A week had passed since those three words finally escaped Ian's lips — the same ones Oliver had longed to hear for so long.

He still felt a shiver run down his spine whenever he recalled that moment. 

Needless to say, the night that followed was the most wonderful and unforgettable they had ever spent together.

Since then, everything seemed to flow almost dreamily.

Oliver discovered a side of Ian he had only glimpsed before — gentle, affectionate, and much more comfortable sharing his dreams and ambitions beyond the walls of that castle. On the other hand, Oliver no longer hesitated to reveal his writings, especially those inspired by Ian.

Occasionally, Ian would whisper "baby" in Oliver's ear.

When the clock struck midnight, Oliver heard Ian's muffled footsteps in the hallway even before he knocked on the door. Eagerly, Oliver tossed aside the covers, the cold breeze hitting his bare arms.

As he entered, Ian's smile was as radiant as the sun after long winter months.

In his hands, he carried two mugs of hot chocolate, steam rising in lazy spirals. As Ian entered, he brought with him the enticing aroma of spices and caramel.

"Laura sent this," he said, settling on the edge of the bed.

Oliver accepted the mug, letting the warmth radiate through his fingers. After the first sip, the creamy liquid warmed his chest, but not as much as Ian's presence.

Oliver watched as Ian placed his mug on the bedside table and stood to remove his shoes and formal clothes, leaving only dark boxers covering his body.

"I missed you today," Oliver confessed after another sip. "Where have you been?"

"I've been reviewing thousands of documents about abdication protocols," Ian revealed casually, settling beside Oliver on the bed. Oliver noted a serenity mixed with the unmistakable weight of responsibility. "Apparently, the Queen is determined to keep the truth under wraps."

Oliver nestled against Ian's chest as he leaned back against the headboard, delighting in his fresh lemon scent mixed with his natural essence. The closeness made Oliver feel deeply connected to him.

"Do you still not know what happened?" Oliver asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"No idea," Ian replied, kissing Oliver's neck slowly, as if making up for the lack of a proper greeting. Then, with his free arm, he wrapped it around Oliver's torso while reaching for his mug. "I only know the Queen wants secrecy."

"Strange," Oliver commented, a bit distracted, as Ian's fingertips slipped into his shirt, the delicate touch on his skin making him shiver involuntarily.

The power he had over Oliver was surreal.

After a long sip of his chocolate, Ian asked:

"Don't you have contact with your brother?"

Oliver did the same before responding:

"Well, Colin and I were never that close," he said. "I haven't seen him since I moved to Paris, a little over a year ago." Ian merely responded with a thoughtful "hmm" as the tip of his nose wove through Oliver's hair, and he smiled at the unexpected contact. "But Alice is my shadow. You'll love her."

"That's right, you have a sister," Ian noted, as if just registering the fact. "Why have I never seen her around?"

"The Queen is skilled at keeping secrets," Oliver explained, turning his body slightly to look at him closely. The disheveled strands in front of Ian's eyes almost distracted him, but he refocused: "Alice is undergoing treatment for depression issues. Things got out of control after my father's death."

"I'm sorry," Ian said sincerely, and Oliver smiled tenderly in response. However, the compassionate expression lit up for a fraction of a second, and as if to lighten the mood, he changed the subject: "You know, I'm planning a birthday dinner for Laura and me on Saturday, at home."

"You have a house?" Oliver asked, feigning surprise.

Ian laughed. "Of course, I have a house, Your Highness. Where do you think I spend the nights when I'm not here?"

"You're always here," Oliver retorted, and Ian kept the charming smile on his lips, gradually bringing them closer to his.

"Because you're here," he retorted, stealing a kiss on the corner of Oliver's lips. "Anyway, you've been friends with Laura for years, so it wouldn't be that strange if you came, right?"

"You have a way with words," Oliver teased, playing with the unconventional invitation.

"That's not what I meant," Ian laughed softly, squeezing Oliver's fingers between his. "It's just that... well, I just don't want people speculating why Prince Oliver is at a commoner's house in Hampstead."

Then Oliver's heart raced as he understood the meaning behind the invitation.

