The morning was soft. Not just in light, though the pale sun threading through the windows certainly helped, but in feel, in tempo. In the way the sheets had tangled gently around Lucas's ankles, in the quiet breath of the baby asleep beside him, and in the low hum of the world moving without urgency.
He hadn't planned on working from bed. But that's what happened when your son had recently discovered the twin joys of kicking and volume control, and your abdomen still hadn't fully forgiven you for being cut open like a birthday cake.
Lucas adjusted the tablet resting on his knees, stylus tucked behind one ear. Sebastian, now three months old and fat with opinions, was sprawled across his chest like a particularly entitled cat. His tiny socks were mismatched, Trevor's fault, and one of his fists was currently trying to grasp Lucas's shirt with the intensity that suggested an impending thesis on textile engineering.
