Looking at him was like peering through a window on an autumn day: magnificent, with its warm colors.

His eyes were a rare fusion of hazel tones — like dried leaves — with hints of amber and antique gold blending in imprecise proportions before spreading like watercolor into moss green across his iris. Full and expressive eyebrows intensified his striking gaze. Subtle dimples adorned his smile, perfectly complementing his impeccable bone structure and dazzling lips. Strands intertwined with burnt gold, sun rays carefully woven, falling softly in a caress.

The final ornament of nature.

His fair skin subtly displayed small freckles on the bridge of his nose, delicate marks of summer, contrasting with the natural signs dotting his face. Broad shoulders, full chest, strong and erect neck. A masterpiece, a sculpted body, divine in its beauty. Every curve and contour, a delight to the eyes, a vision of perfection untouched by time.

He possessed a charming voice, with a husky softness present in some notes. Not to mention his irresistible British accent. He had a witty and light humor, he was sweet and kind.

He was an unequivocally free soul.

Terribly attractive.

Ian knew him like the back of his hand — the lines and curves of his body etched in his memory. Every laugh, every moan, every sigh of discontent, all crystallized in the form of a deep, unwavering, unquestionable love. He understood the nuances of his mood as if they were songs, the different personalities he assumed in each situation were verses of a love song that played throughout the day, and Ian was the composer, the musician, the singer, and the listener of his soul.

Sometimes, he was the proud and strong king, with a firm voice, and the dust of state affairs marked on his clothes, but when he slept or laughed joyfully with Ian, he saw him as a pure and gentle man, a man who loved his family tenderly and who loved him deeply, with a love that melted him to the bone and made him soar high, very high, like a lonely bird in search of the sun.

The words of love he spoke were like manna from heaven, so sweet, so true, so necessary, that Ian carefully stored them in his mind and heart, precious as a lost treasure rediscovered in every moment of affection. He was lucky to have such an intense and true love, he knew that, and expressed it in every possible way, with every kiss, every touch, every look, every word, even with the silences shared between them.

With every glimpse of vulnerability he allowed Ian to see beneath the shell of determination, he felt a wave of warmth and happiness fill him from head to toe, his entire being transformed into a river of passion and tenderness, a tribute to this wonderful man he called his love. Therefore, even after so many years together, Ian watched him sleep with tenderness and gratitude, and the smile still reached him when his phone vibrated with a message from him, and he still melted with love when he said he loved him, because he knew there was nothing but truth in those words.

And every morning, Ian had the privilege of waking up beside Oliver — not the majesty, nor the prince, but just the man he loved with all his being — and felt ready to save the world.

"What are you doing?" His voice came, low like a heavy whisper interrupted by recent sleep. The soft and hoarse tone, laden with drowsiness, sent waves of warmth through Ian's body. Oliver then brought his hand toward him, and Ian reached out over his chest before letting his thumb delicately trace the prominent vein in his forearm, following in a slow and intimate caress up to his shoulder, collarbones, throat, jaw, lips... Oliver laughed softly, holding his finger between his teeth with a lightness that made Ian smile. "Love, I've told you this is weird," he joked, keeping his eyes closed but with an open and inviting smile on his lips.

"I don't care," Ian replied, moving his body to accommodate him in his protective embrace. Oliver moaned appreciatively, like a spoiled cat, and Ian squeezed him in response, delighting in the feel of his warm and soft body against his.

"What are my commitments for today?" Oliver asked, almost hesitant, his words whispered against the sensitive skin of Ian's neck, where he spread lazy and delicate kisses wherever he could reach.

"It's Lily's first day at the new school," Ian replied, snuggling even closer and gently placing his lips on Oliver's temple. He felt the slight shiver as Oliver's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression.

Six years ago, they had left Windsor to establish their residence in a lovely and quiet village in southwestern England. Castle Combe quickly became their home, a place where they spent most of their time together.

Lily used to spend holidays with them, and those days shone with incomparable joy. However, every time she returned to Kensington, their days seemed a little darker, as if a dazzling light that once illuminated everything was absent. It wasn't so much that they felt separated from her, but there was something inexplicable that made their hearts ache for the distance.

