Damian's eyes didn't waver. The fire carved shadows along his cheekbones like careful brushstrokes, flickering gold into the hollows of his face, but his gaze remained fixed, burning, unwavering, silent—all of it for Gabriel.
Gabriel didn't fill the silence. He met the weight of that look with one brow arched in something just short of amusement, his posture easy, calm, waiting like someone who already knew the answer but was willing to let the truth take its time.
"Before," Damian said finally, voice low.
Gabriel's smile was faint. A little tired. A little worn at the edges. But real. "Then ask."
Damian leaned forward and set his glass down with a kind of reverence. He wasn't tense, but he was careful now, every movement deliberate, as if the floor between them had shifted and he didn't want to be the one to break it first.
"When you saw me with the crown," Damian began, measured and slow, "you looked like you'd seen it before. Like something surfaced. A memory."
