The knock at the door was soft, followed by the discreet click of the handle turning.
Victor didn't lift his head, just murmured against Elias's hair, "Enter. But slowly. He's armed with hormones and an agenda."
Lena stepped inside, carrying a lacquered tray with the precision of a woman who had once delivered a ceasefire treaty during a boardroom blackout. She took one glance at the sight of Elias curled in Victor's lap, cheek flushed against his fiancé's shoulder, Victor's hand possessively splayed over his belly like it belonged there, and didn't say a word.
She set the tray down on the coffee table beside the couch, where the sunlight caught the edges of the porcelain plates and made the buttered brioche glisten like it had been basted in apology.
"There's spiced milk tea with honey, two egg tarts, brioche with sea salt butter, and the kitchen added a small bowl of fruit because they like living," Lena said lightly. "Shall I leave you both alone?"