Oliver and Ian would take her to Kensington in a few hours, and to ease the sadness he knew he would feel, Ian made a promise:

"We'll stop at an ice cream shop on the way, and I'll buy your favorite flavor," he suggested, hopeful to bring back that radiant smile. It worked, as Oliver smiled genuinely, finally opening his eyes and looking up at Ian. To ensure the smile didn't fade, he added with a laugh, "As weird as it is."

Oliver took a deep breath, hugging Ian tightly, as if seeking strength through his touch. "Alright, love," he said, and Ian saw the tranquility in his eyes, though not complete. "She's almost twelve now, and I'll have to get used to not having her glued to me all the time."

That conversation awakened the father in both of them, and for a moment, they forgot their royal responsibilities. Ian teased him affectionately: "By the way, you'll have to prepare to share her with some boy soon."

That remark turned Oliver's smile into an adorably annoyed expression, and Ian felt the need to suppress a laugh.

"She has two dads, Ian," Oliver retorted, with a bored tone. They both knew Lily was smart and assertive and had their protection all the time. "Any boy will think twice before approaching her."

Finally, Ian let the laugh escape, and Oliver seemed to suppress his own, behind a thin mask of irritation. His greenish eyes shone with a touch of amusement, growing even more prominent under the light coming through the window.

"Don't be that person," Ian said, watching the dramatic expression Oliver assumed, eyes rolling with feigned exasperation.

"I have no intention of being modern in this aspect," Oliver rebuked, and before he could continue his reasoning, Ian pressed his lips against his in a soft and impulsive kiss, unable to resist any longer.

Oliver seemed surprised for a moment, but soon responded to the gesture, intertwining his fingers over Ian's chest. Oliver's mouth tasted deliciously of sleep and remnants of mouthwash, and Ian lost himself in that familiar and comforting sensation that always enveloped him when they touched. Their lips moved in a slow and intimate dance, as if they had all the time in the world.

When they finally pulled apart, both were slightly breathless, their gazes fixed on each other. Oliver gave him a radiant smile, the kind that always managed to light up his entire world.

"You're impossible," Oliver murmured, caressing Ian's face with his fingertips. Ian leaned into the touch, closing his eyes briefly to savor the feeling.

"But that's why you love me," Ian retorted, stealing another quick kiss from his lips before pulling away, determined to start the day.

Ian knocked lightly on Lily's bedroom door, waiting patiently for her to invite him in — which came in the form of an excited shout from the depths of the room.

"Good morning, sunshine, breakfast is served," he greeted, poking his head through the small gap between the door and the frame, scanning the room until he found Lily sitting on the floor, in front of the wardrobe. She was packing the last pieces of clothing into her sturdy suitcase when her emerald eyes lifted to meet Ian's, shining with affection.

"How's my dad?" Were the first words she spoke, drawing a tender smile from Ian as he approached her.

He sat on the edge of the single bed, releasing a contained sigh before answering:

"He's putting on a tough pose, but he already misses you."

A small crease formed above Lily's right eyebrow, eerily similar to Oliver's, as she pursed her lips into an adorable expression.

"I hate leaving him here," she said, and suddenly she seemed much older than she really was, carrying a responsibility that wasn't hers. "I know he has you, but... it's like he gets lost without me."

Her conviction surprised Ian, and he leaned towards her, his compassionate smile mirrored on the girl's face.

"Sweetie, he's a grown man, he'll be just fine," Ian said, feeling that strange sensation that, even though they weren't blood relatives, Lily's personality was very similar to his. Maybe it was the company, maybe the inclination for overprotecting an emotionally stable adult man, who happened to be the damn king of England — but that was a mere detail for them. "And it's not like he won't be in Kensington tomorrow morning to see you."

"I know, Ian, but—" Lily's speech was interrupted by a loud noise coming from the kitchen.

They both stood up immediately and ran to find the source of the sound, and nothing in the world could prepare them for the scene they witnessed: Oliver was the epicenter of chaos, with a frying pan in hand and pancake batter everywhere.

"Oliver, what happened?" Ian approached, half worried, half amused, while Lily laughed, standing near a clean part of the central island. Oliver cast an offended look at her, but that didn't dissuade her. "I thought we agreed you'd stay at least a mile away from the stove. Where's Claire?"

"I gave her the day off," he replied, embarrassed. "I thought I couldn't mess up ready-made pancake mix, but it seems I can't multitask."

