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.
"The small tyrant you gave me," Lucas said flatly, sitting up slowly. "Apparently, they’d like attention. Preferably in the form of misery."
Trevor turned his head slightly, one violet eye half-open. "You’re pale." Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹·𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾·𝗇𝖾𝗍
"I’m pregnant," Lucas snapped, already sliding out of bed and wrapping Trevor’s robe around himself. "Pale comes with the job."
He made it as far as the bathroom before the nausea hit again, sharp and immediate. He barely managed to kneel in time, cursing under his breath between uneven breaths. The morning sickness had been mercifully quiet for a few days, enough for him to forget how vicious it could be when it decided to make a return.
Behind him, the sound of soft footsteps, and then Trevor’s warm hand settled at the back of his neck, thumb brushing small circles against the mark. "Breathe through it," Trevor said softly, his voice more awake now, more careful. "Don’t fight it."
"I’m not fighting it," Lucas muttered, eyes squeezed shut. "It’s fighting me."
Trevor’s hand didn’t move. He didn’t rush him, didn’t flinch at the sound or the mess, and just stood there, unflappable, his presence quiet but supporting. When it passed, Lucas leaned back against the cool tiles, pale but breathing easier.
Trevor crouched down beside him, expression unreadable but eyes full of quiet worry. "Better?"
Lucas nodded faintly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "For now. Give it fifteen minutes."
Trevor handed him a damp towel from the sink, his tone low. "I can have Windstone make tea."
"Not mint," Lucas said immediately, his green eyes wet with tears from the strain. "I’ll throw it at him."
Trevor smiled faintly. "Noted." He paused, scanning Lucas’s face, and then added softly, "You’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, even when you look like you’re about to declare war on breakfast."
Lucas gave him a deadpan look that didn’t reach his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone holding porcelain."
Trevor’s grin widened. "I trust your lack of aim."
Still, he let Trevor help him to his feet, leaning into him because both of them were responsible for this situation. By the time they made it back to the bed, Windstone’s knock was already echoing politely through the door.
"Enter," Trevor called.
Windstone stepped inside with a tray, of course already prepared, bearing a cup of tea, dry toast, and a glass of cool water with a slice of lemon. "Your Graces," he said, unflappable as ever. "I took the liberty of anticipating the situation."
Lucas stared at him. "How did you..."
"Experience, Your Grace," Windstone said smoothly, his pale green eyes shining under the gold-rimmed glasses. "And the unfortunate sounds from this floor at precisely 6:48 a.m."
Lucas groaned and flopped back into the pillows. "You’re terrifying."
"Efficient," Windstone corrected. "I also informed the kitchen that breakfast will be delayed. And that anyone who knocks on this door will be reassigned to cleaning the east greenhouse."
Trevor looked faintly amused. "You’re making enemies."
Windstone adjusted the curtains, letting in a soft stream of morning light. "They should try being better at their jobs, sir."
Lucas sipped the tea, breathing in the steam carefully. It helped. Just a little. "You know, I think this baby’s inherited your sense of timing," he muttered toward Trevor. "Right when I thought I looked better, bam. Proof I spoke too soon."
Trevor’s voice softened, that quiet, teasing fondness that never failed to ground him. "You still look better. Slightly more murderous, but better."
Windstone straightened the folded blanket at the end of the bed, a gesture both practical and symbolic. "If I may, Your Grace, you are permitted to look less than perfect while manufacturing an heir. That is, I believe, the point."
Lucas looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Did Serathine teach you to say things like that?"
Windstone’s expression didn’t flicker. "No, Your Grace. Duchess Cressida did. Right after our escape from them, it was a long call."
Trevor laughed then, quietly and with genuine amusement, his hand finding Lucas’s under the sheets. "You hear that? Even the household is on your side."
Lucas smiled faintly, half-exhausted, half-touched. "That might be the scariest part."
Outside, the rain thickened into a steady rhythm against the windows. The world felt muted again, soft, grey, and wrapped in the kind of peace that came not from perfection, but from being exactly where he was supposed to be: in bed, safe, cared for, and allowed, finally, to look human.
For the first time that morning, Lucas let his eyes close and slowly whispered under his breath, "All right, little one. You have my attention."
Trevor’s thumb brushed the back of his hand. "Good. Now maybe you’ll let him rest."
The baby, of course, did not. But for a while, the house stayed warm and quiet, Windstone’s footsteps fading down the hall, the rain steady outside, and Trevor’s laughter soft enough to almost make Lucas forget he felt like dying.