Lucas didn't speak. His entire body was relaxed in that way Trevor had learned to recognize—too still. Too careful. The kind of composure built to mask something deeper.
Trevor's gaze dropped to the article again.
"Rebellion or Red Flag?"
He could already hear the court whispering. That sharp, gilded judgment dressed up as concern.
"You don't want one," Trevor said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Lucas didn't look up. "No."
A pause. Then, softer: "I won't wear one."
Trevor waited. But Lucas didn't elaborate.
"I'm not asking for an explanation," Trevor added. "But I won't let them weaponize it."
Lucas was quiet for a moment longer, then said, "She made me wear one. Misty."
That stopped Trevor.
Lucas still didn't look at him. "Not always. Just when it was useful. When someone important was visiting. When she needed to show how 'well-behaved' I was."
His tone didn't break. If anything, it became colder. Stripped of feeling. Almost clinical.
