call me that," Oliver confessed, watching Ian open his eyes to fix them on his.

The sinful gleam in them was like being sucked into a black hole, with no chance of returning to the light.

"I know you do," Ian returned, glancing at Oliver's lips but not moving to reach them.

So, Oliver gave in to the impulse and sank into Ian's lips in a kiss, but this time softer and more relaxed. Ian responded calmly, but his kiss was bold, languid, and wet, hot as embers under the fury of hell. He enveloped Oliver in such a delightful embrace that Oliver felt his body melt against Ian's, while his hands gripped the sheets beside Ian's face.

Oliver slowly pulled away from Ian, sighing anguishedly against his mouth, allowing his thighs to gently press against his.

"Remind me why I can't abdicate," Oliver murmured with a light moan, before beginning to lower his face to Ian's chin.

As his breath glided down Ian's throat, Oliver passed over the texture of his collarbones, his hands moving to unbutton his shirt.

"The royal lineage would be in danger," Ian articulated, struggling to maintain composure. "It would cause great political and social instability in the country," he sighed in resignation as Oliver nibbled gently at his chest. The soft, warm skin under Oliver's hands was a visually disconcerting spectacle, the buttons coming undone one by one under his impatient fingers. "And you would be considered a traitor, weak and irresponsible," he added, with an unmistakable note of sadness. That part bothered Oliver a bit, but he just mumbled a soft sound of understanding. "Moreover, you would be banished from the royal family, losing your position, privileges, and connections. All this could pose a risk to your safety," he said, pausing between phrases, as if reading a resignation letter.

But despite the gravity of those words, Oliver continued to explore Ian's newly exposed skin, sinking his teeth into the firm muscle of his chest.

"Not to mention that you would definitely kill your grandmother," Ian concluded, compressing the words with a note of humor.

"Instead, I would absolutely fake my own death to be with you," Oliver declared with the resolution of someone who has already imagined the perfect plan, and Ian let out a sincere laugh that filled the space between them.

"I'm no authority on the subject," Ian ironized, taking a pause laden with false seriousness, "but that sounds tremendously illegal to me."

"Would being a fugitive take me out of the line of succession?" Oliver asked, his voice oscillating between sarcasm and sincerity.

"In theory, you can't reign behind bars," Ian teased, wrapping Oliver's shoulders in a cozy gesture and leaving a furtive kiss on the tip of his nose, trying to hide his concern. Noticing Oliver's unshakably serious expression, he arched his eyebrows in surprise. "We're in hypothetical territory, right?"

"On the edge of it," Oliver admitted, and as he thought about it, a new idea formed — not as forbidden as faking his own death, but potentially just as scandalous. Oliver placed his hands on the bed, on either side of Ian's face, staring at him with unusual determination. "I think I'm about to suggest something terribly audacious," Oliver warned, seeing Ian's eyes widen with the anticipation of mischief.

Ian quickly cut him off: "Oliver, I won't help you scheme any crimes."

Oliver rolled his eyes so dramatically that they almost found the unlit chandelier on the ceiling.

"Don't be crazy, Ian, that's not it," Oliver said. Ian unfurrowed his brow, and his eyes — large and defiant — subtly narrowed, but still reflected the pure amusement of finding humor even in Oliver's impatience. He hesitated, biting his lip in anticipation. "What I want to know is..." Oliver paused, the next words heavy as lead on his tongue before daring to let them drop: "could you bear the idea of sharing me?"

The ensuing silence was suffocating, and Oliver could swear he saw the light in Ian's eyes pulse and fade, like stars doubting their own brightness. Ian blinked in slow motion, his eyes ricocheting frantically in the dim light, searching for an answer that his heart seemed to fear formulating.

Oliver took a deep breath and advanced the conversation.

"I know it's a horrible proposal, and it's not a test of your pride," Oliver began, bringing a hand gently to Ian's chin, forcing him to face the seriousness of his offer. "But if the alternative is to live in a world where you're not by my side, then," Oliver swallowed his fear, "how about staying close? After the succession, as my right hand?" Oliver's words were airy, floating in the space between them with the care that rivaled that of a craftsman. "The salary would be very good, and I could offer extras for the night services you might need to provide."

