The door opened without a knock.
Just the quiet, dignified click of someone whose authority didn't need to be announced, followed by two perfectly measured steps into the room.
Trevor didn't lift his head. He sighed into the crook of Lucas's neck instead, like the warmth of his husband's skin was more urgent than embarrassment. Lucas, however, stilled immediately, eyes wide, hands twitching toward decency, only to remember that the couch had already lost all structural integrity and most of its cushions.
"Ah," Windstone said, with the polite neutrality of a man witnessing war crimes.
Lucas tried to cover himself with the nearest pillow, which gave up the moment he touched it and flopped to the floor like a casualty.
Trevor finally turned his head, entirely unrepentant, hair a mess, chest bare, eyes bright with too much pride for a man caught half-knotted to his spouse on a ruined antique couch.
