The narrow streets of London were a labyrinth of grayish bricks, their mossy joints evoking centuries past. A biting wind blew, making dry leaves dance in whirlwinds at the feet of Oliver and Sofia. She walked beside him, her cheeks and nose rosy from the cold, but her blue eyes sparkled warmly as she talked incessantly. Her breath formed clouds of vapor that dissipated in the cold morning air.

"Matteo hates winter," Sofia said, her clear voice breaking the silence. "He hides behind me as if he weren't three times my size."

"Oh, I know that drama well," replied Oliver, rubbing his cold hands together. He could already mentally savor the warmth of a hot drink. "Lana used to curl up at my feet, under the covers."

"Lana?" Sofia's eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"Yeah, I didn't tell you? Lana is my dog," Oliver explained, watching her nod. "A six-year-old golden retriever living in Kensington."

"They tend to be clingy, don't they?" Sofia said, a nostalgic smile lighting up her face. "It's the best thing."

As they approached the coffee shop, the aroma of freshly baked bread and freshly ground coffee enveloped them in a comforting embrace. Sofia chatted animatedly about trivialities, her company strangely pleasant on that icy winter morning.

They settled at one of the modest tables in the establishment, the steaming cups offering a welcome relief to the cold that penetrated their bones. As they talked, Oliver noticed Sofia's eyes darting restlessly over his face, as if she were gathering the courage to say something. She picked up the knife and began cutting the lemon pie, each movement revealing the tension in her expression.

"I heard you haven't visited any more suitors," she observed, her voice tinged with something that almost sounded like hope. Her eyes seemed to want to decipher a code in Oliver's gaze, but he looked away, letting them get lost in the ceramics of the plate.

"It seems she has everything decided, doesn't it?" Oliver said, the sarcasm evident in his words. He kept his eyes away from hers; Sofia seemed to read people better than anyone reads a book, and he was far from being a light read.

"And you?" Her question came as a challenge, laden with a palpable determination that made Oliver shudder inside.

"Sofia," he let out a sigh, rolling the words in his mouth before releasing them. "I don't know what you think about this situation, but for me, things are a bit more complicated than a simple signature on a paper and a marriage of convenience."

A brief silence settled, broken only by the sound of the fork touching the plate.

"Oh," she said after a while, her expression opening in understanding. "You already have someone, don't you?"

"I..." Oliver froze, each unspoken syllable floating in the space between them, but his response hid in the silence. Impatient, Sofia rolled her eyes to the ceiling and laughed softly.

"Please, Oliver, your face says it all," she sighed, aware that denying it would be useless. "Who is she?"

Oliver took a sip of coffee, a pause that gave his thoughts a chance to reorganize.

"She..." he began, allowing himself a smile. "She's not exactly noble, if you know what I mean."

"That shouldn't be a problem in this century," Sofia said, with the nonchalance of someone tossing their hair over their shoulders, but her eyes didn't stop scrutinizing Oliver's expression.

"My grandmother would vehemently disagree," he replied, keeping the tone light, almost playful, to ward off the truth that, for them, time seemed to have stopped in the era of masquerade balls. "Besides, there are other complications that prevent us from being together."

"What kind?" She delved into the conversation, and Oliver hesitated to respond. His thoughts wandered to Ian, his brown skin, wavy hair, and mischievous smile. He was increasingly absorbed by work, and their meetings were becoming scarce. The longing he felt for him was overwhelming.

"Well, let's say she doesn't fit the traditional profile of a court lady," Oliver said, forcing a touch of nonchalance in his voice. But Sofia's curiosity was relentless.

"She wasn't... educated for it?" The question was cautious, and Oliver laughed at the thought. He touched the edge of the cup, thinking how simplicity sometimes reveals much more.

"Oh, she could teach us the royal etiquette step by step," he replied, letting out a laugh.

"So?" Sofia raised an eyebrow, challenging him to delve deeper. At that moment, she was a shrewd detective, seeking to unravel the tangle of emotions that Oliver had carefully knotted to avoid just this conversation.

"She would never bow to the customs she knows so well," he confessed, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the sigh he let out. That was the spark Sofia needed.

"We're kind of stuck in this, aren't we?" She adopted a compassionate tone, as if seeking to comfort him with the idea that she was in the same boat. It wasn't a consolation. It was a verdict.

