The door didn't close for long.
Damian had just let his eyes fall shut again, steam soft against his skin, the echo of Gregoris's voice still lingering in the corners of his mind when he heard it—a softer sound this time.
And then Gabriel's voice, low and even:
"I'm not here to yell."
Damian didn't open his eyes. "Then why are you here?"
"To keep you company." There was the faint rustle of clothes. A careful pause. "Unless you'd prefer to sulk alone in a boiling tub like a martyr soaking in his own consequences."
Damian huffed once, something close to a laugh, and cracked one eye open.
Gabriel wasn't armed with anything this time, not a vase, not a crystal swan, not even an annoyed cup of tea. Just him. Loose robe draped over one shoulder, hair slightly damp like he'd gotten caught in the mist from the adjoining room. Barefoot. Tired.
Beautiful, in that unshakable, sharp-edged way that had always made Damian feel like he could breathe, even when it hurt.
