The morning was thick with silence and cold, the kind that seeped into your bones and settled there, in the front seat of a car parked by the roadside. The sun barely made an effort, casting timid rays through the foggy window, tracing soft outlines on Ian's face as he slept, head resting against the seat. One of his arms lay over Oliver's back, almost protectively. Oliver was half-laying on top of Ian, his head nestled against Ian's shoulder in a position that seemed comfortable now but would surely be regretted by both later.

Yet, that was the least of their worries. While Ian slept, Oliver watched him—the delicate freckles scattered like tiny constellations across his golden skin, the long lashes fluttering in dreams. He found himself captivated by these details. But then, like a gust of cold wind, reality hit him. They were practically naked, squeezed into a car on a deserted roadside near Brussels. Anyone passing by could see them there.

Oliver had no idea what to expect when Ian woke up. What they had done was driven by an impulse from Oliver, though he didn't regret it. It had been easy to lose himself in the moment, tasting Ian's skin with an overwhelming desire, impossible to resist, temptingly close. But looking at him now, Oliver realized that their unstable relationship had taken a completely new turn. And he had no idea how to handle it.

Before he could sink further into his doubts, Ian's eyes opened. Slowly, blinking against the faint light filtering through the window. He took a moment to process the situation—the closeness, their intertwined bodies.

"Hey," Oliver whispered, the sound breaking the air with a hint of hesitation.

Ian smiled, the kind of smile that starts small and spreads to the eyes. "Good morning, Your Highness," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "What time is it?"

Ian sat up slowly, reaching for his phone on the dashboard. His eyes widened suddenly at the sight of the time on the screen, which shared space with a picture of a gray Schnauzer.

"Shit!" The exclamation echoed in the car, and Oliver felt his body tense.

"The Queen's probably already mobilized Interpol."

"That would make our job easier, wouldn't it?" Oliver forced a dry laugh, which quickly died in the face of Ian's sharp look.

Raising his hands in a gesture of peace, Oliver moved to the passenger seat while Ian frantically searched the space for clothes. Leaning over the backrest, pants precariously hanging from his hips, he tossed Oliver's rumpled clothes at him. As Ian hurriedly dressed, Oliver tried to keep up, but his hands felt slower, clumsier. What he really wanted wasn't to get dressed but to understand what had just happened.

Before he could organize his thoughts, Ian surprised him: "Are we going to talk about what happened?"

Instinctively, Oliver's eyes were drawn to the tempting contrast of Ian's bronzed skin against the white cotton of his half-open shirt, revealing the sculpted contours of his torso. Oliver's fingers trembled as he remembered the night before—the heat, Ian's touch, the uncontrollable desire that had pushed them to that moment.

"We can talk," Oliver responded, his voice low, laden with uncertainty.

Oliver felt his stomach churn. Of course, unexpected. He knew what that meant. It meant Ian was confused, that this wasn't supposed to have happened.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Oliver shot back, encountering an Ian he didn't recognize, someone letting his insecurities show like cracks in a flawless facade.

"Why me?" Ian struggled to clarify, though it made no more sense than before. Faced with Oliver's confused look, his eyes rolled impatiently.

Oliver watched his lips tighten into a thin line as his fingers drummed on the steering wheel. "I mean, what made you feel so... drawn to me last night?"

Oliver felt a lump form in his throat. How could he explain? It wasn't just Ian's beauty, though that was impossible to ignore. It was something deeper, something he didn't even know how to put into words.

"To be honest, it's not that complicated," Oliver began, forcing a smile. "Look at you."

But that wasn't enough. Of course, it wasn't. Ian didn't just need a superficial explanation; he needed something that made sense, that explained why everything felt different now.

Then, the memory of Ian's confession, of never having been with another man, weighed heavy in Oliver's stomach like a stone. Guilt settled in his chest, a wave of regret he couldn't shake off.

"Wait. You're not... you know..."

"As far as I know, no." Ian let out a dry laugh, a sound that reverberated in the small space of the car. His restless fingers ran through his messy curls, as if trying to dispel the discomfort. "I never really stopped to think about it before. At least not enough to label it."

"Ian..." Oliver said his name like a lament, reaching out, his fingers trembling as they touched Ian's defensively drawn-up knees. "I'm sorry."

Ian's expression softened, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You're sorry?"

"Of course." Oliver kept his eyes on Ian's, the sadness evident in the tense line of his lips. He withdrew his hand, as if the touch burned. "I didn't mean to plant that doubt in you. I was a selfish idiot."

