The awakening was a cold stab to Oliver's consciousness.

A feeling of displacement so intense it seemed as if his soul had wandered through distant realms and was now struggling to reanchor itself to his body. Sofia, with her arm resting on his chest, was the link pulling him back to the raw reality — the closeness and the absence of clothes clear signs of an intimacy that had seemed unimaginable until then.

Oliver threw himself out of bed, not just physically but also in an emotional surge. The confusion and shock of having his fragmented memories confronted by the real situation were overwhelming. Waking Sofia was an awkward, inevitable act.

"What the hell did we do?" Oliver's hoarse voice carried a hint of astonishment he was reluctant to admit.

Sofia, however, seemed to embrace it naturally.

Panic swelled quickly as the memories of the previous night took clear shape — laughter, caresses, an emotional closeness that turned physical. And an unbearable pain began to sprout. Guilt took center stage, questioning every decision, every move that had led them to that outcome.

"Sofia... what have I done?"

Sofia's resigned calm sought to be a soothing balm. "Isn't it obvious?" She replied with morning humor, stretching.

But that insinuation revealed an unknown abyss of insecurity in Oliver — a vulnerability born from the fear of being the executioner of his own ruin. "I remember us talking, but I don't know when I got close to you. I didn't... force anything, did I?" His voice trembled.

"Oliver, of course not," Sofia rolled her eyes lightly, moving closer to touch his chin. "I'm an adult woman; I can make my own decisions."

"My God... Ian." Oliver's sigh sounded exasperated. Ian. The name echoed in his mind, evoking sweet and bitter memories of moments now tainted, violated by his thoughtless act. "He'll never forgive me."

"Oliver, it's going to be okay." Sofia caressed his cheek with her thumb. "He doesn't need to know."

"I'm not a cheater, Sofia." Each word felt like a lie, a vain attempt to convince himself of his own integrity.

"Oliver, if I may, it's not Ian that you've cheated on," Sofia pondered with a technical nuance. "At least, not legally. Besides, wasn't it him who ended the relationship with you?"

It was true. However, the breakup proposed by Ian as a painful possibility should have been a moment of reflection, not destructive impulsiveness.

That morning, the shadows of the previous night brought a sharp lucidity. Oliver had acted not as a rational being, responsible for his actions and consequences, but as a creature driven by fear, pain, and undeniably, self-victimization. The realization of his own fallibility was crushing — it wasn't just Ian he had betrayed, but himself, the idea of who he judged himself to be or should be.

This bitterness was as penetrating as the headache that had awakened him. And at that moment, the urgency to face the reality of his actions — and the numerous reconstructions it would require — became as vivid as the light streaming through the curtains, heralding a new day but also a new burden of consequences to bear.

He rose abruptly, gently pushing Sofia's hands away. He felt her curious gaze as he hastily gathered his clothes from around the room, dressing quickly while his mind raced. The words didn't flow, stuck in his throat, compressed by anguish.

"I'm sorry, Sofia, I..." He stammered uselessly, unable to verbalize any plausible justification. His eyes located the phone on the nightstand. He grabbed it urgently, clutching it in his sweaty palm. He needed to make that call, even without knowing what to say. He just needed to hear his voice, be honest, redeem himself somehow. "I need to tell him."

He murmured more to himself than to Sofia.

She seemed to understand, for a trace of pity took her eyes. Pity for the situation, for him, perhaps for the pain he had inflicted on the three of them with his thoughtless act.

Oliver hurried downstairs. The sunlight streaming through the hallway window seemed an insult in the face of the desperation consuming him. Still, he opened the front door, stepping into the brightness like someone seeking a lifeline.

The cold morning air cut his face as he wandered aimlessly through the garden. That number, once dialed with such familiarity, now seemed strange and distant. He stared at it with an explosive mixture of longing and fear. Longing for the rough and comforting sound of Ian's voice upon waking, still sleepy. Fear of the concrete possibility that his mistake had forever destroyed the promises they had made to each other.

