Lucas set his coffee down, fingers moving over the keyboard with the sharp, precise rhythm of someone who actually wanted to clear their inbox before the century turned. The archive room stayed blessedly quiet except for the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the whisper of Trevor's thumbs idly brushing his shoulders in some unspoken truce.
Email one: replied.
Email two: forwarded with an annotated note for the legal team.
Email three: rewritten entirely because apparently some dukes believed that "respectfully" could coexist with the word "idiot" in diplomatic correspondence.
Trevor didn't comment.
He leaned back against the arm of the chair, his warmth behind Lucas more a presence than a distraction now, eyes scanning the laptop screen over his husband's shoulder without crowding.
It was peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
Lucas was halfway through typing, "As per our prior agreement," when Trevor's hand stilled on his shoulder.