"Wait," Oliver paused, his eyes probably wide with astonishment, apprehension, and satisfaction intertwining within him, "are you suggesting I meet your parents?"

Ian averted his gaze, and Oliver noticed the blush spreading across his cheeks.

Oliver stroked Ian's face, feeling the roughness of his beard under his fingers. Ian closed his eyes and leaned his face towards Oliver's touch. How could Oliver deny Ian anything when the simple brush of his skin against his was enough to quicken his heart?

"I've never met parents before," Oliver confessed in a whisper.

Ian opened his eyes, warm and intense caramel.

He smiled patiently and, with a tender gesture, took the empty mug from Oliver's hands, placing it on the bedside table.

"You can say no if you want to."

Oliver studied Ian's face for a long moment, memorizing every sign, every curve of his lips. Oliver knew Ian was testing the waters, probing how far he was willing to go.

Deep down, Oliver already knew the answer.

"I would never say no," Oliver affirmed after a brief pause. Of course, he would say yes, even if it made everything more real than he was prepared to handle. "In fact, it would be an honor."

◃───────────▹

As the cool London night air nipped at his cheeks, Oliver watched Ian park the car in front of the charming white brick house. Yellow lights spilled invitingly onto the sidewalk, and smoke from the fireplace traced subtle curves through the night sky.

"I should have brought something. Is my outfit too formal? What if I styled my hair differently?" He wondered for the hundredth time.

"Love, you look great," Ian said nonchalantly, warming Oliver's heart with the term of endearment. "It's not a meeting with the Queen of England," he winked playfully, and Oliver rolled his eyes, allowing a smile to spread across his lips.

As they exited the car, Oliver took a better look around. The street was narrow and tree-lined, full of houses of the same pattern. Ian's house, however, was surprisingly spacious, with three floors and a facade reminiscent of German architecture. It was charming.

Ian walked around the car and stood beside Oliver, his gaze attentive to his restlessness.

"What if they don't like me?" Oliver asked, his voice sounding small and distant.

Ian's warm hands enveloped Oliver's, his thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, where his anxiety pulsed uncontrollably.

"Impossible," Ian whispered, his warm breath brushing Oliver's neck.

Oliver closed his eyes, inhaling Ian's familiar scent of lemon and spices, comforted by his presence.

They walked side by side to the white oak door, where they were greeted by Charlotte — an elderly lady with silver hair whose ebony eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

"Prince Oliver!" She practically exclaimed, bowing slightly. "It's an honor to have you!" Her formal tone quickly gave way to a tight hug that caught Oliver by surprise. Her embrace was like sinking into a pile of blankets, emanating the cozy smell of oranges and cinnamon. "I'm Charlotte, the grandmother of this handsome boy," she nudged Ian's ribs.

"Grandma, for God's sake," Ian rolled his eyes but returned his grandmother's affectionate smile.

They were led inside the cozy house, adorned with rustic furniture, fluffy rugs, and numerous photographs on the walls.

The warmth from the heater and the laughter emanating from the kitchen eased Oliver's discomfort, like a warm blanket wrapping around his tense body.

"They've finally arrived!" Laura's voice echoed through the entryway, and then she emerged alongside a tall, refined woman dressed in a flowing black dress.

The two women formed a striking contrast in their appearances, as if they were canvases of opposite styles. One was a painting bathed in light, her blonde locks shimmering like golden threads under the sun. The other possessed a more youthful beauty, her dark hair like ripe plum framing a face of delicate features. Despite this difference in their color palettes, they shared a similarity in their facial features — arched eyebrows and smiles that radiated a warm welcome.

"Welcome, Oliver," Laura said enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling as she greeted them.

When her mother, Emma, in turn, made a formal curtsy to greet Oliver, he gently interrupted her movement, raising his hand.

"Please, let's skip the formalities," he managed to say, forcing a smile that seemed to carry all his nervousness like heavy luggage.

Emma seemed to notice Oliver's discomfort and, with a gentle gesture, extended her hand for him to shake.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Oliver. Laura and Ian speak very highly of you," she said, her soft smile dissipating the tension he felt.