The air seemed to condense with Ian's hesitation. But Ian, always impeccable in his composure, finally drew a faint smile in the silence.

"You want to live a double life," he deduced, infusing dry humor into his voice, and Oliver could feel the evolution of calculation and contemplation churning in Ian's ingenious mind.

"No, it's the last thing I want," Oliver retorted urgently, his hand sliding through the chaos of Ian's dark hair. "In fact, I hate the idea of having to hide any part of my existence," Oliver confessed, in a tone so soft it almost got lost in the shadows surrounding them on all sides. "But if it's the only way to keep you with me... then let's orchestrate this theater. To the world, we'll be just a king and his faithful personal assistant. But away from prying eyes, we'll be just us — no titles, no contracts."

His brown eyes swallowed Oliver's words, and he watched as a small spark of hope seemed to threaten to outshine the fog of uncertainty.

"But, Oliver, you have a duty to the Crown, to your country," Ian's voice had hardened, but still trembled, vulnerable and more humanly noble than anything else.

"To hell with them," Oliver whispered, leaning forward, the words falling from his lips like a profane sermon. "Ian, my love, our greatest loyalty is to our happiness. Seeking our port in the midst of this storm is not a crime, we deserve that."

Ian held Oliver's gaze for a little longer, searching for the poison in the offer, but found only the honey of raw sincerity.

His demeanor changed in that extended eternity in seconds, a smile emerging, suggesting his deliciously imminent surrender.

"Extras for night services, huh?" He threw the phrase back at Oliver, an eyebrow arched in skeptical-affectionate amusement. The light, almost jocular tone tinged his voice while the sparkle returned to his eyes, twinkling with that mischievous trait Oliver knew so well. "It sounds like a rather... informal description for a royal personal assistant."

Faced with Ian's almost imperceptible smile, a familiar warmth grew in Oliver's chest and spread to the corners of his smile, uncontrollable, expansive, reflecting the modest victory in the small battles of their intimacy.

"So, you'd consider—"

"I'm considering," Ian spoke, his voice a thoughtful murmur, weighing each word with the gravity of a jurist and the curiosity of a philosopher. "It all depends, of course, on the definitions you employ in such... extras, how you convince me, and most importantly," a mischievous smile cut across his face, "how your proposals will satisfy my interests."

"Well, I can make some proposals right now, if you want," Oliver suggested, letting his body fall back onto Ian's again.

Oliver looked at him closely with a hopeful smile while Ian's hands hovered over Oliver's face, tracing the outline of his lower lip almost absentmindedly.

"I'm listening," Ian murmured challengingly, during Oliver's long pause, and Oliver organized his thoughts before speaking them out loud.

"Since you didn't give me time to buy gifts, and it's still technically your birthday, I'm going to give you two things to think about," Oliver began, but Ian interrupted him with another laugh, one so warm and contagious, where his teeth shone like stars in the dark.

"Is that what I'll get from you?" Ian teased playfully. "Things to think about?"

Though his smile remained, Oliver rolled his eyes once again, determined to silence him in the dirtiest way he could think of.

"I can give you the best blowjob of your life, and let you finish wherever you want," Oliver saw him swallow hard, and his pupils dilate in a fraction of a second — his black eyes absorbing his body as if he were his next breakfast. But Oliver hadn't finished yet. "Or I can ride you," he added, "and make you watch while I do it."

"Fuck, Oliver," Ian groaned quietly upon hearing him, grabbing Oliver's hips once more, bringing them against the considerably larger bulge in his pants.

His fingers tangled in Oliver's hair, and he felt his desire spread throughout his body. The situation was becoming unbearable, and his mouth curled into a triumphant smile as he finally straddled Ian's hips, letting him fit perfectly under him, even through their clothes.

"Do any of these options satisfy your interests, sir?" Oliver smiled, keeping him pressed against himself, full of desire, almost suffocating. "Or do you have a counterproposal?"

