CHAPTER 380: CHAPTER 380: THE END OF A DREAM (2)

The elevator ride felt endless. The lights above him flickered softly, reflecting against the polished metal walls and the faint sheen of sweat on his collar. Trevor’s reflection stared back, pale and unfocused, the tie at his throat uneven, the top button of his shirt still undone. He didn’t remember leaving his office. He only remembered Windstone’s voice, quiet and strained, too gentle to belong in this world, and the words that had taken the air out of his lungs.

The city waited beyond the glass doors. The sound of engines and rain against pavement blended into a steady rhythm that barely reached him. The car was already waiting, sleek and black, its windows glinting with pale light. He opened the door without thinking, slid into the back seat, and shut it behind him.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. The seat leather was cold against his palms. His breathing was shallow and uneven, every inhale catching at the edge of panic. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to focus on anything, the hum of the engine, the muted glow of the dashboard, or the faint trace of his own cologne still clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

It didn’t help. The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute.

Outside, the world blurred past in streaks of wet color , red lights, gray buildings, and the silver reflection of traffic sliding by. The city was moving, alive, and indifferent.

Then he heard it.

"Trevor."

The sound was faint, barely louder than his own breath, but it froze him instantly. He lifted his head, scanning the car’s interior. The seat beside him was empty, perfectly untouched. The voice came again, softer this time, threaded with exhaustion and something that sounded like pain.

"Trevor..."

It was Lucas’s voice.

His chest tightened. His heart pounded so fast it hurt. He turned sharply, half-expecting to see him sitting there, wrapped in one of his sweaters, the way he used to be when Trevor came home too late and the omega decided to take his husband back home. But there was nothing. Only the faint smell of rain through the vent, cold and unfamiliar.

He blinked hard. "Lucas?"

The world tilted. The air shimmered, just slightly, like heat rising from asphalt. For a brief moment, he could almost see him, the curve of his face and the shape of his hand reaching across the seat, before his vision blurred. The car around him wavered, the hum of the engine fading into silence.

He blinked again.

When his eyes opened, he was back in his office.

The sunlight streamed in exactly as it had before, cutting through the tall windows and striking the amber paperweight on his desk. The butterfly inside glowed as if nothing had changed. The espresso cup still sat near the keyboard, cold and untouched.

Trevor’s pulse was still racing. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. For a few seconds, he simply stared at the amber, trying to make sense of the sharp return to calm. The edges of the stone were warm against his fingertips.

It had been a dream.

Or that was what he told himself.

He drew a slow breath, then another. His throat ached from holding back the sound that had wanted to escape when he’d heard Lucas’s voice. He forced his hands to still, folding them together until the tremor faded. The quiet in the room felt almost artificial, too clean and polished to be genuine.

The rational part of his mind whispered that none of it had happened. He was here. Lucas was safe. The day was normal. But another part, the one that never quite slept, told him otherwise.

He remembered that day. The hospital lights. The scent of antiseptic and cold metal. Windstone stood at the door, hat in hand, unable to speak. He remembered Lucas lying there in silence, pale against the white sheets, his hand limp in Trevor’s.

The memory had buried itself deep, far beneath the surface of reason, until his mind had reshaped it into a dream. But dreams, he knew, were often just memories in disguise. That moment was their first loss in their perfectly peaceful life.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. His gaze returned to the amber. The butterfly inside seemed alive for a moment, wings outstretched, caught mid-flight, as though it might break free if he only looked long enough.

"Are you really going to ignore me?" A voice echoed from the door.

Trevor froze.

For a second, the air in the room felt too thin to breathe. The voice hadn’t come from memory this time. It was close, real, and laced with mild impatience rather than pain.

He turned his head sharply.

Lucas stood by the door, one hand on the frame, the other holding a stack of neatly bound files that looked far too heavy for him to be carrying. He wore a cream turtleneck under a soft blazer, hair slightly disheveled from the wind outside. The faint flush on his cheeks told Trevor he had come straight from the car, probably ignoring Windstone’s insistence that he rest.

For a heartbeat, Trevor couldn’t move. He just looked.

The living, breathing version of the man who had haunted his every nightmare stood only a few steps away, watching him with that familiar half-smile, equal parts exasperation and affection.

Lucas tilted his head, brows lifting. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Trevor’s throat worked before sound came out. "Maybe I have."

Lucas blinked, then laughed softly. The sound hit Trevor like sunlight through fog. "You’re dramatic even before noon. Did you forget I exist outside your schedule?"

Trevor tried to answer, but his voice caught. His fingers were still gripping the amber, the imprint of it pressing against his palm. He set it down carefully, as if afraid to break the spell.

"You shouldn’t be here," he managed, the words quieter than he intended. "You’re supposed to be resting."

"I got bored," Lucas said simply, crossing the room with the kind of grace that still made Trevor’s chest ache. "And I missed you."