Lucas woke the next morning to the sound of rain against the windows and the distinct, sinking realization that his stomach had declared war.
For one blissful second, he thought it was just the weather, the soft grey light, the faint chill in the air, and the comfort of the sheets wrapped around him. But then the wave hit Lucas with a slow and entirely unforgiving force.
He groaned, pressing a hand to his abdomen as if that would calm the rebellion. "You couldn't wait until noon?" he muttered under his breath, voice still heavy with sleep. "You had to start now?"
From his side of the bed came a low, still-asleep sound of protest. "Who are you talking to?"
Lucas cracked one eye open. Trevor was facedown in the pillow, hair a dark, disheveled halo, voice rough and half-awake. He looked like a painting of a god, which irritated Lucas for some reason.
