Lucas woke to the faint sound of typing.
Not birds. Not a kiss. Not a lazy hand trailing down his spine.
No.
Typing.
He groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow, but it didn't help. The gentle tap-tap of fingers on a touchscreen filtered through the quiet like some cruel reminder that the world hadn't stopped just because he could barely walk.
Trevor was sitting on the edge of the chaise near the window, tablet propped on his knee, one hand scrolling through charts while the other balanced a cup of coffee. He looked annoyingly rested. Shirtless, hair still messy from sleep, but with that military-efficiency posture that said, I've been up for hours and also possibly plotting war.
Lucas shifted under the blankets and hissed as his lower back pulled tight in protest.
Trevor didn't look up.
"Oh, look who's alive," he said, not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice. "Thought I was going to have to carry you to the bathroom again."
