He wanted to kiss Trevor.
Not to prove anything. Not to reclaim something taken. But because, in this room filled with warm light and soft hums and the sharp contrast of past and present colliding—he could.
He leaned forward slowly, watching for even the smallest flicker of hesitation.
Instead, he leaned in as well, just enough to meet him halfway, his left hand curling tightly around the edge of the desk—not to hold Lucas, but to hold himself in place. He wouldn't ruin this by rushing. Lucas was making the first move, and he'd honor that.
So he stayed still.
Let him choose.
Lucas closed the last inch between them, pressing his lips to Trevor's—slow, so painfully slow, like he was still half-afraid the moment would vanish if he breathed too hard.
Trevor's fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, the wood groaning under the pressure of restraint.