"I would never demand that she fit into a mold from which she has the freedom to escape," Oliver continued honestly. "Even if there was the slightest possibility of us being together."

Immediately, the space between them was filled with an inescapable melancholy, an invisible thread pulling hard, threatening to break at any moment.

"Damn," Sofia sighed. Her smile contained a hint of bitter recognition. "And what is she like?"

"Oh," Oliver smiled involuntarily at the thought of describing Ian. "She is so different from me in every way. She has honey-colored eyes that sometimes darken to ripe hazelnuts. Dimples when she smiles, wavy hair, stunning eyelashes," he hesitated, knowing that if he continued, he would end up describing every detail of that body he knew so well. "Strong and fearless on the outside, sweet and kind on the inside... the truest person I've ever met."

"Wait," she cut in, her expression changing to something sharp, as if a piece had fallen into place. "That sounds familiar."

"It couldn't be. You don't know her," Oliver refuted, but his denial was interrupted by another laugh from her, which echoed through the room, increasing his anxiety.

"Are you in love with the castle chef?" She accused, with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, and he felt on the verge of being exposed.

"Laura? No!" He replied promptly, but the conviction in his voice faltered. "It's not her."

"You just described her perfectly, Oliver," Sofia teased, and his heart sank.

Terrible time to forget that his boyfriend/sexual partner/relationship-without-title has a twin sister.

"It's just... they're eerily similar," Oliver mumbled, looking away as his fingers twisted nervously in his jeans pockets.

Sofia was content with the evasive answer, her smile fading when she noticed Oliver's discomfort. Instead of insisting on the joke, she tilted her head and asked in a gentle tone:

"Does she know how you feel?"

Did Ian know about Oliver's feelings? Without a doubt. He was never good at hiding anything from that sharp-eyed man. Since their first meeting, Ian seemed to see through Oliver's barriers with those big, melted-honey-colored eyes. But what was never a secret became something explicit — beyond words.

Every beat of his heart pulsed with his name, and Oliver could hear the same echo back.

◃───────────▹

There was Oliver once again, in a richly decorated art gallery, but nothing there caught his attention.

His chest tightened with the nostalgia of places he couldn't be at that moment.

The Royal Academy of Arts in London was hosting its traditional annual exhibition of portraits of the Royal Family, and Sofia, an avid enthusiast of these events, was by his side, animatedly commenting on the different techniques and styles present in the works.

Oliver agreed with her out of habit, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

They knew that as soon as they stepped together into that sanctuary of the arts, the cameras would find in them a fresh subject for their endless gossip — then came the speculations about an engagement, wedding bells ringing in the distance.

But Oliver had decided not to pay attention to them.

In the academy's galleries, the exhibition was the result of British portrait art. Contemporary portraits not only depicted royalty, such as King Bernard II and Queen Charlotte, but also prominent figures in politics, business, and philanthropy. There was also a modern and daring reinterpretation of old masters like Sir Joshua Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough, reimagined with a vibrant palette.

Sofia didn't miss a detail, passionately discoursing on the mastery of British realism, the drama of chiaroscuro that transported her to the Victorian era, and the delicate draperies that recalled the works of John Singer Sargent. As they walked through the galleries, she pointed to the portraits of the royal family, analyzing the brushstrokes that captured the authority and opulence of the monarchs.

The intention was to escape right after the obligatory greetings, but, as always, time and plans have a funny way of misunderstanding each other.

So, after an eternity disguised as half an hour and some feigned interest — plastic smiles, nods about the triviality of the elite — Oliver left Sofia with a polite excuse and rushed to Windsor, where the inevitable met the providential: Ian in the hallway, on his way to their hideout.

"Hi," he murmured, the sound low, a slight conspiratorial tone in the air. The fatigue was evident in the corners of his sparkling eyes, the result of long days and even longer nights. Before Oliver could say anything in return, he cast a cautious glance over his shoulder — and in a silent confirmation of privacy, gifted Oliver with a whispered promise: "I have something for you."

Heading to his room, Oliver suppressed the smile that tried to break through his seriousness and the palpitations of an expectation that insisted on quickening his steps. The air charged with anticipation made his skin tingle. It was expected that he would nestle Ian in the tightest embrace as soon as the door shielded them from the world, and his lips would seek Ian's with a longing worthy of cinematic reunions.

However, there was something different in Ian's gaze that night, a spark of determination that left Oliver curious about what he had planned.

