"You think Hadeon will co?" Max asked, quieter now.
The question hung in the air, low and dangerous.
Damian was still for a mont, jaw ticking once.
"He might," he said eventually. "If not in person, through soone else’s mouth. He’ll want to test you. See if you bend now that George is broken."
Max’s lips twitched—more a grimace than a smile. "He already tried once."
Damian’s eyes locked on his. "And if he tries again?"
Max didn’t blink. "I won’t bend this ti."
A beat.
"I’m not scared of him anymore," Max added. "Not after what they did to Gabriel. Not after seeing what fear cost you."
Damian said nothing. He didn’t have to.
Max leaned back again. "If he does show up, let greet him. I have a few barbed wire arrays left over."
Damian’s smile was faint. Dark. "I’ll allow it."
They both sat there for a mont—two brothers, bloodless hands stretched over a fire built from the remnants of the empire’s last great lie.
Then Max glanced toward the sealed box again.
"You should give it to him," he said. "Before you get dragged into another war. Or before he decides he doesn’t want it because you made him wait."
Damian looked at the box, then at his own hands—trembling, unhealed.
"I don’t want to do it like this."
Max stood slowly and crossed to the desk, picking up the box and placing it in Damian’s lap without asking.
"Then rest. Heal. But don’t wait too long," he said. "He’ll forgive the shaking. He won’t forgive the silence."
"Mm," ca a new voice from the doorway, cool and unimpressed.
Both n looked up.
Gabriel stood with one shoulder leaned casually against the doorfra, arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched in that familiar, elegant way that sohow managed to communicate, ’You’re both idiots,’ without saying a word.
His hair was loose around his shoulders, faintly tousled like he’d gotten out of bed and hadn’t bothered to fix it. He wore no shoes, only soft indoor pants and one of Damian’s shirts—slightly too big, collar slipping off one shoulder in a way that looked infuriatingly intentional.
"You know," Gabriel said, walking in, "I was told both of you were resting."
Max smiled without sha. "We are. I just committed magical mutilation and returned ho. Damian’s recovering by attempting to rewrite half the Empire’s economic doctrine using one functional hand and sheer spite."
Damian cleared his throat. "I was... finishing a few reports."
Gabriel’s eyes dropped to the ink-stained cuff and the tremor still dancing along Damian’s fingers. Then to the unopened box in his lap. Then back to Damian’s face.
"Mhm," he said. "You were supposed to be asleep."
"You were supposed to be upstairs," Damian countered.
"I was upstairs," Gabriel said, stopping beside the desk, "but then I felt your ether leaking through the ward like a guilt-ridden beacon, and Edward was threatening to call the physician again, so here I am."
Max bit back a laugh.
Damian looked down at the box.
Gabriel followed his gaze.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asked, his voice softer now.
Damian swallowed. "I was waiting for the right mont."
"You an the mont where you’re bleeding into the floor and twitching like soone shorted your nerves?" Gabriel’s tone was still dry, but sothing gentler sat just beneath it. "Flawless timing."
Damian looked like he was trying to find the right words—sothing strong, sothing grounded—but before he could, Max stood.
"I’m going to leave before one of you starts crying," he said, already heading to the door. "I recomnd saying sothing romantic and maybe not dying while doing it."
He opened the door with theatrical silence.
"And Damian?" he added, over his shoulder.
"What?"
"Don’t screw it up. You already got the hard part right."
Gabriel didn’t speak right away.
He stepped forward, arms still crossed, gaze sweeping the desk and the open folders Damian had clearly tried to organize before failing halfway through. His eyes lingered on the ink stains. The ring box. The slight tremor in Damian’s fingers.
But there was no panic. No lecture. Just the silence of soone who had already seen the worst and chosen to stay.
"You know I was reading ether line stress reports," Gabriel finally said, tone neutral. "Not exactly restful, either."
Damian let out a low breath—half a sigh, half a laugh. "I know. You were probably correcting them in the margins."
"I was. The formatting was a tragedy."
Their eyes t.
Whatever exhaustion hung in Damian’s fra, whatever weight pressed behind Gabriel’s calm—it didn’t make them weaker. It made them known.
"Edward said you hadn’t left this room in six hours," Gabriel added, stepping close enough to touch. "And your hand—"
"Still attached," Damian said. "Still mine."
Gabriel gave him a look. The one that ant, ’I know you’re in pain but I also know you won’t admit it unless forced at daggerpoint.’ It was all bone-dry restraint.
Then, softer, "You’re supposed to let soone carry the weight when it gets too heavy."
Damian glanced down at the ring box still resting in his lap.
"I ant to give this to you before the engagent ceremony," he said. "Before everything else happened. Before Max handled George. Before Callahan. Before..."
"Before you were bleeding into the carpet?"
Damian huffed. "Yes. That."
Gabriel didn’t smile. But his gaze softened.
"I don’t need the mont to be perfect," he said quietly. "I just need it to be real. And right now, you’re here. I’m here. That’s enough."
Damian looked up at him—tired, yes, but steady.
"You scare ," he said.
Gabriel blinked once. "That’s a strange preamble to a proposal."
"You scare ," Damian repeated, "because you’re the only thing that can bring to my knees without a word. And if I give this to you, I won’t take it back. Not even if the Empire burns."
Gabriel reached out and gently took the box from his hands. He didn’t open it. Not yet.
"You think I’d let you take it back?" he asked.
Damian’s lips curled into sothing rough and honest. "I think you’d slit my throat and keep the ring."
Gabriel finally smiled. "Correct."
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