Ian looked suggestively at Lily, who seemed to understand and did her best to stifle a laugh. She approached him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"It's okay, Dad. You don't have to be good at everything," she said, and once again Ian was impressed by Lily's wisdom and empathy beyond her age.

Her affectionate and understanding tone immediately seemed to calm Oliver's nerves, who smiled openly, shrugging in a carefree manner.

Lily's genuine affection was undoubtedly the magical cure for any worry or insecurity that might afflict Oliver. She had a special gift for calming his anxiety and making him feel completely at ease, even in an embarrassing situation like that.

"I'll call Claire," Oliver conceded, leaving sticky pancake footprints as he left the kitchen, his posture much more relaxed.

Lily and Ian watched him walk away, knowing that her love had the power to heal any sadness or frustration he might feel.

◃───────────▹

When they retired to the Windsor bedroom at the end of the day, Ian saw Oliver standing in front of the mirror, his reflection clouded by an unusual restlessness.

"I feel strange," he confessed, his voice low and hesitant.

"That's the last thing you should be feeling," Ian responded softly, wrapping his arms around Oliver's waist. He immediately sought comfort in Ian's touch, covering his hands with his own.

"Do you think they'll accept it?" he murmured, revealing that vulnerable side of the monarch he would never expose to anyone but Ian.

Resting his chin on Oliver's shoulder, Ian felt the reassuring weight of his head against his own, his jaw tenderly pressing against his temple.

"Baby, you need to see who you really are," he said with conviction. "Who would dare deny anything to our king?"

"I don't want to be the king, Ian," Oliver retorted, a bit irritated, but Ian understood his frustration perfectly. "I wish this process could be anonymous."

"Well, that's the opposite of what it should be," Ian teased, hugging him tighter in a way that made Oliver forget any retort. "You know there's no reason to worry, don't you?"

"I know," he replied, but there was something more behind those words. "I think I'm just anxious. It's a colossal change, Ian."

Oliver turned in his arms to face him. He brought his hands to Ian's face, as he always did, and his eyes fixed on Ian's, a glint of uncertainty dancing in his irises.

"We can postpone if you want," Ian assured, keeping his tone calm and reassuring.

He knew that all the apprehension, nervousness, and insecurity Oliver was showing was pure anxiety in the face of a radical transformation imminent in his life.

Both knew that Oliver was resistant to decisions that disrupted his routine, but there was an additional complication: Lily's reaction.

"We need to talk to her," he suggested, as if reading Ian's thoughts. "We'll only postpone if she doesn't agree."

"Not to brag, but we raised an incredible person," Ian said, and Oliver nodded, smiling proudly. "Besides, we should encourage her to be less cautious. Kids should have the freedom to be reckless."

"I don't know where she got all that sense from," Oliver commented, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Let's hope no one hears me, but sometimes she reminds me of my brother, though he was never as understanding or kind."

"Or as worried about you," Ian added, jokingly, and Oliver laughed softly. Lily was truly unique. She had always been such a mature and sensible child, even with the privileges of her position. "She gave me a hundred instructions in the car."

Watching Oliver's thoughtful expression, Ian felt a pang of concern. Was he blaming himself for something? Was he afraid of not being able to handle the new responsibilities that would come?

"What if..." Oliver hesitated, as if avoiding saying something terrible. But he knew Ian too well. Ian knew that when he was like this, ruminating negative thoughts, it was better to give him space to open up. "Is this a safe place?" He finally let his unease show.

Ian raised an eyebrow, watching him curiously. "Want to play 'worst-case scenario'?"

Oliver pressed his lips but nodded. Hesitant, he said, "What if I've lost my touch? What if Lily was especially easy to raise and the next one is the complete opposite?"

"Ollie, we can't control everything," Ian tried to comfort him, but doubted it was the best way to address his concerns. Maybe a lighter, more relaxed approach would be more effective. "I understand your insecurity, but we're a strong team now. We can make superhero uniforms if that'll make you feel better."

"I know that would make you feel amazing," he retorted, finally giving in to laughter. Ian knew this was his way of releasing tension, even if only temporarily.

"Relax," Ian said, tilting his head slightly to gently align their lips. "I'm here with you."

Oliver was visibly restless, tension building in his shoulders like a storm about to break. Ian knew that Lily's presence, though comforting, was preventing him from releasing all that anguish.

