The manor had gone quiet.
Not the clipped, professional quiet of staff resetting tables, nor the strained quiet of nobles out of words for the evening, but the deep, lived‑in hush of a house breathing again after being stretched to its limit. Far off, lanterns still flickered on the terrace, their glow soft through the tall windows.
Lucas padded across the carpeted floor of their private suite, the plush robe cinched at his waist and damp hair curling against his neck from the long bath he'd allowed himself. The small bowl of ice cream in his hand had already begun to sweat in the soft lamplight, but he didn't care. He perched on the edge of the couch, tucking one leg under him, letting the sugar calm the adrenaline still humming in his chest.
Through the crack in the en‑suite door came the hiss of running water shutting off, then the muffled sound of Trevor's voice, low, a curse muttered under his breath, followed by the soft scrape of a towel.