"I can't stand missing you anymore," lamented Oliver, his voice tinged with a childlike tone, a sound half-playful, completely sincere.

Ian responded with a nose wrinkle that pulled more from Oliver than he would admit, while his arms encircled Oliver's waist with a firmness that warmed him from the inside out, guiding him blindly to the bed where both collapsed into laughter.

"Was the exhibit interesting?" Ian asked, his voice cushioned by the skin of Oliver's shoulder, his beard — fuller, sharper, somehow more Ian — blazingly pleasant against him.

It sounded casual, but the undertones danced with his curiosity about Sofia.

As for that, well... Oliver's hands were busy committing a sort of vandalism on Ian's blazer — a clumsy urgency in every tug.

"Sofia thinks I'm in love with Laura," Oliver blurted out, scattering the words into the air, while Ian's muffled laughter sent shivers down Oliver's spine.

"This little misunderstanding is going too far, don't you think?" Ian said, and the amusement in his voice was a harmonious note to Oliver's ears.

"If you two didn't have so much in common," Oliver teased, ready to stir the pot while also willing to give him all the advantage.

Confusion clouded Ian's gaze, a suspended question in the arch of his eyebrows.

"What exactly does that mean?"

Oliver confessed the truth in a whisper against Ian's forehead:

"I kind of said I was with someone..." The story then unfolded, with the ambiguous statement that was misinterpreted by Sofia, creating a misunderstanding that Oliver saw as a stroke of luck. "I accidentally described the appearance of this person, which she assumed was a woman — and I didn't correct her. So, you can imagine where that led us."

"You and people..." Ian smiled, reprimanding Oliver with feigned impatience. "Imagine when you have state secrets to keep."

"That's where you come in," suggested Oliver, the contours of Ian's new smile making him memorize the moment, "to manage the disasters of my recklessness."

"I had other types of management in mind," Ian retorted, and the playful insinuation carried weight, a double meaning that Oliver was more than willing to explore.

"I wonder what kinds," Oliver encouraged, each word an open invitation that Ian accepted without hesitation.

Their lips met again, initiating a kiss nothing short of incendiary, Ian's hands sliding like lava over Oliver's entire body until they pushed him too close to the edge.

Ian fit perfectly between Oliver's parted knees on either side of his hips. His hands traveled the inside of Oliver's thighs, parting them with a grip near the groin, allowing the undulations of his hips to press directly against Oliver's painful erection.

And the feeling of Ian's body over his was always something wonderful.

Ian's fervent kisses burned down Oliver's neck to his chest, which Ian had freed from his shirt.

"You know," Ian said after a long silence, his mouth pulling away slightly while his face distanced from Oliver's, "I was curious."

Oliver didn't bother opening his eyes, focusing on all his other senses — the smell of Ian post-bath, the feel of his soft hair between his fingers, Ian's accelerated breath against his skin, the force with which he pressed him into the mattress, the wet, warm texture of his lips, the minty taste in his mouth...

"About what?" Oliver replied, knowing Ian wouldn't continue until he acknowledged it somehow.

"Well," Ian paused, and Oliver forced himself to open his eyes, diving into Ian's intense presence. His eyes, so close to Oliver's, captured his attention and enveloped him in an indescribable aura of serenity. Ian was not the shy type, so he simply said: "Whenever we have sex, you're so receptive, so responsive, so damn into it, that I can only think about how well you seem to be feeling."

Ian fell silent, an expression of intense expectation appearing on his face as Oliver watched him.

He was waiting for a response.

Ian's hands slid down Oliver's body, unraveling every inch of his skin delicately until they stopped at his chest. His thumbs gently caressed his clavicles.

Oliver gaped for a moment, seeking clarity in that statement.

"You want," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "me to narrate for you?"

Ian laughed, sometimes a small line appearing at the corners of his eyes.

"Wouldn't be a bad idea," he said, but his expression soon became deeper, determined. "But I believe it wouldn't be enough," Ian said, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Oliver's heart raced as anxiety grew within him.

"Ian," Oliver sighed, a nervous laugh escaping without warning.

But Ian quickly interrupted, which was great, because Oliver didn't know what to say.

"Oliver," he said, deepening his voice and looking at him with intensity, "I want you to take me to the same place. That's what I'm saying."

He touched Oliver's face with his hand, tracing his cheek with his thumb. He smiled, trying to hide his agitation, which worked for a moment until his voice betrayed him, trembling as he spoke:

"I really turned you, didn't I?"

