The dining room resembled something out of a lifestyle magazine, with clean lines, muted tones, and sunlight streaming in through tall glass windows overlooking the gardens. A faint trace of coffee and polished wood lingered in the air, blending with the distant sound of city traffic filtering through the open balcony doors.
Lucas padded in barefoot, still damp from his bath, wearing one of Trevor's white shirts that hung just a little too loosely on his shoulders. His hair was tousled, his steps were casual, and he wore a soft arrogance that stemmed from knowing the world would bend anyway.
Windstone was already there. He stood beside the table, tablet in hand, reviewing the morning schedule with his usual quiet efficiency. His gray hair caught the light like silver thread, and his pressed black uniform looked so sharp it could've cut glass. But the odd thing, the truly alarming thing, was that he looked content.
