Gabriel woke up feeling like he'd picked a fight with a god and lost.
His whole body ached, not with the dull stiffness of a bad night's sleep, but with the aftermath of something far more illicit, far more dangerous, and—he would never admit aloud—entirely his own fault.
The curtains were drawn, the room dim. Early morning light slanted through the edges, catching the edges of discarded clothing, half-crushed robes, and a single button glinting near the fireplace like a casualty of war. A very specific war. One was waged between a sovereign and the fool who thought teasing him with a foot to the shoulder wouldn't result in absolute, merciless retribution.
Gabriel groaned and rolled onto his stomach, only to hiss and immediately regret that motion.
A quiet knock came, then the door creaked open.
"If you brought tea," Gabriel muttered into the pillow, "I want you to pour it directly over my grave."
