Trevor returned as Windstone was collecting the empty tray, the sound of the door opening soft, but Lucas looked up immediately—eyes trained like he'd been waiting for the exact click of that latch.
Trevor didn't speak right away. He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and shrugged off his jacket with the kind of tiredness that came from restraint, not exhaustion. His shirt sleeves were still rolled, faint creases marking where tension had sat in his arms.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "So? War or relocation?"
Trevor's lips twitched, but it didn't quite make it into a smile. "Relocation."
Windstone, ever efficient, took the cue and bowed himself out with barely a whisper of footsteps, leaving them alone.
Trevor came closer, but didn't sit. "We're switching suites before nightfall. Quietly. You'll pack only what you want in the open. Windstone and I already arranged the rest."
Lucas leaned back. "I assume this isn't because the view wasn't dramatic enough."