With a force Oliver had underestimated, Ian grabbed Oliver's body and flipped their positions, placing himself on top and fitting between Oliver's legs effortlessly. Their eyes met, and Oliver saw fury and lust mixed in a single glance.

Ian's firm hands squeezed Oliver's thighs, bringing them up to his ribs, pressing against the bulge that was close to tearing through his luxurious clothing. Oliver's breath quickened as he felt his desire intensify, and he bit his lip hard, holding back a growl that pushed up his throat without permission.

"Actually, I do," Ian's voice dropped drastically, scratching Oliver's ears in a threatening whisper. "As much as I want to destroy you for teasing me like this, I won't risk traumatizing my grandmother," he said, eliciting a laugh from Oliver that he fought to silence. Ian's response was quick, and Oliver could tell two could play this game. "But tomorrow, after we have breakfast with my family as two childhood friends who have never seen each other naked, we'll book any hotel room on the way back to Windsor, and you'll fulfill everything you made me think about," Ian declared with an attractively authoritative tone, and Oliver didn't know if he was breathing properly when Ian released his legs and leaned over his body, fitting his face into the curve of his neck.

Ian grazed his teeth on Oliver's skin almost without touching it and brought his lips close to his ear, and Oliver knew he wouldn't survive what was coming:

"I'm going to fuck you until you lose your voice, Your Majesty."

Well, that was new.

Oliver felt a growing excitement inside him as Ian's words evoked the most explicit images in his mind. He couldn't wait for Ian to keep his promise, and though he tried to feign indifference, he knew Oliver was lost to the desire Ian provoked in him.

Ian attacked Oliver's lips, initiating the laziest, most exciting kiss he had ever tasted in his life.

Oliver's hands grabbed Ian's hair and held on to the roots as if he could punish him somehow, but that only made Ian laugh against Oliver's lips and suck his tongue between his with that disconcerting determination.

Ian's gaze was fixed on Oliver when he opened his eyes, and Oliver didn't recognize his own voice when it manifested in a harsh whisper:

"I hate you," he said, and he knew Ian knew he was lying.

Ian laughed again, a triumphant expression covering every feature of his damnably handsome face.

Silently, he moved away from Oliver, standing up at the edge of the bed. Ian adjusted his upright posture and smoothed his clothes, while his smug gaze clashed with Oliver's.

"I'm going to my room," he said in an impassive tone, and Oliver's confusion turned to surprise, which evolved into shock and disillusionment, somehow, all at once. "I want everything from you tomorrow."

With that, Ian turned and walked to the door, throwing Oliver an annoying wink before closing it behind him.

◃───────────▹

He couldn't remember when sleeping had become so difficult, but after Ian disappeared, he had to fight against an unbearable discomfort south of his body that refused to accept there would be no Ian's touch that night.

When dawn came, with a weak winter sun waking him from light and uncomfortable sleep, he heard two knocks on the door, and there he was, the reason for his ruin, with his typical mischievous smile of deep dimples, serene and swollen eyes, tousled curls, and improvised pajamas — basically a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. He greeted him with a glaring look.

"Good morning, Your Royal Highness," he said, bowing ironically before entering the room.

Oliver didn't reply, just let his face twist in disappointment as he spread his arms across the mattress, a silent invitation he immediately understood.

Ian walked over to him and threw himself on top of his body, attacking his neck with wet and noisy kisses, while Oliver tried to resist the smile threatening to tinge his lips.

"I still hate you," he responded, half-wrapping his arms around Ian's shoulders, impatient fingers gripping the comfortable cotton of his shirt.

The familiar scent of lemon and fabric softener filled his nostrils, making everything even more strangely comfortable, a sense of routine he would give anything to build with him.

"But I love you madly," Ian replied, pulling away to look closely. Oliver saw a flicker of regret pass through his eyes, but he didn't highlight it. "I came to call you for breakfast," he said, his gaze lost in the movement of his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to tidy it up.

He sighed deeply as he stretched out on the sheets, feeling the weight of the previous night on his tired body.

