Later that night, after everyone had been sent to their rooms, after the fire dimmed to embers and the scent of spice lingered in the drapes like memory, Gabriel finally dozed in the armchair—warm, safe, and curled in the Emperor's arms.
Damian held him quietly, one hand splayed along Gabriel's lower back, the other tucked beneath the robe that still clung to Gabriel's shoulders like a mantle. They didn't speak for a long time.
Until Gabriel stirred, head resting against Damian's collarbone, fingers absently drawing slow, aimless circles across the back of his mate's shoulder blade.
"You're still here," he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. "I thought you'd storm off to Patricia by now."
Damian hummed softly, the sound more breath than voice. "She's not going anywhere."
Gabriel's fingers kept tracing. The rhythm was slow and hypnotic—comforting, like a lullaby only he knew how to hum. "You're not worried she'll try something?"