Pressing the call button on that old cell phone was his only hope, the last chance to mitigate the damage caused by that abysmal error. With a trembling sigh, his thumb finally initiated the call. He brought the phone to his ear, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he anxiously awaited the ringing to stop.

"Hello?" Ian's voice sounded cautious, the unknown number on the screen leaving him suspicious.

"It's me, Ian." Oliver's words came out with difficulty, the tension palpable.

There was a pause, a silence laden with expectation and apprehension on the other side. Then, Ian's voice sounded again, now with a note of relief, though still with some caution:

"Baby... I'm so sorry. I acted like a complete idiot."

Oliver closed his eyes tightly, fighting the nausea threatening to consume him.

"Ian—" he began, his voice trembling.

He tried to interrupt him, desperately wanting to prevent him from continuing with the apologies, fearing they might destroy the last shred of sanity still holding his fragile self-control together.

"I couldn't sleep. I tried to reach you countless times, but the phone went straight to voicemail," Ian continued, the words tumbling out as Oliver struggled against the pain of guilt. "I know you're hurt, but please, try to forgive me? I can't stand the thought of us being apart," he pleaded, before a pause where Oliver could hear his trembling breath on the other side.

The desperate plea was the final blow. A sob escaped Oliver's throat before he could contain it. "Ian..." He tried to interrupt again in vain.

Ian continued, oblivious to Oliver's torment, digging deeper into the wound now bleeding inside him.

"Why don't you come to see me?" Ian suggested, his voice hopeful again. Oliver closed his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the innocence in his words. This notion tore him apart, and Ian had no idea. "I'm free all day. You have accumulated miles. We could eat tapas at the Mercado de San Miguel, have ice cream at Amorino... or just stay here. What do you think?"

The invitation was tempting. And God knows how much Oliver longed to see him again — to hug him tightly, as if his affection could erase the sins of the previous night. He would give anything to go back in time and shake his imprudent self, stop him from committing that irreparable mistake with Sofia.

But there was no turning back.

Deep down, Oliver knew what the only dignified action to take was. He needed to face him, take responsibility for the ruin of their relationship. Even if it meant looking into the eyes he hadn't seen for months to hurt him with the truth.

Oliver didn't hesitate to request a private jet to take him to Spain, under the pretext of dealing with diplomatic matters. He didn't have the breath to handle the trappings of a commercial flight.

About two hours later, he saw Ian from the plane window, standing on the runway of the Royal Palace. The cell phone in his hands displayed a picture with the words "Mr. Somerset."

The melancholic smile that surfaced on Oliver's lips was enough for Ian to smile as well, pleased to have pleased him with his little surprise. Oliver reluctantly approached, but Ian closed the distance between them, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Next to Oliver's ear, he whispered:

"Your name is too long for the screen, but I think you got the reference," he joked. Then his words took on a grave tone, his lips pressed against Oliver's shoulder: "You have no idea the self-control it took not to greet you with a kiss as overwhelming as the longing I feel."

Oliver felt a subtle tightness in his heart as he met Ian's gaze. A fragile smile escaped his lips as he pulled back slightly, wrapped in a veil of disguised sadness. Ian pocketed his cell phone, breaking the silence softly:

"Shall we go in? Where's your luggage?" His gaze scanned the surroundings, but Oliver knew it was just him there.

"I didn't bring anything," he replied with a seriousness he barely recognized. Ian frowned suspiciously but didn't insist.

With a nod, he agreed: "Alright, let's go?"

The palace corridors were unfamiliar to Oliver. All meetings in Spain had been meticulously planned to be discreet — secret accommodations in the city's winding alleys, candlelit dinners in rustic countryside taverns.

Now, as they crossed the threshold of the room, the tension hung in the air like a thick mist.

When Ian opened the door and motioned for Oliver to enter, he hesitated for a moment. The imminence of the conversation made the simple act of moving forward too arduous. Ian pressed his lips against Oliver's neck, trying to ease his tension, but he felt suffocated by the need for clarity.