"Hey, hold on." Ian's voice gained firmness, his eyes locking onto Oliver's with a determination that made Oliver's heart beat faster. "You didn't hear me complain, did you?"

"No, but..." Oliver tried to insist, but Ian cut him off.

"Relax, Your Highness." Ian slipped on his shoes with almost mechanical speed, opening the car door before closing the conversation. But before stepping out, he turned to Oliver, and his mischievous smile disarmed any argument Oliver might have had. "You didn't corrupt me."

Oliver stayed in the car, watching Ian walk down the deserted road, phone raised in search of signal. Raindrops began to speckle the windshield again as Ian's silhouette slowly disappeared in the distance.

◃───────────▹

The Queen sat on her throne of dark oak, the majestic structure seeming to absorb the soft light of the throne room. She was an imposing figure, her blue eyes as sharp as the edge of a sword, reflecting a disappointment that seemed to cut through the air. Oliver, bowed respectfully before her, felt the weight of generations of expectations pressing on his shoulders. Beside him, Ian stood firm, but the tension in his muscles was palpable, like a tightly stretched wire about to snap.

"Your Majesty," Oliver began, his voice steady but laced with a nervousness he couldn't entirely hide. Hearing his own voice echo against the stone walls, he realized how vulnerable he felt under the Queen's relentless gaze. Ian, beside him, appeared as a statue of granite, his posture impeccable, betrayed only by the stiffness in his shoulders. The Queen raised a thin, pale hand, demanding silence. When she spoke, her voice was low and deliberate.

"Oliver," she said, each syllable pronounced as if she were engraving her displeasure into the air, "refusing this union is not merely a matter of personal will; it's a risk to centuries of alliances that uphold our kingdom." Her gaze, two cold sapphires, moved to Ian. "And you, Mr. Harrison-Jones," she continued, her tone a mix of disapproval and disappointment, "I expected more judgment. Spending the night on the roadside? It was, at the very least, a reckless decision."

Oliver couldn't help but notice the slight tremor that ran down Ian's spine upon hearing the Queen's words. Despite all his self-control, Ian was clearly shaken. Oliver could feel the tension radiating from his body, as though every word from the Queen was a direct blow to his honor.

"I take full responsibility for my actions, Your Majesty," Ian responded, his voice low but filled with determination. When his brown eyes met Oliver's, there was an intensity in them that made Oliver's heart race.

"Grandmother," Oliver tried again, his words carrying a mix of urgency and desperation, "we had no choice." He felt the heat rise in his face as he recalled the previous night, the way the rain had poured heavily over the car as they battled the situation. "The tires were destroyed," he continued, casting a furtive glance at Ian, whose worried expression only emphasized the intensity of his features. Oliver knew he was about to cross a line, but something inside him, a need to protect Ian, pushed him forward. "And Mr. Harrison-Jones took very good care of me, there's no need for alarm."

Then Oliver saw an opportunity in the ambiguity of those words. He saw Ian shoot him a warning look, but he ignored it, determined to push the boundaries. "Your Highness, I... merely did what was necessary to... ensure his comfort," Ian said, his tone cautious, almost threatening.

Queen Charlotte remained in contemplative silence, convinced that this was just another of their usual trivial disputes. Oliver felt a surge of boldness ignite in his chest, a kind of courage that usually only emerged after a few glasses of wine.

"Still, Counselor," he insisted, letting his words spill out slowly, as if it were sensible to suggest that behind all the praise lay a secret known only to them, "I admire your dedication. Last night could have been a nightmare if it weren't for your selflessness in staying awake, watching so... closely over my well-being."

Ian held Oliver's gaze, panic masked by an almost treacherous calm. His chest rose and fell in controlled rhythm, but Oliver caught the slight tremble in his hands.

"It was nothing, Your Highness," Ian replied, his voice steady, but with an undertone of pleading and warning. His eyes, however, spoke another language — one that only Oliver could understand.

Oliver tilted his head, his face taking on a look of feigned innocence, his eyes glinting with a concealed malice. "Don't be modest," he teased, with an almost imperceptible smile. "The Queen needs to know how... generous you are, Counselor. It's not every day a man shows such... devotion."

Finally, the Queen intervened, her voice calm, though Oliver noticed the slight hardening in her words. "I am grateful for that, Mr. Harrison-Jones," she said, without a trace of humor, the coldness in her gaze cutting through any tension in the air. "But we must contain the damage of this unfortunate situation. Oliver, you will have to formally apologize to King Phillipe."

Oliver felt a hot, unexpected fury ignite in his chest, like a fire suddenly kindled within him. "Grandmother," he exclaimed, rising with a force that almost knocked over his chair. "I refuse to speak to that man. Forgive me, but I cannot condone the way he treats his own daughter. She's only eighteen, for God's sake!" He could barely contain the anger dripping from his voice.