Ian let out a laugh. That sound both distressed Oliver and brought him to the height of comfort.

"I'm afraid there's no going back, is there?" Ian retorted, climbing up Oliver's body until his playful smile was very close to his, contrasting with the desire in his gaze.

"No," Oliver replied, closing his eyes to receive his lips in a relaxed kiss, punctuated by their laughter. "I don't think there is."

Ian was everywhere.

Oliver could feel Ian's tongue diving into his mouth as Ian's hands rid him of his clothes, and somehow, his own. His hands wandered over Ian's back, broad shoulders, dimples in the lower back, and Ian's lips never strayed from his. Every touch was calculated delicacy, as if Oliver were fragile, as if Ian were taking his time to memorize every inch of his body, and Oliver did the same in reflection.

"Tell me," Ian broke the silence with a breathless, almost strangled tone, but Oliver knew he would go on at any cost. "What's it like?"

"So you do want me to narrate for you," Oliver said, his smile widening instinctively as he spoke.

Ian squeezed his erection with a precise motion of his hand, pulling him off-axis.

"I want you to tell me what it feels like," a moan escaped Oliver's will, both from Ian's palm movement against his skin and the choice of words, "to have me inside you."

"It's..." Oliver hesitated. His mind was blank, trying to piece together words coherently. "Too much sometimes," he managed to say. And then, the barriers collapsed, and he continued, almost in a trance: "But never enough."

"Do you consider yourself a writer?" Ian teased, his lips brushing Oliver's ear while his warm breath made him shiver. "Why are your words so shy now?"

The challenge ignited a flame within Oliver, and he struggled to make sense as he replied:

"It's like... an explosion," he ventured. "Every inch of your body in mine makes me feel like a lightning bolt is striking through me, taking me to the edge and bringing me back again and again."

"Is it?" Ian insisted, his thumb sliding in circles over the tip, spreading the slippery liquid with a gentleness that made Oliver gasp, craving more.

"It is," Oliver agreed, diving into Ian's intense eyes as his hands found the contour of his face, pulling him closer. A wave of electricity coursed through his body, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he continued, need burning in his words: "It's like my body is focused on having you deeper and deeper," Oliver closed his eyes for a moment, trying to capture the sensation and translate it into words, "and the pressure is so intense, so fucking good, it's like my chest is twisting in search of the perfect feeling — but it's never enough."

Ian looked at him with penetrating eyes, as if he could see through him. He licked his lips, catching his breath before saying: "Show me."

Oliver gently slid his hands down Ian's arms, feeling the softness of his skin under his fingers. He observed Ian's face intently, looking for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, half worried about Ian's inexperience but also unexpectedly invested in his proposal. "I know this is all new for you."

Ian stared at him with determined eyes, an unshakable resolve in his features.

"Absolutely," he replied firmly. "I want this, Oliver. I want everything with you."

The declaration, so full of confidence, disarmed Oliver. Though he felt an unprecedented level of comfort, a hint of anxiety still lingered.

He brought his face closer again, placing a gentle, exploratory kiss on Ian's lips. Ian responded in kind, lifting his chin to deepen the contact, his fingers tangling in Oliver's hair in a completely different way — less dominant, more receptive.

When they finally parted, Ian looked at Oliver with a relaxed smile.

"I'm going to need you to guide me, okay?" Oliver said, perhaps revealing more insecurity than Ian himself. "It's new for me too."

"Let's not be so methodical," Ian joked, always too charming, too irresistible. He had a mischievous smile on his lips, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "It's not our first time by any means."

Oliver returned his smile, feeling his heart race. Then he understood: Ian wanted to feel adored, as he naturally made him feel, and Oliver was willing to give Ian everything he wanted.

No exceptions.

Positioning himself over Ian, Oliver pinned his wrists above his head, their bodies fitting together like complementary pieces of a delightful puzzle. And every time Oliver's eyes landed on that naked body, it was as if it really were the first time.

The tautness of Ian's oblique muscles never failed to take Oliver's breath away, the trail of dense dark hair accentuating the lower part of Ian's body, the long, perfect legs — it was too much for his self-control.

Oliver leaned down to plant languid kisses on Ian's skin, feeling him shiver under his touch. His tongue traced a path from the valley between Ian's collarbones to his earlobe, eliciting restrained sighs from his parted lips.