"Ian..." Oliver tried to get his attention, but he continued to envelop him in a tight embrace, his lips wandering distractedly across exposed skin. "We need to talk."

"We'll have time later," Ian murmured, his smile against Oliver's hair. His hands were already sliding under the sweater, seeking contact with bare skin.

"Seriously, Ian," Oliver sighed, instinctively tilting his face to the side, allowing Ian's lips to travel freely along his neck, then to the other side, where he continued with soft kisses.

Oliver's hands found Ian's over the fabric of the sweater, and this seemed to encourage him to touch more intensely. Ian pressed his palms against Oliver's chest, bringing their bodies even closer, filling the air with an almost palpable tension.

It was almost impossible to resist.

Even as his mind spun, warning him of the real reason he was there, Ian's soft, warm lips intensified his desire to simply give in to the moment. He traced the curve of Oliver's neck with a delicate touch, his warm breath like a constant caress, leaving him dazed and numb, losing track of time.

"Ian, please, listen to me," he implored in an anguished lament, but Ian didn't interpret it as he should. Instead, he gently nibbled on Oliver's shoulder and once again brought his lips to his ear, as if he couldn't hear him.

"Let me give you the orgasm you deserve," he whispered in a hoarse, seductive voice that made Oliver shiver. "And then I swear I'll listen to you like a therapist."

"Damn," that statement made things almost unbearable for Oliver. But a remnant of reason persisted in a corner of his consciousness, and he weakly protested, "No," closing his eyes as he felt Ian's skilled hands undoing the belt of his pants with disconcerting agility. "It's important."

Ian slowly turned Oliver, and the tremor that ran through his body was visible when the shock of their gazes met, making him lose focus for a moment. Ian's large hand cradled the side of his neck with gentleness yet firmness, bringing Oliver's face to his level, their lips almost touching.

"What could be more important than this?" he questioned, with a tone so irresistible that Oliver remembered past pleasures and long-lost dreams. Even so, his eyes didn't waver, and he felt as if his lips were burning when they were so close.

His eyes closed again, an anguished sigh escaping from the depths of his soul. Kissing him was what he wanted most at that moment, but he couldn't be unfair. Ian had the right to choose if he still wanted to do this after knowing the truth.

Then, in a sudden rush of reason and courage, he let out in a breath, "I slept with Sofia."

A leaden silence hung between them, suffocating like a cloud of toxic smoke. Ian stared at Oliver with wide eyes, the raw revelation tearing his heart to pieces.

"Oh," was all he could mutter, looking down at his own feet.

Oliver watched him anxiously, not knowing what kind of reaction to expect.

"Last night, after our fight..." Oliver began, but Ian interrupted him with a look of incredulity and almost irony, making him hesitate. "I'm not justifying it, in any way. What I did was unforgivable, and I don't want to minimize that."

Ian's features contorted into a mask of pain, as if Oliver had stolen the very air from him. He pulled away, his back arched with tension, seeking shelter from the cruel truth.

"You came here just to tell me this?" His voice sounded distant, wounded.

Oliver had thought that being honest would be the best way, but now he saw the error of his calculations. The distance between them seemed to grow, a physical barrier threatening to swallow them.

"Yes," he replied frankly. "I felt I owed you that, but now I'm not so sure if it was the right call."

With a harsh, bitter laugh that broke the oppressive silence between them, Ian declared, his voice flowing like a rapid current through the air:

"Don't expect me to be so understanding, Oliver," he began, but a sob caught in his throat as he looked away. When his eyes met Oliver's again, the firmness in his expression made Oliver shudder. "But I have to admit, I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. Somehow, she would find a way to you."

"It was entirely my fault," Oliver tried to explain, even without being sure of what he was saying. "I don't know what went through my mind, or if I even thought. I'm sorry, Ian."

Without warning, Ian threw a direct question at him, and Oliver staggered under the unexpected impact. "Do you have feelings for her?"

