At noon the room had quieted again. The soft clink of porcelain had faded with breakfast, and the scent of citrus and linen hung in the air—clean, still. Afternoon light slanted through the balcony doors, casting long, golden stripes across the polished floor and the edge of the chaise where Lucas now sat curled, one leg tucked beneath him, Trevor's oversized robe draped around his shoulders.
Trevor stood by the desk, fingers resting lightly on the back of a chair, a frown tugging at the edge of his mouth.
"You should write everything down," he said at last.
Lucas looked up from his journal, pen still in hand. "I already did. The important things."
Trevor raised a brow. "Everything, Lucas. Not just what's useful. Not just what makes sense."
Lucas hesitated, his thumb brushing the spine of the leather-bound agenda resting in his lap.
