Chapter 237: Chapter 237: No dignity left.
The door opened without a knock.
Just the quiet, dignified click of someone whose authority didn’t need to be announced, followed by two perfectly measured steps into the room.
Trevor didn’t lift his head. He sighed into the crook of Lucas’s neck instead, like the warmth of his husband’s skin was more urgent than embarrassment. Lucas, however, stilled immediately, eyes wide, hands twitching toward decency, only to remember that the couch had already lost all structural integrity and most of its cushions.
"Ah," Windstone said, with the polite neutrality of a man witnessing war crimes.
Lucas tried to cover himself with the nearest pillow, which gave up the moment he touched it and flopped to the floor like a casualty.
Trevor finally turned his head, entirely unrepentant, hair a mess, chest bare, eyes bright with too much pride for a man caught half-knotted to his spouse on a ruined antique couch.
"Windstone," he said, like greeting an old friend over afternoon tea. "You’re early."
"I’m not," Windstone said mildly, gaze sweeping the destruction with the same clinical calm he used when assessing estate inventory. "You’re late."
Lucas buried his face in what remained of the armrest.
Windstone’s sigh was the kind made by men who’d seen too much and survived only through sarcasm and good tailoring.
He took a deliberate step further into the room, gaze scanning the scene like he was evaluating structural damage after a very specific kind of natural disaster. The shattered couch leg. The cushion on the floor. Trevor’s shirt hanging from a curtain rod. Lucas wrapped in a designer throw blanket that hadn’t been a blanket five minutes ago.
"I will notify facilities to remove what’s left of the couch," Windstone said evenly, adjusting his tablet case under one arm. "And request that housekeeping bring gloves. Industrial grade."
Lucas sank deeper into the cushions with a sound that was pure suffering. "I hate everything."
"I believe you said that about the drapes last week," Windstone said. "This scene, however, outpaces the drapes by some magnitude."
Trevor didn’t look remotely repentant.
He propped his chin on Lucas’s shoulder again, still shirtless, too warm, and too smug. "Can’t help it. He was doing his Grand Duke-consort job. That’s basically foreplay."
Lucas groaned into what remained of a designer cushion. "I was sorting ambassadorial emails. There was nothing sexy about it. You came here already smug."
"You were focused," Trevor corrected, pressing a lazy kiss to his temple. "Which is the most dangerous thing you can do in front of me. I know that look. It’s the ’I’ll ignore my husband until this diplomatic crisis is solved’ look."
Lucas didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling, as if it might open and swallow him whole. The cushion had stopped helping three groans ago. Somewhere behind them, a clock ticked in defiance of everything they’d done to time and decorum.
Windstone, who had retreated to the hallway to protect what remained of his composure, cleared his throat with the restraint of a seasoned battlefield medic.
"I’ve sent for clothes and something from the kitchen with enough caffeine to undo the sins committed here. Also," he added, voice dry as parchment, "the facilities team will need clarification on whether the couch is to be repaired or given a proper burial."
Trevor grinned wider. "Put a plaque next to it. ’Here fell the last resistance of work-life balance.’
"Lucas dragged a hand down his face. "You are not funny."
"I am very funny. That’s why you married me."
"I married you because I didn’t have any other decent option."
Trevor leaned in to nibble gently on Lucas’s earlobe. "You didn’t have to say yes twice. Or call me husband with that tone in bed. You know the one."
Lucas went silent. Only his ears betrayed him, flushing red at the tips.
Windstone reappeared at the threshold carrying a folded set of fresh clothes and a discreet paper bag from the estate kitchen. "Coffee. Clothes. Regret. Take your pick."
Trevor reached out, still draped around Lucas like he was part of the upholstery now, and took the bag. "You’re a saint."
"I’m your butler. Which is, statistically, worse."
Windstone stepped forward with the solemnity of a man delivering last rites, setting the clothes down on what remained of the armchair. He didn’t look at the couch. It was beneath him, both figuratively and, in this case, tragically, literally.
Lucas reached blindly for the coffee, his hand emerging from beneath the blanket like a survivor clawing out of post-scandal rubble.
"I’m not talking to either of you," he muttered, voice muffled as he sipped.
"You just did," Trevor said helpfully.
Windstone clasped his hands behind his back. "I’ll also inform the security office that the west parlor is off-limits until further notice. Should I list the reason as... structural damage? Or divine intervention?"
"Divine would make me sound more graceful," Lucas said flatly.
Trevor bit back a laugh. "You were very graceful."
Lucas turned just enough to glare at him.
"Right up until the couch gave out," Trevor added, still sipping from his own cup now, looking unreasonably pleased for a man who had technically broken federal furniture.
Windstone adjusted his cufflinks. "I will order the restoration team to inspect the damage under the assumption that it was caused by a sudden load-bearing failure. A generous euphemism."
"You mean us," Lucas said, already regretting it.
"I do not make personal judgments, sir," Windstone replied crisply. "Merely logistical ones. The upholstery, however, is pressing charges."
Trevor leaned closer, nosing at Lucas’s cheek. "I can make it up to you," he whispered. "We haven’t tried the window seat in the music room."
Lucas elbowed him. Not hard. But hard enough to make a point.
Windstone sighed and pulled out his tablet, tapping a few notes with the speed of a man who knew better than to delay an exit. "Shall I also cancel your next two meetings, or should I tell Minister Orell that the Grand Duke’s consort has been... compromised?"
Lucas groaned. "Tell him I’m reviewing structural safety standards across the estate."
Trevor grinned, already reaching for the shirt Windstone brought him. "Perfect. You’re doing your duty."
"And you’re about to lose couch privileges for a year."
Windstone did not smile, but the air around him suggested the faintest hint of satisfaction. "If only such consequences could be enforced."
"They can," Lucas said darkly, dragging himself upright with the grace of a dethroned prince and a sore lower back. "I’m writing a law."
Trevor looked delighted. "Can we call it the Antique Couch Preservation Act?"
Lucas didn’t answer. But he stole Trevor’s coffee on the way out of the room.
Windstone, trailing behind like a well-dressed shadow, nodded once. "I’ll draft the paperwork."