The answer came instant and instinctive as Oliver took a step forward in a futile attempt to close the distance between them. He was desperate to alleviate the anguish, even knowing it was impossible. His voice trembled as he vehemently denied Ian's question.

"No, no. I... I think I was angry, hurt, impulsive, selfish, a man in his most primitive form."

Ian's reply was sharp as a blade. "Well, you are a man." He paused, then added, "But you're not a jerk. Don't start being one now."

"I'm not trying to justify or imply that I used her for any reason," Oliver hurried to clarify, gesturing restrainedly. "The truth is, I drank too much, and it must have made sense at the time. I don't know. I don't even know if it makes sense to ask for your forgiveness."

Ian's eyes shone, his caramel-colored irises contracting slightly in response.

"You don't need my forgiveness, Oliver," his voice contained a touch of measured irritation, but it still wasn't the Ian he knew. "I still love you, but I don't see a future for us." He shrugged, nodding as his eyebrows furrowed. "These escapades will end up bringing us problems, and as much as I want to keep doing this, it's her you owe explanations to. If we're honest, it's us who are in the wrong."

Oliver took another step forward and touched Ian's hands. To his surprise, he didn't pull away.

"That's not true," he contested, but Ian refused to yield, his eyes piercing Oliver's with intensity.

"I received an invitation to take on a new position in Singapore," Ian shared, adopting a calm and measured tone. "I have a deadline to give my answer if I accept the permanent position. And I confess that what held me back was you."

Oliver absorbed his words as if he were swallowing blocks of concrete. His heart sank in shock, and he squeezed Ian's hands, bringing them to his own chest as if trying to hold onto him.

"Ian, don't do this," he pleaded, unable to gather elaborate explanations. There were none. Even before the previous night, it would be selfish to try to stop him from moving on.

Ian's eyes took on a moist sheen as he spoke. "I think it will be a valuable experience to change areas, leave behind these exhausting problems that, as you said, ruin lives." He paused, his chest rising and falling with heavy breathing. "It doesn't make sense to wait for you while you build a life without me."

Oliver felt his heart break upon hearing those words. Tears streamed freely down his face, and he tried to pull Ian closer, grasping his hands desperately.

"I've never found a way to live without you," he said, his voice choked with pain. "I don't believe it's possible."

Ian and Oliver's eyes met, a storm of emotions reflected in those deep irises.

Reluctantly, Ian let go of Oliver's hand. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he pulled Oliver into an embrace, their bodies merging in a desperate grip. Oliver's hands roamed Ian's back, clutching him as if he feared that, by letting go, he would disappear forever.

When they parted, there were tears shining in both their eyes.

"I need you," Oliver whispered, his voice hoarse and caught in his throat. "One last time, before—"

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dying in his throat.

Ian nodded briefly, yielding to the inevitability of cupping Oliver's face in his hands and pressing their lips together with a gentleness Oliver was sure he had never felt before. Oliver sighed against his mouth, letting Ian kiss him however he wanted — slow, intense, with half-open eyes fixed on his.

Oliver felt that Ian didn't want to lose a single second, and knew he was still being watched when he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as Ian's kisses slid along the skin of his throat, teeth grazing his skin with calculated delicacy as his lips sucked red marks on the pale skin.

When he opened his eyes, he encountered the dominant gleam in Ian's irises, dilated pupils analyzing the marks he had left.

Then, Oliver understood.

Ian wanted to prove something.

In fact, he wanted Oliver to prove something.

With determined movements, Ian discarded his clothes without ceremony. Oliver swallowed hard, instinctively wetting his lips as his eyes fixed on the imposing erection emerging from the hem of Ian's half-open shirt.

Ian approached with the predatory grace of a feline, his fingers tracing Oliver's collarbone as if mapping out his skin. The touch, though gentle, left a trail of fire.

"Kneel," Ian commanded, his eyes glinting with a fierce lust that made Oliver shiver with anticipation.