"I just woke up," he murmured, his voice hoarse and sleepy, as he closed his eyes, unable to resist the feeling of comfort that hung in the air.

Ian's little revenge was still taking effect, leaving him in a state of excitement and frustration.

Ian laughed, and the sound of his joy pierced the fog of desire between them.

"Poor Prince Oliver," he teased, leaning over his body, his experienced hands taking possession of his face, kissing him softly. "Didn't know he found such a good opponent."

He grunted in irritation, seeking some contact as he brought Ian's lips to his in another lazy kiss.

"You'll have to fix this," he murmured, a threat that sounded as soft as a plea wrapped in childish lament.

Ian laughed, pulling away from him to stand up.

"I can't wait," Ian said, offering a hand to help him up from the bed. "Shall we? Laura made your favorite blueberry waffles."

"Can I take a shower first?" Oliver asked, his voice firm and clear despite the sleepiness. He got up from the mattress, feeling the weight of his painful erection hitting against his body, almost overflowing from his white boxers. Ian looked at him, with dark and almost wild eyes, as if he could see beyond the white t-shirt he was wearing — and belonged to Ian. Noticing the look, Oliver clarified, "Oh, I found it in the closet. Hope you don't mind."

Ian seemed to struggle with himself, but in the end, he let out a loud and resigned sigh.

"I've never seen you so attractive in my life," he confessed, with an almost pained smile. "And I've literally seen you naked."

Oliver let out another laugh as he walked nonchalantly to the bathroom.

"Does that mean I should wear your clothes more often?" He asked, with an innocent and playful tone.

Ian seemed unable to move, his eyes locked on Oliver's body.

"If you want me to rip them off you," Ian replied, his voice hoarse and noticeably aroused.

"Well," Oliver paused, keeping his gaze fixed on Ian's, challenging. "It's a winning streak," he pointed out, turning his back to him and making to enter the suite. However, from the door, he looked at Ian with a smile as he concluded, "except for you, somehow."

◃───────────▹

Breakfast was maddeningly tense. Ian didn't take his eyes off Oliver while he ate his banana pancakes, and Oliver returned the gaze. The black coffee eased the consequences of the sleepless night, but it couldn't relieve the excitement growing in the pit of his stomach.

Laura and Emma were out for a morning run, but Michael was with them at the table, chatting about trivial matters with Charlotte and Ian, while Oliver only interacted occasionally, his mind swirling in anxiety. Ian smiled as if he hadn't thrown Oliver into the eye of the storm with his bold insinuations and promises.

"What do you think, Oliver?" Mr. Jones' voice woke him up, and the three of them looked at him curiously. He had completely lost the thread of the conversation, so Ian decided to help him.

"My father is inviting us to spend next weekend at their country house in Edinburgh," he explained, and Oliver nodded. But before he could formulate a positive response, Ian intervened, "but I told him you need to attend a philanthropic event. Something about a hospital or a home for underprivileged children."

"If Ian says..." Oliver teased, receiving amused looks from the trio at the table. All three had eerily similar eyes. "He basically runs my life."

"It's a risky kind of power," Michael said good-naturedly. "Ian is obsessed with control, he might end up putting you on a leash if you let him."

A shiver ran down Oliver's spine. He shouldn't have interpreted it that way, and Ian seemed to think the same because he scolded, saying, "Dad, don't exaggerate," but Charlotte's expression suggested she agreed with Michael.

"Ian has always been methodical with everything and everyone," Charlotte added, and the grandson's brown eyes rolled. "And the worst part is that most of the time, he's right."

The elders laughed, and Ian just smiled humorlessly as Oliver looked at him.

"Well, I'm sure Ian will advise me in the best way," Oliver affirmed, and he truly believed that.

"Ian is tough and stubborn sometimes, especially when it comes to work," Michael said, giving Ian a light punch on the shoulder, which finally made him give in to laughter, "but you can trust him with your eyes closed. He's the best lawyer I know."

"I know, Mr. Jones," Oliver replied to the father, but his gaze was fixed on the son. "I know."

