The room had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes after something full, after the crash of waves, the breathlessness of being known too much and too fast. Lucas lay there on the sofa, his legs tangled in Trevor's, skin flushed, muscles sore in all the places that made him remember everything. And Trevor wasn't even moving, just resting beside him, his fingers drawing little aimless shapes against his side, like he couldn't stop touching but didn't want to crowd him.
Lucas swallowed.
The back of his throat burned.
He should've said something. He should've made a joke, or rolled off the couch, or done anything but lie there with this stupid knot of feeling tightening in his chest. But Trevor hadn't said a word either, hadn't done anything but hold him like it was natural.
Like he didn't need a reason.
"I should shower," Lucas muttered, mostly to say something.
Trevor shifted slightly but didn't let go. "Bath's ready."
Lucas blinked. "You—wait, you ran a bath before?"