The dull thud of knees hitting the floor echoed in the silent room. His gaze ascended, meeting the fire in Ian's eyes — a flame of desire consuming everything around it.

Oliver slid his hands along Ian's firm thighs, teasing him with a promise.

Ian watched, entranced, as Oliver took him fully into his mouth. Ian's fingers tangled in the disheveled hair, guiding a languid rhythm that made his skin tingle. Each movement was a rediscovery of that transcendent sensation of being completely enveloped, possessed.

When the pleasure threatened to bring him to the brink, Ian pulled away abruptly.

Oliver remained there, breathless, lips swollen and eyes half-closed, silently pleading. Ian's name slipped from his lips in a husky murmur — a profane prayer, a sacred blasphemy.

"Ian..." The name escaped like a prayer and a curse.

Ian silenced him with a voracious kiss, his tongue invading, tasting, claiming. His hands roamed mercilessly, rediscovering every curve and valley of Oliver's body as if it were the first—and last—time.

Suddenly, it was as if the entire world had shrunk to fit within that room.

Every inch of Ian's skin sent electric shocks through Oliver's pores, his vision blurring at the edges. He clung to Ian's shoulders desperately, his nails leaving crimson marks on the tanned skin, as if he could anchor himself to that moment and stop time from advancing.

The pleasure built within Oliver, a growing pressure that threatened to consume him entirely. Part of him wanted to surrender, but there was a reluctance, a fear of what would come next.

Because nothing could equal the perfection of that stolen moment.

"Please..." Oliver begged in a broken whisper, not knowing exactly what he was asking for.

More? Less? The impossible?

Ian seemed to understand, though.

He slowed the pace, prolonging the sensation until Oliver thought he might lose his mind.

"You're still mine," Ian whispered with an almost threatening conviction, each word punctuated by a precise thrust that made Oliver see stars.

"Always..." Oliver's voice was a thread of air. "Entirely. Body and heart."

In Ian's eyes, a primal satisfaction shone, seeing his total domination over Oliver. A domination that went far beyond the physical.

"Say you love me," he growled, the command sounding both like a plea and a challenge. "Say I'm the only one who can make you lose control like this."

"I love you more than anything," Oliver confessed in a trembling lament. "No one has ever made me feel this way, and no one ever will compare." His fingers tangled in Ian's damp hair, pulling him closer in a desperate embrace.

Ian circled his hips in a way that made Oliver arch his back, seeking more contact, more of that transcendent sensation.

"You're my downfall," Oliver gasped, feeling the pleasure build like a storm about to break. "My salvation."

A guttural growl escaped Ian's throat as he lost the last vestige of control. "And you are my fucking soul," he roared with reverence, plunging fully into Oliver.

Their movements teetered on the edge of madness, their slippery skins crashing together urgently.

The electricity between them was too powerful, too extraordinary to resist, and Oliver's senses were overwhelmed, saturated to the limit by Ian — his searing touch, his musky scent, the rasping sound of his ragged breath.

Oliver felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to dive into the abyss. Yet, he wished he could freeze that moment and live forever in that limbo between ecstasy and agony.

But the climax was inevitable.

"Ian" he gasped. "I'm—"

"I know," Ian interrupted, his voice choked. "I can feel it."

The climax hit them like a seismic wave, reverberating through their entwined bodies.

For a moment, Oliver felt as if he had been transported to another dimension, where only he and Ian existed, suspended in time and space.

However, when reality solidified around him again, Oliver found himself staring at the ceiling, his breath still uneven. Ian lay beside him, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on his skin.

Ian, his profile outlined against the dim light, broke the silence with a hesitant, almost timid voice:

"Sorry if I hurt you, I got... carried away."

Oliver turned slowly, his eyes studying the play of light and shadow on Ian's face, memorizing every detail.

The guilt, which had been dormant until then, came back with full force, tightening his chest.

"You didn't hurt me," Oliver replied, and his voice reduced to a murmur as he added, "But I would understand if you had."