He wanted to soak in Ian's scent, his texture, every reaction he could provoke.

"How do you want me?" Oliver asked between kisses. Though Ian responded with appreciative murmurs, he yearned for something more substantial than mere sounds. Firmly gripping Ian's wrists, he positioned himself between his open legs. "Use words, my love."

Ian exhaled deeply, surrendering to Oliver's dominance as he murmured, "Surprise me."

"I think I can do that," Oliver said almost to himself, a subtle flirtation that Ian gladly accepted.

"And how long do you plan on making me wait?" Oliver heard Ian say, and the lack of an immediate response made him pull his face away from Ian's neck to look at him. However, he was met with a challenging, perhaps mocking, smile that made him laugh.

Maybe he could challenge him back.

Without breaking eye contact, Oliver brought his face closer to Ian's, letting their lips lightly brush against each other. He could feel Ian's quickened breath, his entire body tense, awaiting the next move. His eyes looked at him with desire and curiosity at the same time.

"You're so beautiful when you're impatient," Oliver whispered, his fingers trailing down, gliding gently over Ian's soft abdominal skin. He could see his muscles contracting under his touch, the eagerness evident in every small spasm of the lower muscles. "I'm curious to see you break character."

"Is that so?" Ian replied, gazing at Oliver through half-closed eyelids. "And how do you plan to do that—"

With a surprised moan, Ian choked on his words, instinctively spreading his knees as Oliver's hand slowly enveloped him, exploring his skin without hurry, in the way he knew left him anxious for more.

"How hard can it be?" Oliver teased, his tone laden with malice, but Ian was not in the mood for games.

"Enough stalling," he ordered, his voice hoarse and commanding.

His plea made Oliver's dominant facade crumble instantly.

And he finally realized the damn time he was wasting.

Oliver touched him with his fingertips, with the mission of helping him relax, and Ian did not object as Oliver advanced, determined to provide him with as many simultaneous stimuli until he gave the green light for the next step.

The signal came short and blunt:

"I'm not a porcelain doll, Oliver," Ian hissed through clenched teeth, his muscular hips oscillating between meeting Oliver's hand and avid mouth. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

Oliver couldn't help but laugh at his words, knowing he would have him as he was — strong, passionate, vulnerable. And ready.

Having Ian under his body, receptive and desirous, was simply intoxicating.

Along the way, Ian manifested completely randomly and uninhibitedly, demonstrating the intensity of the sensations Oliver provided him.

Sometimes, he repeated a series of "yes" interspersed, or whispered Oliver's name and its variations — "Your Majesty," "Your Royal fucking Highness," "baby" — among lustful moans. But what stood out the most were the obscene curses that took shape in his dense, raspy voice.

It was evident that Ian was completely immersed in that chaos of unprecedented sensations, and vocalizing seemed to be the only way to release the growing tension that dominated him, so Ian gasped incomplete words, increasingly disconnected, an incoherent mantra of pleas and sobs.

For Oliver, in turn, watching Ian's broad body squirm under his firm palms on his hips was irresistible, but nothing could have prepared him for the moment when Ian's back arched off the bed, his bronzed legs wrapping firmly around Oliver's waist while Ian let out a primal scream of pleasure mingled with genuine surprise.

"Darling, they will hear us," Oliver gently chided him, letting out a breathless laugh.

Ian sighed, remaining motionless in a position that inflamed Oliver's senses.

"I don't give a damn who hears us," he growled, panting, while Oliver smiled against his swollen lips. "Do that again."

Ian was a perfect contradiction, shifting from shy to determined, and then desperate for more in a matter of minutes.

And Oliver loved being the catalyst for that mess.

Oliver felt the tension building in his abdomen, the harbinger of an imminent climax, while Ian battled against himself, every fiber of his body vibrating on the brink of losing control.

Motivated by Ian's reactions, Oliver leaned close to his ear, releasing a string of explicit compliments, which drew silent laughter from Ian in the same proportions that it seemed to send him into a state of delirium, his sensations amplified by the novelty of the experience.

Ian's total surrender left Oliver ecstatic — without shame, without a filter.

"It never seems to be enough, does it?" Oliver teased, his voice thick with his own pleasure, while his lips flirted with the distance, Ian's kisses so close and yet so far. "Even when I'm so deep, exactly where you need me, I know you still need more."

In that moment, Ian was his sole focus.

