Damian didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. Instead, he reached across the narrow space between them and gently took the fork from Gabriel's fingers. Their hands brushed, heat meeting heat, familiar and soft, even through the undercurrent of exhaustion.
Gabriel watched him.
"You can't keep burning through every hour of the day just to outrun your own thoughts," Damian said quietly, spearing another bite of the bland rice and lifting it toward Gabriel's mouth.
Gabriel didn't open it. He raised an eyebrow instead.
"Really?" he said flatly. "You're going to feed me now?"
Damian held the fork steady. "If that's what it takes."
There was no smugness in his tone—no teasing, no condescension. That low, infuriating calm made it difficult for Gabriel to respond. Harder to stay sharp when the hand brushing against his cheek was the same one that had once razed a battlefield.
With a sigh that sounded far too close to surrender, Gabriel leaned in and took the bite.
