Chapter 372: Chapter 372: Dinner and nutrition
Dinner was, by Windstone’s exact phrasing, "a strategic operation in controlled nutrition."
The long dining room glowed under the soft amber lights, the scent of roasted herbs and lemon lingering faintly in the air. The table, as always, was far too large for two people, but Trevor had long ago moved his chair close enough that Windstone had stopped pretending to rearrange them back to their formal positions.
Lucas sat in his usual place, posture impeccable, the soft fabric of his sweater belying the fact that his stomach had decided to make any deviation from plain carbohydrates a personal insult. On his plate sat a cautious portion of food, a delicate chicken consommé, a few pieces of steamed vegetables, and a single slice of bread that Windstone had cut with military precision.
Trevor, of course, looked like he was about to host a diplomatic dinner. His sleeves were rolled just so, cufflinks gleaming faintly in the light, and his expression was somewhere between affection and command.
Lucas speared a piece of carrot with reluctant grace. "You’re staring again."
"I’m observing," Trevor corrected smoothly, not taking his eyes from the one he loved the most. "You’ve taken three bites of the soup and are currently threatening the vegetable with your eyes."
Lucas sighed. "It’s offensive to my existence."
"The carrot?"
"The texture," Lucas said, pushing the fork aside. "It’s too polite. Everything tastes too polite."
Trevor bit back a laugh. "You realize you’re describing the food, not a court audience?"
"It’s the same principle," Lucas said flatly, his brow furrowed slightly in displeasure. "One makes me nauseous. The other makes me want to start a revolution."
Trevor leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "So dramatic."
"Pregnant," Lucas corrected again, though his mouth twitched. "There’s a difference."
Windstone reappeared at that precise moment, silent as a verdict, carrying a tray of what looked like small buttered rolls and something steaming in a porcelain bowl. "Perhaps something gentler for the palate, Your Grace," he said, setting it down. "Plain rice and lightly salted broth. No spice, no oil, no life, but also butter rolls because I’m not a demon."
Lucas glanced up, deadpan. "Perfect. I’ll eat it out of spite."
Windstone inclined his head. "I thought as much."
Trevor chuckled quietly, the sound undercut by the faintest note of worry. He reached over and slid the bowl a little closer to Lucas, fingers brushing his hand in the process. "You know you don’t have to force it."
Lucas lifted his spoon with exaggerated dignity. "I’m a Fitzgeralt now. We suffer with grace."
"Grace," Trevor repeated, half amused, half exasperated. "You’ve turned nausea into performance art."
Lucas took a bite of the rice, slow and cautious, then swallowed and let out a low hum of relief. "All right. This one’s not terrible."
Windstone, standing sentinel near the door, allowed himself the faintest hint of satisfaction. "Naturally, Your Grace."
Trevor smiled faintly, watching Lucas eat a few more careful bites before he spoke again. "Caelan called earlier."
Lucas looked up, curious. "Oh?"
"He congratulated me," Trevor said, his tone dry. "Also reminded me that I owe him dinner. Apparently, he’s decided to start scheduling around your due date."
Lucas groaned. "He would."
Trevor’s lips quirked. "He’s taking it well."
"He’s the Emperor," Lucas said, spoon still in hand. "He takes everything well... publicly. Then he sends people notes with terrifying handwriting and impossible expectations."
"Sounds familiar," Trevor said, eyes warm.
Lucas narrowed his eyes in mock warning. "Careful, Marquis."
Trevor raised his hands in surrender, still smiling. "Fine. No comparisons. But we do have to talk about when we’ll make it official."
Lucas stilled, spoon hovering midair. "Official?"
"The announcement," Trevor said. "You, me, and a very public empire. We can’t hide it forever. Not with Caelan, Serathine, and Cressida all knowing. The court will find out soon enough."
Lucas exhaled slowly, setting the spoon down. "You mean the part where everyone suddenly remembers I exist and starts pretending it’s affection instead of politics?"
Trevor tilted his head. "You’d rather they forget?"
"I’d rather they mind their own business," Lucas said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "But that’s asking for divine intervention, not diplomacy."
Trevor’s voice softened. "We’ll do it on our terms. No press, nor staged appearances. Just a statement, maybe one portrait when you’re ready."
Lucas looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You’ve thought this through."
"Since the moment you told me," Trevor admitted. "I want it to feel like ours. Not theirs."
Lucas studied him for a moment, the faint shadows under his eyes, the gold still glinting at his cuffs, and the quiet strength that never seemed to waver. "You’re serious."
Trevor met his gaze evenly. "Always."
A long pause stretched between them, filled with the muted clink of silverware and the soft rhythm of rain starting again outside.
Then Lucas smiled faintly, his voice quieter but certain. "Then we’ll do it your way. But I’m choosing the portrait artist. I refuse to look like a tragic painting of maternal virtue."
Trevor laughed, reaching out to trace his fingers over Lucas’s wrist. "You could never look tragic."
"You’ve clearly never seen me try to eat soup at dawn," Lucas muttered.
"I have," Trevor said softly. "And I still married you."
That earned him the smallest laugh, genuine and tired. "You’re insufferable."
"I’m devoted," Trevor corrected, his thumb brushing over the back of Lucas’s hand again. "And I love you."
Windstone cleared his throat gently from the doorway. "If Your Graces are done with negotiations, shall I prepare dessert?"
Lucas didn’t even look up. "Only if it’s made of air."
Trevor grinned, eyes never leaving him. "Something tells me we’re already having that."
And under the soft glow of candlelight, with the rain whispering against the windows and the scent of something sweet beginning to drift from the kitchen, Lucas found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, peace could look like this: laughter, warmth, and a husband who hovered too much, loved too hard, and somehow made all the attention in the world bearable.