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.