"The pleasure is mine," Oliver replied, his eyes seeking Ian's, looking for that familiar comfort among so many unfamiliar faces. Ian's reassuring smile warmed his chest, like a cup of tea on a cold night.

Amidst the exchange of coats and greetings, a new character entered the scene: Michael, Ian's father.

When Michael descended the stairs, his presence emanated a vibrant and contagious energy. It was like watching an older version of Ian, with the same captivating smile and bright eyes. The memory of Oliver, a child lost among the bushes of Kensington Gardens, brought to the surface memories he didn't even possess.

"Don't worry, just call me Michael," he said, his eyes sparkling with the same mischievous joy that Oliver saw in Ian. It was almost frightening how much they resembled each other, as if Michael were a more mature and experienced version of the man he loved.

As soon as they entered the dining room, the delicate aroma of Laura's Zucchini Carpaccio sharpened Oliver's senses. The subtlety harmonized with the vivacity of a selected Chardonnay, weaving a welcoming and inviting atmosphere.

While Ian savored the appetizer, a satisfied purr escaped him, like a secret melody. His amber eyes met Oliver's, shining with a joy that deepened the enchanting dimples in his expression.

"Laura, this is incredible!" He exclaimed, and Oliver couldn't help but look away, trying to hide his enchantment with this more relaxed version of Ian.

That night, Ian seemed to have shed his masks, allowing his true essence to shine with a freedom that Oliver rarely witnessed.

Laura shot a sharp, sarcastic look. "Your surprise is almost an insult."

"In Ian's defense," Oliver intervened with admiration, "Laura has been cooking for my family for years, but she always surprises me. Tonight, especially, the food is wonderful."

"For years?" Maria's voice rose, mocking with an arched eyebrow, her question directed at her granddaughter. "Laura, how did you manage to hide a prince from us for so long?"

Ian cast a mischievous glance at Oliver, typical of when someone is caught in a lie. His amused expression contrasted with the confusion that Oliver probably also reflected on his face. Laura watched the scene with an equally perplexed expression, clearly not understanding the grandmother's joke.

"What do you mean, Grandma?" She asked, and Oliver raised an eyebrow, knowing that Ian was hiding some information.

"Oh, Ian told me you met at work," the grandmother explained, unaware of the reality that did not match what Ian had previously told her. "But I didn't know you fell in love at the castle."

Oliver choked on his wine, laughing with Ian at the confusion. A provocative look from Laura revealed the source of the joke.

"Oh, yes, of course," she murmured, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half-ironic smile. "The flashes, the headlines..."

Ian let out an amused laugh, his brown eyes shining with a hint of mischief as they turned to Oliver.

"Prince Oliver is discreet with his conquests," he joked, clearly enjoying the situation.

"If only you paid more attention," Laura retorted promptly, and Oliver found himself the unlikely arbiter in that verbal duel. "Oliver is the epitome of transparency, unlike anyone else I know."

The table fell silent for a moment, everyone watching the exchange with a nearly voyeuristic fascination. The compliment sounded more intimate than the context seemed to justify, and Oliver felt like an intruder in a conversation that did not belong to him.

"It's the eyes," Ian announced, the corners of his mouth curving into a suggestive smile after savoring another sip of wine. "They don't hide a single secret."

With a tender look, Laura observed him, and involuntarily, Oliver felt warmth spread across his cheeks. Maintaining the act, Laura teased:

"It's evident your passion, isn't it, Oliver?"

His laugh was a nervous reflex, escaping as he avoided Ian's perceptive gaze and nodded.

"You know me so well."

As the night progressed, more dishes were served by Laura, accompanied by a true cellar of labels that her father, an amateur sommelier, had proudly selected. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter bubbling spontaneously at each new and amusing childhood memory theatrically narrated by Laura and Ian. Watching Ian, Oliver realized how much he delighted in that family environment — his smile was the pure image of happiness.

Each look Ian cast in his direction carried a silent inquiry, a desire to share that feeling of belonging with Oliver. And Oliver reciprocated with a shy but sincere smile, showing that he too felt comfortable in that atmosphere.

