Chapter 237: No dignity left.
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.
"Windstone," he said, like greeting an old friend over afternoon tea. "You’re early."
"I’m not," Windstone said mildly, gaze sweeping the destruction with the same clinical calm he used when assessing estate inventory. "You’re late."
Lucas buried his face in what remained of the armrest.
Windstone’s sigh was the kind made by men who’d seen too much and survived only through sarcasm and good tailoring.
He took a deliberate step further into the room, gaze scanning the scene like he was evaluating structural damage after a very specific kind of natural disaster. The shattered couch leg. The cushion on the floor. Trevor’s shirt hanging from a curtain rod. Lucas wrapped in a designer throw blanket that hadn’t been a blanket five minutes ago.
"I will notify facilities to remove what’s left of the couch," Windstone said evenly, adjusting his tablet case under one arm. "And request that housekeeping bring gloves. Industrial grade."