The next morning arrived with too much light and not enough mercy.
Gabriel sat at the small round table in their private sitting room, draped in one of Damian's robes—deep navy, edged in Lyon gold, still warm from the dryer. His hair was slightly damp, combed back with minimal effort. A fine sheen of morning reluctance clung to him like a second skin.
In front of him sat a bowl of pale, innocently steaming porridge.
It glistened with what might have been oats. Or punishment. Gabriel couldn't decide which.
Across the table, Damian looked devastatingly alert in a crisp shirt, already halfway through his second cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Just bitter darkness—appropriate, really.
Gabriel stared at the bowl as if it had insulted his lineage.
"Is this supposed to be edible?" he muttered, picking up the spoon like a weapon and giving the contents a slow stir. "Or am I meant to reflect on my sins while it cools?"