Queen Charlotte sighed, her grey eyes revealing a deep weariness in the face of Oliver's stubbornness. "Oliver, I understand it may seem outdated, but royal marriages are still a necessity to secure political alliances." Her voice was gentle but carried a sadness that only Oliver, so close to her, could perceive. "I know it sounds like the echo of a bygone tradition, but these alliances exist for a reason. Our people need to see stability in us, in their Majesties."

She walked slowly toward him, her wrinkled hands finding his with a touch that was both gentle and firm. He felt the warmth of her skin, every line and crease against his own. "Princess Anne was raised for this role, just as you were. I'm sure that, in time, you will learn to respect each other and, perhaps, even care sincerely for one another."

Oliver averted his eyes, the idea of marrying a stranger weighing on him like a growing shadow. He fixed his gaze on the intricate Persian carpet beneath his feet, the once vibrant red and gold colors now seeming dull in his mind. But the firm touch of the Queen brought his gaze back to her.

"Believe me, my dear, I went through this too. But with patience and wisdom, you can turn a marriage of convenience into a true partnership. And our people need to see this union happen." Her eyes, once so severe, softened as she looked at Oliver. He felt the weight of expectations on his shoulders, an invisible pressure that only intensified with each word she spoke.

He knew he was playing a dangerous game, especially with Ian, but he couldn't help but seek an alternative. "Could we keep looking for... other options, Grandmother?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, as his fingers tightened around hers.

The Queen pondered, her gaze fixed on Oliver, assessing him with the wisdom of someone who had seen the world change many times. Finally, she turned to Ian, who stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and an expression of evident concern.

"There are still other prospects, aren't there, Mr. Harrison-Jones?"

Ian straightened, his rigid posture reflecting the impeccable discipline they so admired in him. "Yes, Your Majesty. We could still visit the Danish royal family and meet Princess Josephine. There's also the possibility of considering Princess Sofia of Sweden, from the House of Bernadotte," he replied, his voice grave and controlled, though Oliver noticed the slight apprehension beneath his impassive facade.

The Queen nodded. "Very well. But, Oliver, let's not prolong this more than necessary. Do we have an agreement?"

Oliver lowered his head in agreement. "Yes, Your Majesty," he murmured, feeling his tongue heavy with pure distaste.

He bowed respectfully as Charlotte offered a slight smile before leaving the room, her majestic presence dissipating with the sound of the door closing. When the final click echoed through the room, Oliver heard a sigh escape Ian, as if he had been holding his breath the whole time. But when he turned, Ian was already in front of him, so close that Oliver could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Have you lost your mind?" Ian accused, his voice low, almost a growl, as his eyes flashed like they could disintegrate him. Oliver tried to remain calm, but he knew the mischievous glint in his eyes was betraying his true thoughts.

"Do you want the Queen to find out what happened between us?" Ian continued, a vein visibly pulsing at his temple, revealing the effort he was making to keep his composure.

Oliver, with a playful smirk on his lips, leaned casually against the polished wooden desk, feeling the solidity of the surface against his hips. "The Queen wouldn't suspect a thing, Ian, even if I were blunt," he replied in a nonchalant tone, though he knew how much he was provoking Ian. "Besides, you should be thanking me. I just saved your job."

Ian stepped forward, his muscular body filling the space around Oliver, every movement charged with a raw strength that made Oliver's heart beat faster. His eyes roamed over Ian's suit, appreciating the way the fabric clung to his athletic frame, every line accentuating the body he knew so well.

When Ian moved even closer, Oliver felt his warm breath against his skin, sending a shiver through his body. The desire in Ian's eyes burned, with no attempt to hide what he was feeling. "Save my—" Ian chuckled, a rough, restrained sound, shaking his head while keeping his gaze locked on Oliver. "Oliver, you're playing with fire." "Actually," Oliver responded, his voice coming out more like a breath than words, "I've always had a certain... fascination with fire." His eyes slowly drifted down to Ian's lips, as if he could already taste them.

He took a step forward, their bodies almost touching. The contact made Oliver catch his breath, feeling the firmness of Ian's muscles under the thin fabric of his suit. When Ian let out an involuntary sigh, a sound that vibrated in the tense silence between them, Oliver knew he had achieved what he wanted. A barely perceptible smile formed on his lips, and his hands slid up Ian's neck, as if tracing a familiar path, until they reached his hair, pulling him closer. "I bet you do too," he whispered.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked, his voice uneven as he fought the inevitability of what was coming. "Proving my point," Oliver replied, with a simplicity that masked the intensity of his intentions. He lifted his chin, and their lips were so close that he could feel the faint scratch of Ian's stubble against his face. Ian's hands, large and warm, slid slowly down to Oliver's waist. From the way his short nails dug into the fabric of the suit, Oliver could sense Ian's inner battle between desire and control.