The words had barely left his lips when Ian turned his head abruptly. His eyes, a mix of reproach and sadness, burned Oliver with an intensity that made his heart leap.

"Don't ever say that again. Not to me, not to anyone," Ian said with the seriousness of an authority. "Do you hear me? Never."

The vehemence in Ian's voice made Oliver swallow hard.

There was something in that look, in that voice, that spoke of a love as deep as it was painful.

Oliver whispered, more to himself than to Ian: "You could never hurt me."

Oliver took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the weight of everything he wanted to say. He was ready to beg, to plead for Ian to reconsider his move to Singapore. He was willing to accept any punishment, any penance Ian deemed necessary, until Ian felt he had suffered enough to redeem himself.

With a racing heart and a tight throat, he ventured:

"Ian—"

But before he could continue, Ian interrupted him, his voice soft but firm:

"The sun will rise in a few hours."

Ian's words fell like a sentence, and Oliver felt something inside him break. It wasn't a dramatic snap, but a silent collapse, like a sandcastle giving way to the tide.

A lump formed in Oliver's throat, and he fought back the tears threatening to spill. Crying at that moment would be admitting defeat, accepting the end, and he wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not when every fiber of his being screamed in protest against the inevitability of their separation.

With trembling fingers, Oliver traced the line of Ian's jaw, trying to memorize every contour, every texture. It was a desperate gesture, as if he could imprint the sensation onto his skin, carry a piece of Ian with him forever.

The touch seemed to melt Ian's stoic facade. His expression softened, revealing a raw vulnerability that made Oliver's heart ache desperately.

"Don't make this harder," Ian whispered, but his words were betrayed by the trembling grip of his hand on Oliver's, as if he too fought the urge to hold on to what they had.

The silence that followed was like a third presence in the room, heavy and relentless. Oliver felt each second pass like a small death, each tick of the clock on the wall a step toward the inevitable.

When he finally found his voice, it came out weak, almost childish: "I don't know how to be me without you."

Ian closed his eyes, as if the words were sharp arrows piercing his heart. When he reopened them, there was a sad resolution in them, mixed with a love so intense it made Oliver feel as if he were drowning.

"That's exactly who you can't be," he replied, his voice breaking on the last word.

◃───────────▹

The return flight to England was an interminable torment for Oliver.

The void left by his separation from Ian was an open, throbbing wound, corroding his chest like acid. Every kilometer traveled was an agony, distancing him from the only place where he felt complete.

Upon stepping onto the soil of Heathrow, Oliver felt transported to a dark parallel universe. The air seemed denser, the colors less vivid. It was as if the world had lost its vibrancy, leaving only a dull reality where he would have to rebuild a life devoid of the love of his life.

The last moments in Ian's room in Spain were etched into his memory. The oppressive silence that enveloped them was almost unbearable, their breaths mingling in the scant air as Ian's words echoed incessantly in his mind, a cruel mantra:

"That's exactly who you can't be."

In that instant, Oliver comprehended the true magnitude of his loss with painful clarity. It wasn't just Ian he was leaving behind, but a vital part of himself.

It was as if he were tearing away a piece of his soul, leaving a void that might never be filled.

The clock relentlessly marched toward the inevitable departure. But when Ian uttered the words "I love you," his voice fractured by the cruelty of fate, it was as if a sharp blade had pierced Oliver's chest.

The goodbye was bitter, visceral. Oliver gazed at Ian, unable to mask the searing pain coursing through his veins.

His own voice trembled as he whispered in response: "And I love you even more."

A faint, almost ghostly smile curved Ian's lips at the passionate declaration. His eyes, clouded with anguish, seemed to want to memorize every detail of Oliver's face. With agonizing delicacy, Ian raised his hand to caress Oliver's face, the touch as light as a butterfly's wing, before pulling him into one last desperate embrace.

Ian's voice, once so familiar and comforting, now sounded strangled, as if the words were struggling to escape from a knot in his throat:

"This would be an endless argument that neither of us would ever win."