Gabriel slept.
Curled on his side, half-wrapped in the heavy down blanket and the rest draped over Damian's chest, he breathed slowly—steadily—for the first time in days. His face, still faintly tear-marked, was relaxed now, unguarded in a way that few had ever seen. His fingers were curled loosely into Damian's shirt, as if letting go completely still felt too dangerous.
Damian didn't sleep.
He lay with one arm beneath Gabriel's shoulders, the other resting lightly along his back, fingertips stroking slow, idle circles against the base of his spine. Not to soothe, Gabriel was already asleep, but to remind himself that he was here. Alive. Warm. Still his.
The room was dark, lit only by the quiet shimmer of the etherstone lamp by the fireplace. The air smelled of cedar, clean fabric, and the faint, rich scent of their bond—burned gold, ink, and storm-warm musk.
A knock, barely audible, meant for only one person in the room to hear.