Ian's hands moved with the precision of a maestro as he evaluated the wines, and the blush tinting his cheeks was a clear reaction to the delicate intoxication growing within him.

Under the softened light of the room, their gazes — Ian with his honey-colored eyes and Oliver with admiring caution — established an intimate communication, as if they were creating a small parallel universe where only the two of them existed among the others.

However, reality knocked on the door with each question that came from Michael, bringing with it the weight of the world that existed beyond those walls.

"How is the Queen, Oliver?"

"She is well, thank you for asking," Oliver replied, seeking to maintain a light tone. "A bit tired lately; I feel the weight of the crown is taking its toll. But nothing dampens her spirits."

"Soon it will be you wearing the crown," Michael joked, and Oliver felt his stomach twist.

Far from being ready to enter that topic, Oliver responded:

"The crown plays more of a supporting role in this theatrical performance, Mr. Jones," keeping the joy in his voice despite the discomfort reflected in Ian and Laura's eyes like a distant signal. "It's crucial, but often overshadowed by the other actors."

"You're right," Michael nodded, but before Oliver could let his own discomfort show, Ian intervened, clearing his throat to capture everyone's attention.

"You know, I'm curious about the pie Laura made. It must be criminally delicious!" A mischievous look was exchanged between the siblings, sealing a silent pact to change the mood.

Soon, Laura entered with a chocolate pie, decorated with two candles in the center. The eye contact between the siblings was a subtle dialogue concluding that it was time to lighten the atmosphere with something less heavy than discussions about crowns and duties.

"Would you like some words?" Ian joked, adopting a pompous air. The amused reactions of their parents showed how precious that scene was.

"Oh, just the pie for now, thank you," protested his father with a laugh.

Ian took the hint, his expression scandalously indignant. "In my own home? In front of our distinguished company?"

"A family dinner isn't the same without your speeches, my son," Emma intervened after a long sigh, feigning boredom, and the echo of laughter filled the air.

"Well then," Ian conceded. However, he stood up like a general preparing for a victory speech and raised his glass. "Let me just say this: what a surprisingly good year," his gaze met Oliver's, a declaration lingering between the lines. "May the days to come be equally spectacular. To our family, friends, and the surprises that color life. Cheers."

They ended the night in that cozy manner, a family dynamic that Oliver had never witnessed before. The soft crackling of the fireplace and the floral aroma of the Port wine created a tranquil atmosphere as they sat around the coffee table in the living room.

"I'm taking Oliver back to Windsor," Ian announced, placing the empty glass on the wooden table.

His mother, however, reprimanded him gently:

"Please! You don't need to run off in the middle of the night. Ian, you know we have two guest rooms here, rarely used. Stay here tonight."

Ian cast a look at Oliver, filled with a mix of apprehension and hope. Something in that look seemed like an irresistible invitation.

"I don't want to be a bother," Oliver hesitated, but the encouraging looks from everyone in the room made him relent with a defeated laugh. "Alright, sure. I'd love to stay."

"Help him get settled, Laura, please," Emma requested, but Laura's gaze was fixed on Ian, almost like a silent plea for help.

"I'll accompany him, Mom," Ian quickly intervened, his voice deep and velvety.

He rose from the soft velvet armchair, the fabric producing a gentle friction noise. With a gentle hand on his back, Ian guided Oliver up the narrow stairs. As they climbed, the smell of aged wood filled their nostrils. On the walls, more black and white photographs captured precious moments of that family.

Soon, they stood before a simple white door.

"It's not a royal suite, but..." Ian remarked with a shy smile, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. Oliver rolled his eyes and, without thinking, took his hands, pulling him into the room.

As the wooden door clicked shut behind them, Oliver pressed Ian's body against it, his hands sinking into the silky strands of his dark curls. He brought his lips close to Ian's wide, inviting smile, inhaling the notes of Port wine in his breath.

"So I'm Laura's boyfriend," Oliver observed, suggestively, his eyes fixed on Ian's in the dimly lit room.

