The days turned into weeks, and what had begun as quiet affection slowly evolved into a routine that bordered on full occupation.
Trevor's protectiveness, which had once been subtle, a guiding hand behind Lucas' back, a steadying presence in crowds, had grown into something far more persistent. If Lucas crossed the room, Trevor shadowed him. If he tried to carry anything heavier than a cup, Trevor appeared, somehow always within reach. Even Windstone had begun to adapt, moving with the discreet efficiency of a man accustomed to working around a watchful husband and his increasingly patient spouse.
At first, Lucas had tried to protest.
By the third week, he had given up and decided to treat it as a study in endurance.
Trevor called it being careful. Lucas called it being unbearable. Windstone, wisely, called it nothing at all.
One morning, when Lucas tried to pour his own coffee, Trevor took the pot from his hand. "Hot liquid," he said simply, like that explained everything.
