The morning came quiet and bright, sunlight cutting through the sheer curtains of Serathine's guest suite and scattering across the pale marble floor. The city outside was already waking, its hum faint through the double-glazed windows, but the room itself still held the hush of sleep.
Lucas was a small, warm shape beneath the covers, buried half under the duvet, half under the illusion that he could sleep through the next inevitable disaster. His hair had fallen messily across his face, the faintest crease visible where Trevor's arm had been hours ago.
Trevor, meanwhile, looked infuriatingly awake.
Fresh from the shower, black hair towel-dried into something that still refused to behave, he stood barefoot near the window in grey lounge pants and a soft black shirt, the kind of casual luxury Serathine always insisted they "leave behind for emergencies." This, Trevor decided, qualified.
