The morning light over Fitzgeralt Manor came soft and pale, slipping between the sheer curtains and painting quiet golden stripes across the bedroom floor. The world outside was just beginning to stir, with distant clatter from the kitchens and the muffled rhythm of gardeners moving along the stone paths, but here, in the master suite, the air was still and easy.
Lucas lay half-curled against the headboard, dressed in nothing more formal than a loose T‑shirt and soft lounge pants, hair tousled from sleep and falling into his eyes. A tablet rested on his lap, idly scrolling through a news briefing he wasn't really reading.
Across from him, Trevor emerged from the adjoining room with a mug of coffee in each hand, still in his black pajama pants, shirtless, hair damp from the shower and falling over his forehead in disarray. He looked younger like that, less the calculating Duke, more just Trevor, the man who could walk barefoot through his own halls without a care.
