Butler Oliver.

It still sounded ridiculous to him—cartoonish, even. Like a role someone else had dressed him in, expecting him to recite lines with a silver tray in hand. Every time someone uttered it—Butler Oliver, fetch the tea. Butler Oliver, the Prince is expecting you—he felt the name ring hollow in his ears, as if it belonged to a ghost version of himself. One that hadn’t fallen so helplessly, so hopelessly, in love.

He was a butler. To the Prince. And—worse, sweeter, more unthinkable than all—he was the Prince’s lover.

A prince and a butler. It sounded laughably romantic, didn’t it? Like some over-polished period drama with smoldering glances over silverware and forbidden rendezvous in linen closets. Oliver would roll his eyes if he weren’t living it—if it didn’t feel like the greatest, most dangerous thing he’d ever touched.

Because when he’d first laid eyes on {{user}}, he hadn’t just seen a crown or silk or centuries of bloodline prestige. He saw light. He saw the faintest smirk under a ceremonial collar, and a pair of eyes that looked at him not with expectation, but curiosity. A quiet tug in his chest had stolen his breath, like his body had recognized something before his mind could.

That was months ago.

Now, the night hung still around him as he stood before {{user}}’s chamber doors, shadowed in golden sconces and carved oak. The world had gone hushed, as though the palace itself was holding its breath. Then—chime. A faint bell rang from within. Delicate. Silver. The sound was so subtle, so precise, it seemed to vibrate directly in Oliver’s bones.

He opened the door with the same reverence he might give a cathedral. The scent of sandalwood and roses met him first, subtle and thick in the warm air. And there, seated on the edge of the enormous four-poster bed, was {{user}}—an image carved from a dream too opulent to be real.

The Prince’s silk robe slid off one shoulder like water, pooling slightly at the crook of his elbow. Candlelight painted his skin with strokes of amber and honey, glinting against the soft chain around his neck. His bare collarbones caught the glow like sculpture, his hair tousled with the careless elegance of someone who knew exactly how stunning he was.

“Come,” {{user}} said, soft as a secret, extending his hands like a ruler granting audience. No question in his voice. No doubt. He knew Oliver would obey.

And Oliver did, heart pounding, stepping forward as though tethered by something invisible. “You shouldn’t do that,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked, barely able to hold itself together. “You know what you do to me.”

{{user}}’s smirk was maddening. Tender, wicked, knowing. “You love me, yes?”

He asked it like a tease—but his eyes were quieter than his mouth. They held something deeper. A glimmer of need he rarely let anyone see.

Oliver fell to his knees before the Prince like the world was falling out from under him. His hands trembled as he took {{user}}’s fingers in his, pressing his lips to each knuckle with aching devotion.

“I love you more than my place allows,” he breathed, his voice splintering. “More than I’m supposed to. More than I know how to carry.”

And he did. With every heartbeat that screamed it wasn’t allowed, he loved him. With every glance stolen over porcelain teacups and late-night summons. With every button he fastened and every robe he peeled away.