Trevor moved slowly when he finally shifted out of bed, careful not to disturb the way Lucas's fingers had unconsciously curled in the folds of the blanket, careful not to leave too abruptly, as if he knew that something fragile still clung to the silence between them. The sheets whispered against his skin as he rose, golden light catching along his spine like the gods had chosen him for their portrait.
Lucas hadn't meant to stare. But the light caught him off guard, burning soft across the room, crawling up Trevor's skin like it knew how to tell the truth better than words ever could.
The stretch of Trevor's back was unhurried, fluid in that quiet way only the exhausted and thoroughly satisfied could manage—shoulders rolling back, arms rising above his head, the lines of his body cast in silhouette against the morning spill of light that bled like honey through gauze.