They said their goodbyes at the end of breakfast, with Ian reiterating that they had political errands to run that afternoon. Which was a small lie. Oliver was hugged by each family member, each inviting him to something different in the coming months. After the farewell, he and Ian headed to the car and were soon on the road to Windsor Castle. However, as Ian had casually informed the night before, they had an important stop to make.

◃───────────▹

The way to the hotel room was a mess of hurried steps and furtive glances.

Oliver followed Ian to the elevator that took them to the top floor, and before he knew it, he was being thrown onto the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. Ian did the same, firmly sitting on top of Oliver, with a knee on either side, straddling his chest.

"Someone promised me the best blowjob of my life," Ian said almost challengingly, as Oliver brought his hands to Ian's strong thighs, gripping them firmly. "But I must say, I've been alive for quite a while."

Oliver's fingers flew to the button and zipper, frantically opening them. Ian's gaze followed every movement.

"You just turned 27," Oliver pointed out, barely taking his eyes off the white boxers, the stark contrast against Ian's tanned skin and the trail of dark hair descending from his navel to the edge of the garment. "You've had what? Nine, ten years of experience? And only four months of that were with me, so you do the math."

Ian laughed softly, raising his hips to allow Oliver to carefully remove his clothes. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the headboard for balance.

Oliver didn't hesitate to envelop him gently, his fingers sliding over Ian's warm skin. Ian closed his eyes with a contained moan, instinctively pushing his hips forward.

"You're lucky you're actually really good at this," Ian sighed, and Oliver stimulated him with slow and deliberate movements, making him momentarily lose his train of thought. "Because you're very... confident."

Oliver pulled away with a deliberately loud pop, and Ian's legs trembled around him.

"I don't remember you complaining."

"Because I didn't," he retorted, and Oliver resumed, letting his hands slide down the back of Ian's thighs, pulling his hips forward as he intensified the contact.

With his palms pressing into his legs, Oliver pulled him toward his face, meeting his gaze. Only then did Ian understand.

"You want me to—" the question was lost in a gasp, and Oliver let his head fall back onto the pillow.

It was an answer.

Oliver felt warm tears welling up at the corners of his eyes as Ian began to move experimentally and patiently, even though Oliver could see the weight of self-control in the furrow of his brows, in the amber gaze fixed on his.

Oliver dug his nails into Ian's skin, silently suggesting that he be less gentle, to take him as he pleased.

"My fucking God, Ollie," Ian sighed softly, his voice sounding distant, as if he were out of his own body.

Oliver tried to keep his eyes open, but the urgency of his tears forced him to close them as Ian moved with more intensity, his movements becoming faster and more urgent.

It wasn't as if Oliver were an expert, having experienced this many times before, nor would he say it wasn't uncomfortable, but it was Ian, and the blurred vision of his body from that angle was more wonderful than anything he had ever seen in his life.

Oliver brought a hand to Ian's abdomen and gently pushed him away, finally taking a deep breath and feeling his chest expand as air flowed in and out of his lungs. But before Ian could protest, Oliver firmly grabbed his hips and pushed him aside, his shoulders hitting the mattress before he could avoid it.

With almost superhuman speed, Oliver undressed him in record time before resuming where they had left off.

Ian quickly anchored himself in the roots of Oliver's hair, his breath becoming desperate as he moaned and arched his back off the mattress, alerting Oliver that he was very close.

Oliver paused for a moment, feeling the heat and firmness of Ian's body beneath him, Ian's gaze locked on him.

"How do you want it, love?" he asked, his voice rough and hoarse, as his hands explored Ian's chest, sliding smoothly over the firm muscles.

Ian opened his eyes, a sigh escaping as he tried to focus.

"I... I want you on top," he replied, closing his eyes for a moment as if the mere idea left him indecisive.

"Fair enough," Oliver agreed, standing up under Ian's hungry gaze.

One by one, Oliver removed his clothes, maintaining eye contact as he stripped in front of Ian. But Ian's gaze stripped him beyond his skin, and as he returned to the bed, Ian brought his eager hands to Oliver's hips, pulling him into his embrace.

