The shirt tore with a sound that made Gabriel's breath catch—clean linen surrendering beneath Damian's grip like parchment to flame. The fabric split at the seams, baring his chest to the cool air and Damian's gaze.
Damian sat back slightly, hands spread over Gabriel's ribs, just enough space to look.
His golden eyes gleamed, hungry and reverent, like the sight before him was some rare relic he hadn't expected to find again. The low light played along the sharp lines of Gabriel's collarbone, the soft rise and fall of his chest, and the curve of muscle and skin that he now touched without barriers.
He didn't move right away. Just watched. Just breathed. His jaw clenched once, then relaxed. His hands slid higher.
"You should've worn something I didn't like," Damian murmured, voice rough, reverent.
"I should've worn your shirt."
