Gabriel's fingers stilled on the row of shirts, the faintest sigh slipping past his lips. "Damian, I need to dress."
"I'm not doing anything," Damian replied, his voice infuriatingly even. One slow step, and his frame filled the wardrobe doorway, shadow and heat bleeding into the narrow space. "Just waiting… for you to talk. And either you talk, or you stay here until you do."
Gabriel turned, meeting the golden gaze head-on, and found exactly what he expected, the unshakable patience of a man who would stand there all night if it meant getting his way.
"You know," he said, tone light in the way that meant anything but, "when people make mistakes, usually they apologize. But neither you nor Edward did it."
Damian's mouth curved slightly, not in amusement but in that faint, dangerous way that said he was already weighing his reply like a weapon. Gabriel didn't wait for it. He reached for another shirt, shaking it once as though the fabric itself might cut the tension.