Oliver was completely absorbed in observing every reaction of his, every involuntary spasm, every expression on his face. Oliver was hypnotized, so fascinated by the way Ian responded to his touches that his own desires and sensations were completely eclipsed by the urgency to satisfy him.

Oliver's own orgasm was just an inevitable consequence, something that happened almost by accident, while he was entirely focused on prolonging Ian's climax.

Their breaths mingled in a desperate kiss — a tangle of salty lips and eager tongues.

"Who knew you could be so talkative during sex?" Oliver joked, lazily returning the bites Ian planted on his lip.

Ian's laughter was soft, his fingers gently holding Oliver's chin as he leaned in, his eyes meeting his with a gleam of amusement.

"To be honest, I didn't expect it either," he confessed, his voice a low whisper tinged with a bit of humor, and Oliver laughed with him.

That moment definitely felt like taking a leap forward without looking back.

◃───────────▹

The room was immersed in an unusual silence, only Ian's breathing permeating the air.

Lying still, he studied the ceiling with the rigidity of someone trying to memorize the landscape of a strange land. Then, breaking the silence, Ian spoke timidly, almost fearful of disturbing the air around them.

"I almost forgot."

His movement to reach for the jacket was careful and intentional — the piece thrown against the carpet at the foot of the bed was a mess, but it didn't matter at that moment. His fingers slid into the inner pocket, pulling out a small package: a black velvet pouch, tied with a silk ribbon.

Handing it to Oliver, Ian simply said, "Here."

Oliver accepted the gift with reverence.

Undoing the ribbon carefully, a translucent stone of a deep and serene blue was revealed. Dark lines and spots adorned its surface, intersecting its beauty with an ethereal color. The unexpected gift weighed in his hands, and Oliver frowned, confused.

Ian let out a low laugh, noticing the bewildered expression. "While walking through Borough Market today, I remembered the legend my grandmother used to tell."

The silvery light of the moon flooded the room through the open window, bathing Ian's face in a celestial glow. His eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, as if about to reveal a secret. Oliver watched him, mesmerized, memorizing every detail of his face.

Ian cleared his throat before continuing, sensing the other's impatience for lengthy explanations. Still, as a true lover of narratives, he continued the tale:

"The legend tells the story of Amara and Talon, two lost souls seeking connection," he began, his voice soft and captivating. His gaze remained fixed on Oliver, as if cradling a child. "Amara, a sweet peasant girl, and Talon, a shepherd with a pure heart, fell deeply in love." As he narrated, a shadow of sadness spread across his features. "However, the cruel feudal lord, enchanted by Amara's beauty, forced her into a loveless marriage to elevate his own status."

As Ian spoke, Oliver felt a tightening in his chest, anticipating the tragic end of the legend.

"In the morning, Amara returned to the castle, resigned to her fate. Consumed by the agony of separation, Talon threw himself from the cliff where the two had met in secret." Ian paused dramatically, sighing deeply before concluding, "The legend says that not even death can separate Amara and Talon, whose souls remain eternally entwined."

Oliver watched him, mouth agape, moved by the symbolic narrative and the gift in his hands, a talisman of that immortal love.

"Ian..." he whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace, their foreheads touching. "Wow."

"It's just a legend," Ian shrugged, a slight shyness coloring his features as he returned the hug.

Gently, Oliver brushed the damp strands stuck to Ian's forehead. His dark curls framed his face in contrast with the white sheets, and he couldn't resist running his fingers through them.

"As much as I wish you'd associate me with a less tragic story," he sighed. His fingers traced Ian's jawline, feeling the roughness of his stubble. "That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

Ian cleared his throat, briefly averting his gaze before pulling him closer, nestling him against the warmth of his chest. Listening to the strong, rhythmic beats of Ian's heart, Oliver felt a lump in his throat.

"It's nothing special," Ian murmured. "Just... something that reminded me of you."

Ian's arms wrapped around Oliver firmly, as if to imprint the tactile memory of that embrace. Oliver inhaled Ian's familiar scent, a mix of soap and fabric softener. He pressed his lips against his, tasting the sweet and bitter flavor, imbued with longing.

As he gently pulled away, he saw Ian's amber eyes shining in the moonlight. There was an unusual translucency in his gaze, as if it were possible to glimpse his soul through them.

And then the realization hit him, and the air left his lungs as if he were in freefall.

Ian was saying goodbye.