Gabriel sighed, the sound quieter than the firelight and just as tired, then set his cutlery down with the deliberate precision of someone who had made peace with his own poor judgment in advance. "We'll do it," he said, tone dry but not reluctant. "I'll regret my decision, possibly during the vows and definitely during the lace fittings, but there are things that have to be done."
Damian didn't argue.
He didn't gloat.
He just nodded once, slow and satisfied, then reached for the serving dish without ceremony.
"Good," he said, spooning another helping onto Gabriel's plate with the kind of finality usually reserved for royal decrees. "Now eat a little more."
Gabriel stared at the plate. Then at Damian. Then back at the plate—as if it might somehow offer a diplomatic exit from the disaster they had collectively crafted—but after a beat, he picked up his fork and ate.