Unchosen Crown

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

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?"