Ian's long fingers helped him relax, but Oliver wasn't as interested in foreplay. Oliver positioned himself over Ian's hips, but in a flash of rationality, Ian held Oliver's hands, and he stopped, his attention entirely on Ian.

"Don't you want me to use protection?" Ian asked, hesitant, the nervousness in his voice blending with the desire that was explicit in his body language.

"Do we need it?" Oliver returned the question, suggestively.

"I'm..." Ian cleared his throat before continuing, almost shyly. "Clean, I mean. I haven't had anyone else after you."

"Neither have I," Oliver assured, leaning over Ian's body to reach his lips in a soft kiss, receiving his hands all over his body.

Ian's fingers explored Oliver's skin gently, slowly, as if he wanted to say more to him than his words could.

"Are you sure?" Ian whispered against Oliver's lips, eyes closed, sighs contained as Oliver settled over his body.

"I trust you," Oliver replied honestly, bringing Ian's lower lip to himself, tasting his unique flavor before opening his eyes and meeting his again. That gaze was transparent, free of fears, but there was something sweeter there. Something like loyalty, completeness, certainty. "Love, come on, make me feel everything."

He didn't need to ask twice.

With a fluid and graceful movement, Ian thrust upward, and Oliver pressed his lips together to stifle the grunt that almost escaped.

Then reality hit him like a precise blow — they were outside the castle, miles away from the Palace and at a safe distance from Ian's family.

Oliver started slow and deliberate movements that drew loud gasps from Ian as the pleasure grew. The connection between them was magnetic, unstoppable. Oliver lost himself in the rhythm of their bodies, letting himself be carried away by the intoxicating sensation of having Ian so close and so damn surrendered to him.

Ian wove a series of dirty compliments, loud and agonized moans, as if he didn't know how to deal with what he was feeling.

Oliver was loving seeing him from this new perspective.

"I promised I would make you watch," Oliver forced his voice to be as commanding as possible, and Ian obeyed immediately. His irises spilled over Oliver's torso and fixed on the point where their bodies met, narrowing in lust and pure desperation. Oliver felt extremely exposed, but for some reason, it didn't bother him. On the contrary, he felt more confident, offering Ian a view he knew was irresistible. When Ian threatened to succumb, Oliver pressed harder against him, his order echoing: "Eyes open, Harrison-Jones."

Ian solemnly cursed, his body betraying increasingly exasperated reactions. His large hands held Oliver firmly as their hips met continuously, and Oliver knew Ian wouldn't last long.

Oliver didn't know he could be so vocal, but something about this freedom made him more comfortable, more authentic, more... embarrassingly loud.

Then, Ian was there, on the brink of ecstasy, and Oliver felt his body tense, his breathing becoming shallower and noisier. Oliver felt a fire ignited in his stomach, an intense sensation of pleasure growing with every movement, every beat of his heart, every response of Ian's body to his, but he didn't want to stop — his thighs trembled, muscles burned, and his body contorted in an effort to get even closer to Ian.

Then Ian's heat spread between them, making him feel fuller, more complete.

His still damp skin glistened with the sweat of effort, a delicious mess of tongues and lips meeting as they looked into each other's eyes. The feeling of intimacy and connection between them was so strong that Oliver could almost feel it, tangible, like a living thing.

"I love you," Oliver murmured against Ian's lips, feeling the texture of his damp skin under his fingers.

With effort, Ian's strangled voice replied, "I love you too."

He curled up with Oliver, their skins touching along their entire length, their bodies still together, still connected.

"Happy birthday," Oliver said, laughing after hearing Ian's breathless chuckle.

"No, no. Don't say that yet," Ian scolded playfully, as he covered Oliver's body with his own. "In fact, I believe it's time for me to fulfill my part of the promise."

A mischievous glint danced in his eyes, like shooting stars in a summer night sky. His fingers danced across Oliver's skin, tracing the contours of Oliver's face with feather-light touches.

Genuinely happy, Oliver whispered: "I believe it is." His hands slid down Ian's back, pulling him closer, their bodies fitting together perfectly. "After all, we both can still hear me."