Oliver leaned into him, their lips almost touching. "I'm going to need your help with this," he whispered, his voice hoarse and loaded with vulnerability. "You know exactly what to do."

Ian returned the look with a mischievous smile. "Of course, my king," he winked at him, adding, "Who am I but your most loyal and devoted servant?"

◃───────────▹

Ian could still feel the ghost of Oliver's touch on his skin. His sweat still impregnated his pores, and the sweetness of his lips still seemed to burn his own.

Lying between the rumpled sheets, his naked body futilely sought the warmth Oliver had left behind when he got up. His eyes followed every movement of Oliver as he prepared for the important event, his imposing and elegant posture radiating an aura of power and seriousness.

Through the mirror, their eyes met, and Ian saw understanding dawn on Oliver's face.

"You look different today," he observed, his deep and soft voice echoing in the silence of the room.

"Yeah?" Ian replied, the word loaded with an anxiety he could barely contain.

Oliver's eyes examined him closely as his skilled fingers adjusted the perfect knot of his tie.

"Looking at me like that," he said, turning towards Ian.

His impeccable figure approached the bed, and Ian propped himself up on his elbows, the sheet lazily sliding down his torso. Oliver's gaze traced his exposed skin with an intensity that made his body heat up.

"Like what?" Ian teased, bringing his hands to Oliver's hips and gently pulling him closer.

Oliver's lips curved into a subtle smile, but he resisted the pull.

"Like you haven't had enough of me."

His words echoed in Ian's mind, a realization that made him crave Oliver's touch even more.

"Can't you ask your mother to go in your place?" Ian suggested, his eyes fixed on Oliver's, silently begging for a few more moments alone.

Oliver hesitated, his hands sliding down Ian's arms until they reached his shoulders. Then, he slowly leaned in, his lips brushing against Ian's with an almost painful softness.

"She's in Zurich, remember?" Oliver's voice was almost a whisper, and Ian felt a shiver at his closeness.

"Hmm," Ian murmured in response, and he could feel Oliver's soft laugh against his face. "Don't tell me you don't have five minutes."

Oliver's eyes sparkled with amusement and suspicion. "Five minutes? Aren't you being a bit presumptuous?"

"I'm not the one approaching forty," Ian retorted, knowing exactly what that would provoke in Oliver.

Oliver's expression hardened, his perfect jaw tensing in a gesture of pure indignation. His bright eyes pierced Ian with an intensity that almost made him look away, but he held his ground, resisting the urge to laugh at Oliver's characteristic reaction.

"How dare you," he pronounced the words in a grave and threatening tone, as if each syllable was an accusation.

It wasn't a question, but rather a challenge thrown, a provocation that seemed to emanate from his entire being.

Ian's fingers gripped the soft fabric of Oliver's trousers, feeling the tension accumulating in his taut muscles. He could see the green of Oliver's irises narrowing to form a tiny ring around his pupils.

"Prove me wrong," Ian challenged aloud, feeling Oliver's hands return the pressure on his shoulders.

"Ian, I need to be at the Palace in 30 minutes," Oliver practically begged, his deep voice loaded with an urgency Ian knew he could barely contain.

"In half an hour, I could make you come about three times," Ian teased, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. He could see the fabric of Oliver's trousers stretching in a very specific spot, eloquent evidence of how much he was fighting against his own desire. "Besides, you wouldn't appear before the Council like that, would you?"

Oliver let out a trembling sigh.

"You are a true menace, you know?" he murmured, his eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and desire.

Ian knew this man like the back of his hand and knew exactly how to push him to his limits.

He approached, his fingers playing with the collar of Oliver's shirt.

"Then stay with me for a few more minutes," he whispered in Oliver's ear, letting his lips brush gently against his skin. "Let me convince you to postpone that meeting."

Oliver gave in. Of course, he would.

More than five minutes had passed before the second wave of ecstasy washed over him. It still surprised Ian how easily his touch was accepted, penetrating Oliver like light in darkness. He begged for more, as if it was never enough, and that's what made him irresistible.

Oliver had that way of wrapping him between his thighs, a magnetic connection that held him to Ian. He looked at Ian, fascinated, as if the breath of his soul depended on Ian's will. His fingers tangled in Ian's hair, in an almost primal impulse of possession and surrender — it had been like this since the first time.

