By the next morning the private wing had lost the heavy, honey-thick air of heat. The nest in the wardrobe was half dismantled, shirts folded back into piles by Windstone's discreet hand. Lucas sat cross-legged on the bed in one of Trevor's sweatshirts, hair still damp from a shower, scrolling idly through messages on his phone. The platinum band on his finger glinted each time he flicked the screen.
Trevor came in from the balcony with two mugs of coffee, barefoot, sleeves rolled up. He set one down in front of Lucas and perched on the edge of the mattress. "You're awake early," he said.
Lucas took the mug and studied him over the rim, green eyes curious. "Why did you change your mind?" he asked quietly. "You've been saying for a year I was too young, that we had time."
Trevor chuckled under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Because you asked again," he said. "Because this time you didn't ask like it was desperation. You asked like it was what you wanted."