Ian laughed softly, the vibration resonating in their tight embrace, and let his hands anchor on his hips.

"I didn't think you wanted to be introduced as my boyfriend."

Oliver pulled his face back a bit, staring at him with a challenging expression.

"And am I your boyfriend?" Oliver asked, watching him stumble, confused, trying to answer. He smiled and interrupted his ramblings with a languid kiss. "I know I'm not," he whispered breathlessly against Ian's lips, "you don't need euphemisms."

Ian's hands slid down Oliver's back, melding their bodies. Oliver felt at home, protected.

Then, suddenly, he heard Ian's almost contemplative whisper:

"You should be."

Oliver opened his eyes, surprised. The closeness was intoxicating, accelerating his heart.

"I know, I really should," he agreed softly.

However, Oliver knew that Ian could not propose any relationship that represented an evolution of what they had.

"I love you so much," Ian's voice caught in his throat, a knot of evident frustration. Oliver sensed his confidence in expressing such words, aware that the feeling was mutual, yet something held him back, and he knew well what it was. "I really, really wanted you to be more than—"

"Your casual fuck?" Oliver teased.

Their noses brushed, and a flood of memories of their nights together filled Oliver's mind. Clandestine meetings, lingering kisses, a happiness stolen in small fragments.

And yet, it was never casual.

"We've always been the opposite of casual, Oliver," Ian countered, and Oliver remained silent, anticipating the continuation he knew was coming. "I don't believe I could ever be casual with you."

Oliver smiled, picking up his interrupted statement. "And what did you want me to be?"

"Mine," Ian said simply, with a tremulous laugh betraying his nervousness. But he didn't stop there: "With any title you wanted... or none. Just mine."

Oliver felt his heart warm at Ian's words. That was the declaration he had waited for so long, the confirmation that their feelings resonated the same within each other.

Without hesitation, Oliver pulled Ian closer, certain there was no other place they should be.

"That's exactly the title I want," Oliver said, his hands sliding down Ian's neck to cradle the sides of his face. His thumbs brushed his long lower lashes with the lightness of a breath, and he looked at him deeply before leaving his unmistakable declaration: "Yours. That's how I want you to call me."

Oliver knew that the Ian he knew outside that house would argue, would say he could never be his. But there they were, together, celebrating his birthday in the privacy of that home, with the most important people in his life.

Since Brussels, Oliver only wanted Ian. He had never been so intimate with anyone else.

Ian's fresh breath, the warmth of his body against his, the scent of cotton and Santal 33...

It would be terrifying if it weren't so good.

"Are we going too far?" Ian asked, as if reading Oliver's mind. It was still strange to see him so vulnerable, so open. "Was it a mistake to bring you here?"

"Of course not," Oliver assured, silently planting several kisses on Ian's face, feeling the roughness of his stubble. "I loved being here, getting to know more about your world."

Ian narrowed his eyes, sighing audibly.

Oliver didn't immediately understand that sudden change in behavior, but something inside him shattered when he felt the tips of his fingers slightly wet.

Ian didn't wait for Oliver to ask.

"All of this is killing me, Oliver," Ian's confession escaped in a choked whisper, freezing Oliver's expression with its honesty.

Oliver searched desperately for words of comfort, but they eluded him.

"Ian..." Oliver murmured, in vain.

Ian's words came out haltingly, as if each syllable cost a painful effort.

"I know it's ridiculous," Ian said, swallowing hard, his gaze clouded by unshed tears. "But having you here today makes me not want you to leave," his eyes shone with visceral pain. "Even though I know everything with you is fleeting."

Oliver's chest tightened at his words. He could feel the frustration and uncertainty that hurt him.

"Let's not think about that tonight, okay?" Oliver said softly, enveloping Ian in an even tighter embrace. Their lips met in a hesitant kiss, but soon took on an irresistible urgency. As Oliver tasted the salty tears on Ian's lips, a wave of determination washed over him. It wasn't anger, but something more powerful — a courage that drove him to fight for them.

"We'll find a way, love," Oliver promised, his voice firm and full of conviction. "I swear."