Ian was delighted in seeing Oliver's features contorted with pleasure, the visceral desire in his gaze drawing him like a magnet. He knew he had power over Oliver, a magic that allowed him to strip him of his defenses and leave him at his mercy.

And then, that soft, breathless laugh sounded like a warning signal that he had reached his peak. His torso arched in ecstasy, his nails digging into Ian's shoulders, while his lower lip was delicately bitten between his teeth.

Seeing Oliver like that was indescribable.

◃───────────▹

Despite their conversations, laughter, and protests, Oliver pulled away and went to his meeting.

It was hours of reviewing processes, studying political strategies, and checking his phone from time to time until he heard soft knocks on the door and the characteristic creak as it opened.

He looked up over his glasses, fixing his gaze on Oliver, who stood at the door with an unusual smile on his lips, a mixture of ethereal joy and uncertainty.

Before Ian could even ask, Oliver began to speak, "I don't think we'll be celebrating my birthday this year, Ian."

Ian's heart raced. "Please, don't cancel your party because of my joke, Ollie. You'll still be the most charming forty-year-old I've ever known."

Oliver's expression changed as he rolled his eyes playfully, but instead of responding, he revealed — a bit too straightforwardly:

"I got a call from the agency. They have a baby for us."

Oliver moved toward Ian with a disconcerting calm.

His hands wrapped around Ian's shoulders as their eyes met until Ian's lips tightened. "How do you feel about this, Oliver?"

"Scared," he revealed, with a nervous laugh trembling on his lips. But then his eyes softened, and he settled into Ian's embrace, their bodies melding in a way that the familiar scent of lavender and linen from Oliver invaded Ian's senses, enveloping him in a cloud of comfort and familiarity. "But it's a fear that makes sense, a good fear," he continued, his expression relaxing as the words flowed. "It's different from the first time when I was thrown into free fall with nothing to hold onto." He paused, his laugh now more controlled but still shaky. "I can't quite explain it," Oliver said, taking a deep breath, "but I'm happy, Ian. Nervous, anxious, but extremely happy."

His eyes shone with a mix of apprehension and euphoria, as if his heart and mind were struggling to process all those emotions at once.

Reflecting on the long and winding road that had brought them there, Ian felt a profound sense of strangeness.

So many hard-fought battles, so many barriers broken down, and now, finally, the prospect of building a family free from the oppressive constraints of royalty and societal expectations seemed almost unreal.

"And what about Lily?" Ian asked softly, his hands gently sliding down Oliver's back in an affectionate gesture.

"She said she's okay with it," Oliver smiled as he quoted her, his fingers gently moving to the sides of Ian's face and removing his glasses with a light touch, as if caressing a flower petal. Bringing their faces closer, he kept his eyes fixed on Ian's, "as long as we let her choose the name."

"Wow, what a risky negotiation," Ian laughed, aligning his lips with Oliver's, kissing him repeatedly, savoring his sweetness.

"Don't worry," Oliver assured, closing his eyes, his smile immense, like that of a child who has just received their greatest gift. With a brief laugh against Ian's mouth, he revealed, "I didn't specify which name she could choose."

"So, are we going to follow the royal tradition?" Ian joked, his brown eyes shining with that characteristic mix of amusement and challenge. "By that logic, we'd need about ten kids to pick all the surnames."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement. "Hold on there, cowboy. We're not building a royal family tree."

Ian blinked, as if he had just realized what he had said. But instead of backing down, he decided to dive headfirst into the fantasy.

"You know what?" He shrugged, his lips curving into a mischievous smile as he moved closer to Oliver. "Who knows? We could start our own lineage. Just imagine, mini-Olivers with my irresistible charm. The best of both worlds."

Oliver laughed, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and affection.

And, of course, Ian knew what he would say:

"You're incorrigible."

"Incorrigibly brilliant, you mean," Ian retorted, pulling Oliver closer; their lips fitting into each other's smiles.

"Maybe," Oliver conceded, his eyes shining with love and amusement. His hand found Ian's face, his thumb gently caressing his cheek. "But let's start with one step at a time, okay? One child, one name... or five."

Ian tilted his head, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

"Children or names?"

"Whatever you want."

◃───────────▹

THE END