Trevor entered the suite Dax had prepared for him and Lucas without knocking.
It was late morning, the sunlight already pouring through the tall windows in gentle gold. The curtains were open, spilling warmth across the marble floors and catching on the edges of the pale sheets. The air smelled faintly of citrus soap and paper—Lucas's usual calm chaos.
Soft music drifted from the speaker near the balcony—one of Lucas's picks, something piano-heavy and strangely soothing, the kind that always made Trevor think of memories that refused to bleed.
Lucas was in bed, not asleep as Trevor had assumed. He sat tucked beneath the sheets, hair still damp from a recent bath and swept to one side, a digital agenda resting lightly against his knees. Windstone must have scanned his morning notes and formatted them digitally so Lucas could write as he remembered, not worry about structure or timelines.
