CHAPTER 188: CHAPTER 183: UNTIL DINNER (5)

Edward expected resistance.

He’d rehearsed for it, even—prepared a calm, courteous series of reminders about schedules and imperial punctuality. Maybe even a veiled threat about serving tea made with chamomile and shame if Gabriel insisted on wearing Damian’s shirt to dinner.

What he didn’t expect was silence.

The study door opened quietly, and Edward entered to find the fireplace still warm, the documents neatly stacked, and Gabriel’s chair empty.

His gaze shifted slightly to the tall windows.

Gabriel stood there, back to the door, a report in one hand and the other loosely tucked in the pocket of his trousers. The late afternoon light poured through the tall windows behind him, catching the fine line of his silhouette.

He wore a pale linen shirt that was open at the throat and soft against his skin, as well as brown trousers that hung with natural elegance, tailored but not formal. There was no jewelry. No imperial markings. No house sigils or court embroidery to brand him as anything but himself.

Just quiet confidence.

His hair was loosely pulled back, the shorter strands curling near his temple and catching the golden haze of light like spun copper and ash. He hadn’t polished himself into the image of a consort or a courtier.

"...You changed," Edward said finally, his voice low as the door clicked shut behind him.

Edward folded his hands behind his back, considering. "No imperial garments. No jewelry. Not even the clasped coat His Majesty approved."

"I didn’t think he’d mind." Gabriel turned the page slowly. "He liked this shirt the last time I wore it."

Edward tried not to sigh aloud. "He liked it in bed."

"He liked it; that’s all that matters." Gabriel closed the report with a quiet snap, setting it aside. Then, after a pause, he added with dry finality, "Well, no. I want to be comfortable if these are my free days."

Edward’s gaze flicked over the linen shirt and brown trousers once more. Rich fabric. The clothes weren’t made by the palace tailor. Immaculate stitching. Not ostentatious, but the kind of quiet luxury that whispered I was never poor, just gone.

"You were always so practical," Edward said, folding his hands behind his back. "In your own rebellious, personally infuriating way."

Gabriel grinned faintly, brushing a stray curl behind his ear. "That sounds dangerously close to approval. He said we had a date today, so I am Gabriel, not the persona the court wants me to be."

Edward blinked slowly, the only sign of how much that answer caught him off guard.

For a moment, the usual rhythm between them paused—no lectures, no gentle corrections, just the quiet recognition that Gabriel had drawn a line. One that did not wear velvet embroidery or perfume for the sake of optics. One that knew who he was tonight.

And Edward, with all his precision and poise, inclined his head once.

"Then I’ll call it a success," he said mildly, though his voice had softened. "You look like yourself."

"I feel like myself," Gabriel murmured. Then he turned, finally stepping away from the window’s light. "And if Damian complains about the lack of jewelry, he can be reminded he left marks where a collar would have covered them."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "Very romantic, Your Grace."

Gabriel just smirked. "It’s a date, isn’t it?"

Edward didn’t answer this time. He simply moved to open the door.

"Enjoy your evening," he said. "And please do not knock down any chandeliers."

Gabriel laughed quietly as he walked past. "No promises."

—

The dining room wasn’t one of the grand halls used for state functions or diplomatic displays. It was located in the eastern wing, private, quiet, and dimly lit by ether sconces that burned low and gold, casting soft halos across the lacquered walls.

A table had been set for two.

No attendants waited at the edges. No guards stood at the door. The candles flickered without comment, and the air smelled faintly of cedar, citrus, and warmth.

Damian stood near the head of the table, sleeves rolled, collar still open from earlier. He had poured the wine himself; it was deep red, expensive, and older than most nobles in the capital. The glass in his hand was untouched.

He didn’t drink. Not yet.

Instead, he stood perfectly still, one hand resting against the back of a chair, the other curled loosely around the stem of his glass. His gaze was trained on the door, unreadable. Steady. Not impatient, but waiting in the way that only Damian Lyon could: silent, composed, and coiled beneath the surface.

He had been this way in war, too. Stillness before the strike. Stillness before the chaos.

But now it was a different kind of anticipation.

Then the door opened.

Gabriel entered without ceremony. He didn’t wear court attire, nor any imperial colors. The white linen shirt clung softly to the line of his shoulders, its sleeves rolled to the forearm. His trousers were dark brown, simple but undeniably fine, tailored with a precision that made even his lack of jewelry look intentional. Regal by accident. Rich by truth. There was nothing polished about him—no signet, no collar, no borrowed titles. Just himself.

And Damian smiled.

It wasn’t a court smile. Not the kind he wore for ministers or foreign dignitaries. It was softer. Slower. The kind of smile one gave after a long day to someone who made it worth enduring.

"You changed," Damian said, his voice low, warm as the light.

Gabriel paused just inside the doorway, brow arched, then shrugged one shoulder lightly. "Alexandra sent me my old clothes. Figured I should remind you what you seduced in the first place."

Damian’s lips twitched, amused.

"The other option was to come naked."

Damian’s gaze flicked down Gabriel’s form, slow and deliberate. The wine glass in his hand tilted slightly, catching the light.

"Is it too late to vote for the second option?" he said, voice dry but threaded with unmistakable warmth.

Gabriel gave a genuine, quiet laugh. The kind that loosened his shoulders and made him look, for a moment, like someone untouched by crowns or contracts.

"I thought you wanted to eat dinner, not devour me."

Damian didn’t miss a beat. "Why not both?"