But, like a river flowing its course, Ian finally gave in, eliminating the distance between them. The touch made Oliver gasp, feeling Ian's warmth spread through his body, completely disarming him. His arms wrapped around Ian's broad shoulders, and his fingers tangled in his hair, feeling its soft texture between his fingers.

"I thought this was just a one-night thing," Ian murmured, his voice tinged with hesitation, but his eyes revealed a desire even he couldn't hide. "I don't remember saying that," Oliver replied, his words coming out in a whisper that was lost in the closeness of their lips.

Oliver felt the warm exhale of Ian's breath as he spoke in a tone so low it sounded like pure temptation: "This is..." "A colossal mistake, I'm aware," Oliver completed for him, his eyes briefly rolling before closing, feeling the soft pressure of Ian's hands against his skin. "Now shut up and kiss me already."

Their kiss was like an electric storm brewing, their mouths crashing together with urgency. Oliver surrendered to the moment, his hands weaving into Ian's hair as he explored every curve of his lips, every new and intoxicating taste he found. Ian's body was a solid presence against his, an anchor in the turbulent sea of emotions threatening to drown him. When they finally parted, their eyes met.

Without saying a word, Oliver stepped back, walked to the door, and, with a deliberate motion, turned the key in the lock. As he turned around, he found Ian leaning against the table, unbuttoning his shirt with a nonchalance that didn't match what he was about to do. The soft light outlined Ian's body, highlighting the defined muscles and skin that seemed to almost glow under the dim touch of the shadows. Ian's steady breathing contrasted with the intoxicating rhythm of Oliver's racing heart.

"I've been thinking about a few things I didn't get to do last night," Oliver said, his voice low and laden with intent, as he walked towards Ian with measured steps. Ian watched him with an intense gaze, his pupils dilated with desire. "Like what?" Oliver knelt in front of him, his nimble fingers undoing Ian's belt buckle with a confidence that made Ian's breath catch in his throat. As the zipper was lowered, the soft glide of fabric seemed to mark the beginning of something inevitable, a point of no return.

Without hurry, Oliver slid Ian's pants down, and his eyes were inevitably drawn to the strong thighs now revealed. There was something hypnotic in the way Ian's muscles moved beneath his skin, a restrained force that seemed on the verge of being unleashed. Oliver couldn't help but let out a soft murmur, almost a sigh, that escaped his lips, filled with a silent admiration that made Ian's heart beat a little faster.

Ian's smile was a reflection, a mix of pride and desire, but also something deeper, something that Oliver was still learning to decipher. Oliver's gaze descended, finding the tantalizing outline that stood out beneath the fabric of Ian's underwear. Oliver's blood ran faster in his veins, the sound of Ian's voice — soft, but with undeniable provocation — echoing in his mind like a challenge he couldn't resist.

"What's the matter, Your Highness?" Ian asked, and the insinuation in those words sent a wave of heat through Oliver's body, as if every nerve was being ignited at once. "I was curious about your intentions."

For a moment, Oliver was caught in his thoughts, his mind distant and struggling to recompose itself. But reality hit him with a visceral impact, an awakening that made him realize there was no more room for hesitation. With a sigh that seemed to escape from deep within him, he leaned forward, and the touch of his lips on Ian's skin was like the realization of something he hadn't even known he desired so deeply.

Oliver wasn't sure what he expected, but the taste of Ian in his mouth, the feel of his warm, firm skin against his tongue, was a revelation. He allowed himself to savor every detail, the slow, deliberate rhythm, as if he was trying to memorize every sensation, every reaction.

When Ian arched his back slightly, a soft moan forming in his trembling timbre, Oliver felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. The touch of Ian's fingers in his hair, the grip that intensified, as if Ian was anchoring himself to the present, resonated within Oliver in a way he couldn't describe but knew was important.

As he went deeper, Oliver allowed himself to feel everything: the firmness against his tongue, the intoxicating taste that was uniquely Ian, the way every sigh, every sound, seemed to shift something inside him. He didn't know if this would happen again, if there would be other nights like this, but one thing was certain: if this was the last time, he wanted it to be unforgettable, something he could relive in lonely hours, a memory to keep and cherish, even if only in his thoughts.